Tales from Everfree City

by LoyalLiar

Rating: teen
Tags: Sunset Shimmer, Profanity, Violence, Princess Celestia, Slice of Life, Death, Commander Hurricane, Gore, Original Character, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Mystery, Princess Platinum, Romance
Length: 475629

Princess Platinum and Celestia's first student face changelings, a magical curse, the specter of war with the griffons, and the threat of arranged marriage in early Equestria.

Before 'Everfree' was a forest, it was Equestria's thriving capital.

In the city's earliest days, fresh off saving Equestria from an evil that threatened to steal the sun itself, Princess Platinum faces a new challenge. She and her undercover coltfriend, Celestia's apprentice Mortal Coil, set their sights on what seems like a much easier, safer, and happier task: giving the Princess a choice other than the seven horrible suitors her parents picked out for her.

Unfortunately for them, when it comes to the politics of a freshly founded Equestria, the romance of a princess is anything but simple, or safe, or happy.

Editing by The 24th Pegasus, Pega-Ace, and Ruirik. Cover art by Ruirik.

Published 2020-05-26 19:30:01 UTC
Last updated 2023-11-28 19:33:40 UTC

1-2

I - II

The Noble

Along the way from Celestia’s bedroom to the elaborate manor-home that was our destination, I peppered Gale with questions on the nature of Equestria’s insane compromise of a political system. Rather than regale you a word-by-word retelling of her answers, complete with copious swearing (an analogy proposing the three races as stallions fighting over more preferable orifices on a mare’s anatomy, including a novel use of the phrase ‘earth pony brown’, stands out in my memory), I’ll simply summarize what actually matters to you, dear reader, about how Equestria worked before a singular monarchy took over.

Once upon a time, six leaders had an idea for a new nation; you know them from everypony’s least favorite winter story.

Well, really five of them had the idea; Smart Cookie was far too interested in establishing… strong international relations with Queen Jade of the Crystal Union. But we’ll get to him later.

It’s one thing for a group of influential ponies to put aside their mutual racist hatreds, though, and quite another to actually set down a new government. Even after the windigo threat and its fallout were dealt with, the three heads of the tribes still had to get support from their subordinates.

For Hurricane, it was easiest. Having saved the entirety of his nation and his pegasi twice at that point, Hurricane was practically a living god amongst the Cirran pegasi (much to his own discomfort). He could all-but dictate terms to anypony he pleased, and the Cirran senate would not dare to object; an open fight with Hurricane, even over a minor matter, was a quick way to lose re-election.

Chancellor Puddinghead had it a bit harder; he had quite the opposite problem of Hurricane, as the Parliament of the Low Valleys viewed him with roughly the same respect afforded a brightly colored ball of navel lint, perhaps scraped off a patchwork jester’s tunic. However, in some regards the earth ponies were also easy to manipulate; because political power in the Low Valleys flowed from the cinch-strings of a purse, Puddinghead had only to show off a few of the gemstones gathered from the untapped hills of Equestria, and a few samples of rich dark soil, and the representatives of his Parliament were practically trampling over one another in their desire to establish Equestria.

Young Queen Platinum I, though, had it the worst. As you surely know from the pageant, Gale’s mother departed on the expedition to find the new land that would become Equestria as Princess Platinum, and so upon returning to the Diamond Kingdoms (plural, despite the singular monarch, for historical reasons you don’t care about and I don’t want to summarize), her first grim duty was to bury her late father, King Lapis IV. Stricken by grief and not fully trained in the art of politics, Platinum found herself in a terrible place; for while the power of the pegasi flowed from military might and respect, and the power of the earth ponies (Puddinghead’s absurd persistence as their Chancellor notwithstanding) flowed from coin, power amongst the unicorns flowed from blood and from loyalty. And while there was no doubt of Platinum’s legitimacy in the first matter, she had (much like Gale) devoted little time building up the latter.

Thus, when this newly minted Queen turned to her noble lords and ladies for their support, the so-called ‘Stable of Nobles’ demanded concessions of power in return: land, resources, and privileges. The list Gale rattled off made my head spin, and you needn’t care about them all in-depth here; this isn’t a course text, and there won’t be a test. What does matter is the biggest of the offerings to which Platinum was forced to cave in to in order to create Equestria…

Equestria in those early days had three ‘bodies’ of government. The most famous, of course, was the Triumvirate: one representative of each race. At first, they were Platinum, Hurricane, and Puddinghead. By that summer day when Gale and I ventured out to meet her suitors, Hurricane had retired to give rise to his eldest daughter, Gale’s elder half-sister Typhoon. The Triumvirate had massive power in premise, most especially over Equestria’s foreign relations, the division of its lands between the races, and so forth. But, though it might surprise you, the Triumvirate did not actually make laws to govern Equestria itself; they merely issued ‘edicts’, which could be overridden by the other bodies of the government (though this was rare to the point of being nearly unheard of).

Lawmaking power belonged to a pair of lower bodies: the Parliament and the Senate—bodies taken from the earth ponies and pegasi respectively, though both changed substantially from their historical single-race forms. In short summary: all of Equestria voted for parties in the Parliament, and seats would be assigned to parties based upon their proportion of the total votes. Every seat, therefore, represented ‘all of Equestria’. The Senate, meanwhile, consisted of ponies who directly represented the ponies in Equestria’s domains. These domains were much smaller than the domains we have at the time of writing, usually consisting of a town or city and a few surrounding miles of countryside. Domains received senators based on their population, though with the exception of a few major cities (Everfree, Lubuck, etc.) almost all the new domains were sparsely populated enough to be allotted only a pair of senators.

There’s a reason the divisions are called ‘domains’ though; you see, for hundreds of years, under the overall rule of their kings and queens, unicorn nobles ruled duchies and baronies and other little chunks of land they collectively called desmenses - a word which is pronounced ‘domain’ for ponies who haven’t taken the silver spoon that emerged from their mouth, melted it down, and used it to coat their snooty tongues. In a world of democratic representation, these nobles would lose almost all of their power… but with young Platinum over a barrel in need of their support to bring Equestria kicking and screaming into the world, they weren’t so ready to give up that power. So, as a stipulation of lending their resources to the new nation, they demanded land of their own to, at least locally, rule.

The mare behind this brilliant plan to subvert an otherwise delightful governmental system (well, if you’re a believer in representative democracy; I think the history books make my stance as a monarchist quite clear) was the same mare in whose sitting room I found my hind quarters planted.

Gale’s first suitor was His Grace, High Castle, Duke of the Western Territories of the unicorns that would one day play home to the city of Vanhoover. Don’t let the title (or any other history you might have heard) fool you, though; Castle liked to play at the role of a powerful politician, but he was really a nineteen year old snob who lived with his mother, from whom he had clearly either inherited, genetically or otherwise, his snobbery. Even when the Crown Princess and I came to knock on their door, their butler’s butler (yes, really) made us sit in the waiting room until both nobles were presentable.

It was his mother, the Grand Duchess Chrysoprase, who actually single-hoofedly ruined the political system of early Equestria. I suspect by the end of this chapter you may understand why, when young mages bring up the age old philosophical question of who to use time travel magic to assassinate in order to make the modern day better, rather than proposing a popular choice like Chrysalis the Changeling Queen or King Sombra (or I suppose now Luna, may her acne blight her ass for ten thousand years), Chrysoprase is the mare I name.

As we waited to be graced with the presence of Chrysoprase and Castle, Gale and I were served mimosas in thin glasses and invited to enjoy ourselves. I suspect I might have been more comfortable if I hadn’t been forbidden from using my horn to hold the glass; instead, I got to awkwardly fumble with the thin stemmed glass as Gale daintily sipped her orange juice; I suspect instead the effect I gave off was more of a foal stubbornly trying to balance an egg on its head.

“And the earth ponies and pegasi went along with that?” I asked as I delicately applied a coat of orange dye to the front of my coat, and then shifted my weight to hide the fact that I had stained the expensive couch of these nobles I hadn’t even met yet with mimosa.

“Well, sort of. Dad could have put his hoof down and just dictated terms. He didn’t want to, because tons of pegasi would have starved without the earth pony food supply… but the Legion would have crushed mom’s knights and Puddinghead’s mercenaries if it came to that. Instead, he realized it would be a lot easier for everypony to band together and compromise. It was his idea—or probably actually my aunt Twister's, but he’s the one who forced it down everypony’s throats—that there would be more titles for nobles, and some of them would be given to the earth ponies and the pegasi, and they would still have responsibilities for local law enforcement, tax collection, that sort of thing. Same deal with the earth ponies; the parliament and senate would be responsible for making laws for all of Equestria, but all three races could vote. The earth ponies still have a bit of an advantage because they have the largest population, but that doesn’t cause as many problems as you think.”

“What about the pegasi?”

“Well, in theory he opened the Legion up to all the species.”

“In theory? I mean, I haven’t met any soldiers who aren’t pegasi, but—”

“There’s more than you think if you look for them patrolling the streets; you just managed to make a huge enough disaster fighting Wintershimmer that you jumped to the top of Typhoon’s agenda. And it’s not like non-pegasi can keep up with her personal guard flying halfway across the country. But that’s not really an issue either. The real problem is that the commanders are all still pegasi.”

A distinctly soured voice warbled into the salon from its sole doorway. “An astute summary, given you weren’t even born when it was a problem major enough to be causing riots in the streets, your highness.” The mare who entered was a wrinkled green nag who you could tell, just at a glance, had a heart that was two sizes two small and a fashion budget at least three sizes too large, if four seasons out of fashion.

Beside the luxuriously dressed older mare was a colt about our age, with a muted powder blue coat under a mustard yellow vest. His posture as he entered the room suggested he had recently received a prostate massage with a steel girder, and he immediately approached Gale before extending a hoof, frog up, in her direction. Gale looked at it with obvious disgust for at least six seconds of painful awkwardness before placing her own forehoof shoe down atop it, and allowing him to kiss it gently. “Your Highness, it’s a delightful surprise to have you visit us. Are you here to take me up on my invitation for dinner?”

“Dinner? It’s barely fu—” Gale winced, and caught herself. Then, to my surprise, she donned her much more formal pronunciation. “It is barely even past time for breakfast, Duke Castle; I’m afraid I can’t stay long enough for it to be time for dinner, let alone to sit down and eat it. I’m just dropping off a letter.” Then she turned and nodded to the older mare. “Aunt Chrysoprase. It’s good to see you.”

“And you as well, Your Highness.” Chrysoprase dipped her head gracefully. “Even if it’s only for a moment.”

I suspect that the Grand Duchess might have had something else to add, perhaps in my direction, but her son beat her to the punch. “I’m afraid I haven’t made your companion’s acquaintance; is this a new fashion of servant’s jackets, or—”

“Servant?” I asked pointedly. Gale opened her mouth to answer, but Chrysoprase beat her to it.

“It may not be as long or elaborate as you’re used to seeing on Archmage Star Swirl, my son, but that is in fact a wizard’s jacket. When I was younger than any of you young ponies, I remember Archmage Wintershimmer wearing its spitting image, addressing the late King Lapis.” She then fully turned her eyes on me. “Do I assume correctly that this makes you the young wizard all the newspapers and criers were on about a few weeks ago? What was it… Mortal Coil?”

I couldn’t deny it; her introduction did me justice. I rose from my couch and gave a short bow by way of introduction. “Coil the Immortal, in the flesh.”

The elder mare extended a hoof toward me, frog-down. I knew exactly what she wanted, and just wasn’t inclined to offer it, but to my benefit, my choice to respond by raising one eyebrow was interpreted as confusion instead of incredulity. She removed the lifted hoof as she spoke up. “In the event Princess Platinum hasn’t explained it to you already, I am Grand Duchess Chrysoprase of Oxfjord, Chair of the Stable of Nobles. This is my son, High Castle, the Duke of the Western Territories and I suspect, based on Her Highness' presence here, her foremost suitor. And, if my intuition serves well, that might just be the subject of your letter, Your Highness?”

Gale sighed and hefted the offending parchment in a glowing magical grip. “Castle, this is an invitation to my birthday party.”

A look of surprise splashed over Castle’s face like ice water, though like a polar bear it brought a smile to his muzzle rather than a scowl. “I’m flattered, Your Highness, and I will be glad to attend.”

Chrysoprase gestured her son toward the unoccupied couch opposite where Gale and I were sitting. Both mother and son sat with a posture that would make a gargoyle envious, and I found myself wondering why they bothered owning cushioned furniture if they were so afraid to be in physical contact with it. The elder of the pair spoke up once she was settled, first to a butler I previously hadn’t noticed. “I understand her highness has a refined palate for wine; you will fetch the thirty-eight Roanmorantin.” Then she turned back to Gale. “Remind me, Your Highness, is this your ascension year?”

“I’ll be eighteen, yes,” Gale replied with a nod. “And we’ve just had champagne.” From where I was sitting, it was obvious how hard the next words for Gale to force out, just as it was painfully obvious that they were a bold-faced lie. “I don’t think I should have any more to drink so early. Even if it is a distinguished vintage. Perhaps some other time?”

Chrysoprase chuckled. “My apologies. Look at you, Princess; growing up and gaining such a sense of responsibility.” I imagine most ponies could not fit more condescension into their voice if they tried. “And soon you shall be old enough to take on royal authority.” The substantially elder mare chuckled. “I might have sworn just last year we heard you take your vows, and now here you are.”

I turned to Gale, raising my shoulders in confusion. “Wait… I thought the whole point of this ‘suitors birthday’ exercise was to figure out who you’re going to marry. You’ve already taken vows?”

“Not wedding vows.” Gale huffed once through her nostrils, the most irritation she was willing to show. “They’re called ‘inheritance’ vows.”

“Fifteen is the age of ‘inheritance’ in the noble line, and a sacred tradition for the House of the Rising Sun,” explained Duchess Chrysoprase. When I raised a brow, she clarified. “Ah, the term isn’t used as much as our House of Gullion or one of the other great noble houses, but the ‘House of the Rising Sun’ is the formal name for the royal line, owing to our descent from Lady Celestia.”

“Our?” I asked as I reached out my hooves for what remained of my beverage. Unfortunately, fumbling hooves and my attention being on the elder of our hosts meant that a moment later, the delicate glassware was shattered on the floor. “Oh, I’m sorry!”

Chrysoprase frowned, and her green magic lifted a little bell that rang just once. From around the room, no fewer than three uniformed servants appeared to clean up the mess of my spill.

“Tell me, Princess,” asked High Castle, breaking his mother’s silence. “Is your companion merely an imbecile, or has he forgotten he is a unicorn?”

I gritted my teeth to keep from expressing how I really felt to High Castle, and mercifully in that moment of restraint Gale interrupted on my behalf. “Morty injured his horn saving Equestria, and so he’s on strict doctor’s orders not to use his magic for a short time. I do apologize for the spill, but then I doubt any of us would be very graceful, if forced to use our hooves.”

“Of course not,” agreed Chrysoprase. “And we are grateful to the service Mage Coil has rendered our nation.” Then she forcibly elbowed her son with perhaps less subtlety than I would have expected of the mare… unless being too obvious was itself a front she was putting on.

It took High Castle folding back his ears and wrinkling his brow to force out the words “My apologies” in my direction, but he did eventually deliver them. By the time he was done, the servants had left us, and we were once again quietly sitting.

“You need not concern yourself with replacing it,” Chrysoprase added once Castle had spoken, as though the idea of paying had even crossed my mind. “It may be our finest crystal ware for her highness’ pleasure, but the House of Gullion has found great wealth in the riches of Equestria, and it will be a trivial thing to replace it.” Then she smiled at me. “You had been curious about why I claimed ‘our’ descent from Lady Celestia, I believe, before we were interrupted?”

I hated how much control she forced over the flow of the conversation, but even more I hated that she stopped and waited for me to acknowledge where we had left off. I gave her only a small nod and she began to speak again. “My standing as the head of the House of Gullion supersedes my place in the royal line, but I stand behind Her Highness as third in line to throne. Queen Platinum is my cousin.” Chrysoprase’s horn lit up in vibrant emerald, briefly adjusting her mane, and perhaps slightly massaging her temples as she continued. “When an heir to any of the noble houses, but especially the Royal Line, reaches the age of fifteen, they are recognized in a ceremony that involves a series of vows.” Then she donned a grin somewhere between teasing and predatory. “Perhaps Her Highness still remembers hers?”

“Of course,” Gale replied bitterly. After a moment of ensuing silence, she scowled. “You really want me to do this? Right now?”

“Would you rather I claim that you’ve already forgotten our most sacred vows, and challenge your legitimacy, before you even have a chance to ascend?” Chrysoprase’s tone, despite the threat, was delivered as good-natured teasing. It should be noted, however, that this does not mean its intentions were actually in good fun, nor good-natured; they merely sounded that way. It fooled me at the time, and given the political inclinations of the other ponies in the room, I suspect the delivery may have been for my… ‘benefit’.

Gale once more slipped into her formal pronunciation again—albeit delivered at a swift clip. “I recognize the legitimacy of my mother. I swear never to challenge her rule. I vow to take up the throne so that it—” Chrysoprase’s brow twitched into the absolute smallest hint of a frown, and Gale sighed. “the ‘yoke’ of rule is never left uncarried. If you insist I do it word for word we’re going to be here forever, Aunt. “We do have other things to do today.”

“The metaphor of the ‘yoke’ is incredibly important. You should not mock it.”

“It’s not going to mean shit—” Gale gritted her teeth and sucked in a breath as Chrysoprase’s brow fell just a hair’s width in her only show of reaction. “I promise you, Morty has not read The Seventeen Days on the Mountaintop. I’m keeping it simple.”

The elder mare chuckled. “Alright, I will concede that point, Your Highness.”

“I swear to furnish an heir for the Royal Line, worthy of that authority, so that the yoke never gets ‘put down’. I accept that my right to rule is given as divine favor, and if I lose my favor, I will abdicate the throne and allow a worthy successor to replace me. I accept my own mortality, and will take no action to preserve my life or my rule beyond my years.”

I scoffed, which earned me a swift glare, but it was Gale’s punch to my leg that saved everypony an earful. Without even looking at me, she continued “Should my deeds on the throne drive Equestria to ruin, should my arrogance reverse the fortunes of our proud nation, or should my rule give rise to any great atrocity, I swear to surrender my life to the masses in recompense. I shall remember the deeds of the Five Wise Kings and the stories of those who came before me, that I might honor my bloodline and carry our history as a gift, instead of facing the curse of watching it rewritten before me. With these oaths, I do pledge myself to the Platinum Throne.”

Grand Duchess Chrysoprase, who until that moment might as well have been trapped in resin, twitched her brow just once. “The Diamond Throne.”

“The Diamond Throne is still in River Rock,” Gale answered, and I got the sense she was working very hard to suppress a grin when she added “The last time I saw it, my half-brother was still sitting in it.”

Until that moment Chrysoprase had been utterly stoic in expression. After that moment she snapped into a full scowl. “If you want the support of the Stable of Nobles in your rule, Princess Platinum, you would be very wise to disown that monster, and keep your reminders that he shares your blood to yourself.”

High Castle set a hoof on his mother’s shoulder. “Mother, gentle; I am sure Princess Platinum didn’t mean to imply a familial bond with the Betrayer. Nevertheless, she has Hurricane’s blood, through no fault of her own.”

Gale closed her eyes and just stared into darkness for a very painfully long moment. It let High Castle enough time to turn to me and raise an eyebrow, as if he honestly didn’t comprehend what was wrong. I, hoping not to offend him, replied with a forced smile.

I suspect that made things worse.

“Thank you for the advice, Grand Duchess,” Gale finally said, allowing her eyes to open and donning a much better forced smile than I can produce even now (though missing at least half the muscles and skin required for such an expression doesn’t help). She reached back to her side with a hoof, tapping the satchel she wore slung over her shoulder. “It’s been a delight to visit with you two today and teach my friend here a bit about noble customs, but I’m afraid I should be on my way.”

High Castle’s eyes flicked to the bag at Gale’s side and took note of the other letters within. “Ah. I take it my would-be competitors will also be attending, then?”

“Yes, Duke,” said Gale in her ‘Princess Platinum’ pronunciation. “Much as I am certain we could find some way to keep entertained, it would hardly be much of a party with just one guest.”

High Castle chuckled. “Then I will simply have to be more charming for it. Tell me, Your Highness, is there anything in particular you’d like? Or should I surprise you?”

I cocked my head. “Are you two being that forward, or am I missing something?”

Both Castle and Chrysoprase shot me glares, but it was Gale who chuckled. “I can’t speak to Duke Castle’s intentions, but I had assumed he was asking about a birthday present.”

“You assume correctly, Your Majesty,” Castle noted, though he refused to break off his glare at me to look her way as he spoke.

“A what?” I asked.

This time, I got three strange looks, but none of them were especially spiteful.

“A birthday present?” High Castle half-clarified, half-asked. “A gift given in celebration of one’s birthday…”

“Is this some sort of tradition reserved for royalty, then?” I pressed. “I don’t think Wintershimmer ever gave Queen Jade anything, but maybe that was just because he didn’t respect her.”

Gale turned to me and completely dropped her regal pronunciation. “Did your parents never… right.”

“Is he an orphan?” Castle asked.

“I assume my parents are still alive somewhere,” I answered. “But Wintershimmer may as well have been my father. I became his apprentice when I was three.”

“Ah.” Chrysoprase chuckled. “I was fairly young when your surrogate father was still welcome in the court at River Rock, but even with what little I got to know of him, I can imagine he wasn’t the kind of pony who indulged in celebration.”

“Or he had some horrible version of birthday traditions just to ruin your ability to talk to anypony else. At least, if his wine glasses were anything to go by.” Gale and I shared a brief chuckle, much to the confusion of our hosts. “Morty, on a friend or family member’s birthday, it’s traditional to give them a gift. That’s really all there is to it.”

“Oh… stars, I had no idea!”

In response to my worry, High Castle scoffed. “You need not worry, mage; nopony expects anything of you. Unless you think you will be attending the party as Her Highness’ suitor… though I don’t recognize the family ‘Coil’.”

At once, all three of us present tried to answer him. My eye twitched in abject disgust at how spitefully he used the better half of my full name. Gale, nervously, stumbled as her tongue searched for some denial, perhaps worried that he suspected our plot already.

Chrysoprase, however, seized the initiative with calm, firm words. “I doubt the young mage is even eligible.” She nodded toward me to explain when I raised a brow. “Not just anypony can be Prince-Consort of the unicorns, Mortal.” If there is a name I detest more than any other, it is my given forename, yet I barely had time to even wince as the Grand Duchess carried on, obviously noticing and even more obviously not caring about my displeasure. “Foremost, I doubt you will easily find a sponsor, given that Wintershimmer is no more. But even if you won somepony’s favor, the Princess’ suitors are the scions of the highest lineages in our society; heroes might rise up from a common bloodline from time to time, as you surely know, but on the scale of history, blood never lies.”

I found myself gritting my teeth. “What is ‘as you surely know’ supposed to mean?”

A look of momentary hesitance crossed Chrysoprase’s features, though it quickly gave way to that same belittling tone. “I was under the impression that all young mages learned about the Five Wise Kings.”

“I probably know more about them than you do,” I answered pointedly, and finally managed to score a blow when a furrow appeared in her powdered brow. “I fail to see what they have to say about the value of bloodlines, given they belonged to at least three separate dynasties.”

I must have stepped into her trap, though I didn’t understand it at the moment, when she broke a small smile. “Our family is the House of Gullion, Mortal. We trace our lineage through a chain of firstborn foals stretching back to King Amethyst.”

“Coil,” I corrected sharply.

With unfathomable ‘grace’, Chrysoprase nodded her head. “My apologies. But perhaps you see where I am going. If not, let me give you a more relevant example: Archmage Star Swirl was born to the House of Zodiac, the descendants of King Electrum the All-Seer. You likely know that Archmage Clover is his granddaughter; two excellent examples of a noble bloodline producing ponies above the common standard. And we need look no further than your late mentor for a perfect counterexample. He had all the same opportunities as Star Swirl, did he not? They shared even the same teacher, as I recall. Their only difference was their bloodline.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? Wintershimmer was an incredibly powerful wizard.”

“Indeed. But he was precisely the opposite of noble. Deceitful, cruel, greedy, ambitious beyond his station… He sided with the crystal barbarians above his own tribe, and is it not true he tried to kill Lady Celestia for her divinity?”

“You think Wintershimmer was evil because he was born poor?” I rolled my eyes. “Oh, alms for the poor; be careful, if you don’t they might put out the sun, instead of using that power to make a living.”

“Mind how you address your betters, wizard,” High Castle warned me, leaning across the coffee table between us and thrusting his hoof into my shoulder to turn me away from the elder of the two nobles.

I briefly lit my horn, only intending enough telekinesis to thrust the offending limb back to the ground, but the pain of the magic coursing through my horn stopped any hint of a spell short. Instead, I swatted the limb aside with my own, took a step back, and brushed my jacket off from whatever slime the noble parasite might have left on the fabric. “Ah, I’m sorry. It’s so easy to forget. In my mind, the fact that I literally saved Celestia’s life would carry a bit of weight here, but of course you pretentious, inbred, ignoble fossils are my ‘betters’.” Then I rolled my neck and met High Castle’s gaze, glare for glare. “If you want, we can see whose existence has any value to society—”

“Morty!” Gale interrupted, grabbing my shoulder from behind and hauling me back onto the couch. The stitches in my neck ached from the tug, and when my vision focused, my face was only perhaps an inch away from Gale’s. “Don’t say anything. Just go outside while I finish a polite discussion amongst nobleponies.”

“Gale, he—”

“Go!” she shouted. “You fu—” Hesitation stole the word mid-yell, and then I watched Gale’s face contort like a foal forcing down a bite of an unwanted vegetable. “Listen, you… you smug, insufferable… crystal half-breed!” The pauses in her phrasing stole much of the momentum from the barb, but she still knew me well enough to dig deep. I caught the hint of her more formal accent slipping in as she visibly forced herself to continue, though anger at the unwarranted attack on my birth meant that I wasn’t quite calm enough to follow it’s meaning. “I may consider you a fu… a friend, but that is not an excuse to address your betters so… brashly. You may take a moment to learn your place outside… and I shall come collect you when I am finished here.”

I huffed. “If that’s how you feel.” I could feel myself shaking as I stood up to leave. I didn’t bother saying any sort of goodbye, either to Gale or my hosts. At least I refrained from stomping, though there is a certain click of hooves making a show of a swift gait that I would later learn was just as telling of one’s mood.

Over my shoulder, High Castle spoke in what I can only assume was intended to be a stage whisper. “Perhaps you might keep your pet home until he’s broken in, Your Highness.”

Gale answered fully in the swing of her royal diction. “Yes, well… when one grows up in the Crystal Union—” Then the doors to the manor swung shut behind me, at the horn of yet another otherwise unseen servant, and the rest of the thought was lost.

Outside, I paced past Chrysoprase’s elaborate gardens and birdbaths and out her brick and wrought iron walls to find a street lined on both sides with similar (though less elaborate) manors in the same style. Though I didn’t know Ridge Street’s name, I did recognize it for one particularly familiar manor four doors down the road. For those who’ve read my former narrative, the fact that my predecessor Solemn Vow’s ‘haunted’ manor sat alongside such wealthy noble company probably comes as little surprise.

In the moment, to me, it was a distraction—and a welcome one at that. Remembering wandering nervously through those halls with my friends just a few short weeks earlier took my mind off of my gritted teeth, and I found myself meandering down the street in that direction.

I’m still not sure whether the late Baron Vow had enchanted the front door to open to anypony, or if we had some special link in common, or perhaps just that that animus controlling the door could see I was ready to smash something and flung itself open out of fear, but nothing stopped me from stepping into the dusty sitting room at the front of the home. Sheets were flung over the furniture, and a clingy film of white powder covered all the walls and features overhead. I don’t recall if the chandelier lit itself with an orange aura that almost simulated flickering flame on my former visit, but it did that day. What the light showed me were the hoofprints of my friends and I. Three sets of hooves… and of course, Graargh’s grizzly cub pawprints. I could just picture how painful it would be when the little changeling tackled me with fuzzy forelegs. He always gave the strongest hugs.

Losing myself in those memories just a few weeks old, took the edge off of my feelings of raw betrayal enough to think straight. I should have known better, in retrospect, as you probably realized immediately dear reader. Gale would never say the things she said and mean them, so she must have been lying. Once I came to that conclusion, it was altogether too obvious why.

Mid-epiphany, I heard Gale call out “Morty!” behind me, standing in Vow’s open doorway. I let my shoulders rise and fall once before I turned around.

Gale was a wreck. She was trying to hold it in, but honestly that only made her look the worse. She was too angry to cry, too broken down to fight. Her legs were shaking like they were struggling to hold up her weight, and her neck certainly couldn’t lift her head. Either that, or she couldn’t bear to look me in the eye.

“I’m sorry…” she whimpered.

I’ve seen Gale both enraged to the verge of spontaneous combustion and broken down to tears (at least one case of each being my own fault). Nevertheless, this was her lowest point. No tears, no cursing. Just shuddering. I rushed over to her side, kicking up more than a bit of dust in the process, and pulled her into the long abandoned sitting room. There, we sat, side by side, as I held her with both forelegs and tried my best to support here.

And then, as you probably already have dear reader, I finally got over my own offense enough to put it together. Gale would never say those things—not just because I thought she was a better friend to me, but because Gale’s first instinct reacting to somepony she was mad at would be to find the single foulest attack she could manage; not to dig up their past and wave it around with a proper noble accent. Her hesitations, her stumbling over her words, were because she was putting on an uncomfortable persona.

“Are you okay?” I asked first, because sometimes trying to be sensitive can lead a young pony to ask very stupid questions with very obvious answers.

Perhaps the incredulity was enough to shock Gale into looking up, brows raised despite the deep furrow in her forehead. “Am I…? Fucking forget me, Morty, are you okay?” Then it was my turn to express my confusion, and as I cocked my head she threw her hooves around my shoulders and nuzzled her forehead into my neck (just barely managing to avoid impaling my stitched wound with her horn). Her words came like a pelting rain. “Gods, I’m so sorry; I was such an asshole! I just panicked! I needed to cover so they wouldn’t figure us out, and you were getting so mad—”

“Gale!” I called out to interrupt her, to try and steady her. “Gale, I’m fine!” When I heard her mumble some complaint into my right side, I pushed her away enough that I could look her in the eyes. “Look at me; I’m completely fine. I get it; it was an act. That’s fine. And if I’m mad at anypony, it isn’t you. I promise.”

“No, it’s not…” Gale hoofed at the ground in an uncharacteristic hesitation. “I hurt you, just by playing along. I saw it on your face. I…” Gale stumbled with the words “I’m still sorry.”

I shrugged. “Alright. Sure. Um… I forgive you?”

Gale let out a tiny chuckle which felt like an enormous win to me. “You’re fucking terrible at talking to other ponies, you know that?”

“Somepony once told me something like that, yes.” I nodded, and then wanting to avoid using my horn, stuck out my hoof and physically lifted her chin to force her to meet my gaze. Her eyes still ran away from mine in shame. “Are you okay?”

“No,” she answered, and sighed. “I turned into my mom. And I fucking hatebeing her.” Despite her voice spiking into a shout, she stayed terrifyingly still. “You see what these assholes do? You spend any time around them, and they just constantly wear you down rubbing each other off until finally you play along just to get them to shut the fuck up. Or gods forbid they have something you want and they hold it over your head until you sit up and beg like a good bitch.” I watched her swallow, and then she finally met my gaze. “Can you see who I’d turn into if I married that smug fucking asshole? That’s exactly what Mom wants.”

“That’s not going to happen, Gale.”

“Why? Because you’re here?” she jabbed half-heartedly.

I shook my head. “What do I have to do with it?” Though delivered better it might have been a suave way of leading in to building her up, I have to confess I was expressing a genuine confusion with that question. “You’re not like that, Gale. And if you have to bluff like you are to put up with them, you’re not going to hurt my feelings.”

Her body just started shaking like laughter without words. Relief spilled over her limbs in the form of her muscles going slack, letting out the tension that had her visibly shuddering just moments before. And then, mercifully, she smiled. “Thanks Morty.”

“It’s really nothing,” I answered. “I think I found them just as insufferable as you did.”

“Yeah…” Gale nodded. “I’m glad I’m not the only one.” Then she lit up her horn and waved away the cloud of dust that had been gathering around us and was slowly settling across our manes. “We should probably get out of this place before some other dead wizard comes to kill us?”

I couldn’t help but chuckle. “I think I’m the only one left now. Where to next?”

“Cloudsdale,” said the young unicorn mare to her also a unicorn escort.

1-3

I - III

The Crime Lord

As we walked down Ridge Street back toward the Royal Palace, Gale spoke to me in a whisper. “Okay, Morty; it’s important you’re here with me so the suitors can get used to seeing you around, but you can’t jump down their throats like you did with Castle. If they figure out you might be new competition, Mom will hear about it. You follow?”

“Understood,” I nodded. “Sorry; one of Wintershimmer’s rules was that you never let somepony attack your reputation undefended, or you lose all the weight behind your name.”

“Maybe you should stop following Wintershimmer’s rules; I know he was the best fucking role model in the world, but…”

“Just because he turned out evil doesn’t mean he was always wrong,” I noted. “Given how much you’re worried about what the suitors think of us, maybe his obsession with reputation was right.”

Gale lifted a hoof to massage her temple. “As long as you don’t gods-damn murder any of them... You’re amazing, you know that?” Despite the word choice, her tone wasn’t what one would call ‘flattering’. “I spend a few weeks away from you, and I forget that you’ve never given anypony a good first impression in your entire life.”

“That’s not true!” I protested before I had actually thought of an exception.

The objection earned me a roll of the mare’s eyes. “Your parents don’t count.”

I scoffed. “No, they hated me the moment I was born. My name is ‘Mortal Coil’ for a reason. My mother wanted another crystal foal. I have no idea what my father thought; he left the Union when I was barely old enough to remember him.”

“Holy shit… even your parents? Who liked you then?”

“Well… Wintershimmer…”

Gale was gobsmacked for a few seconds before she finally managed to get another pump of blood into her brain and restart her language centers. “I… I’m impressed, Morty. Somehow, you actually made it worse.” Then she shrugged. “But like I said, my fault. I should thank you, though, that at least you didn’t take the bait about our plans. That’s not a genie that I can put back in the bottle if you let it out.”

“It’s pronounced ‘djinni’,” I replied (because this is a written work, I should clarify: that spelling is pronounced ‘gin-ny’, like the pinecone-flavored alcohol), before wilting when Gale shot me a glare. “Sorry… It’s just a weird metaphor, because if you managed to enchant a bottle or a lamp or whatever strong enough to hold a djinni, you can probably get it back in again without too much repeated effort.”

“Morty, I know I asked you to marry me…” Instead of trailing off into silence, Gale’s words trailed off into punching me square in the cheek. I should reiterate, at this point, that despite being the smaller of the two of us Gale was in more than decent physical shape, and I knew from experience that she could pack more than a bit of pain into a punch. As I recovered my sense of equilibrium lying on my side on the street, I heard her conclude. “…but that doesn’t mean I don’t fucking hate you sometimes.”

“Ow! Easy, Gale; I’m still healing.”

“You’ll be fine,” Gale answered, hauling me back to my hooves. “Get up, come on. That was just one of these fucking errands.”

“Are the rest all nobles like them?” I asked.

Gale shrugged. “For a given value of ‘noble.’ Some of them aren’t even unicorns, remember? Now come on; Mom had to get two of the guards to pull a chariot for us, and if we’re late and waste the guards' time, I’ll be hearing about it for forty years.”

Having been in some state between bedridden, comatose, and dead for the past several weeks, I felt my breath fighting to keep up with Gale’s brisk pace on the streets of Everfree, past the normal citizens and goings on of the Equestrian capital. Dressed regally as she was, Gale caught more than a bit of attention, most of which she ignored in single-minded determination, offering no more than an “In a hurry, sorry,” or an “excuse me” to whoever she was halfway through pushing past.

On one street, though, I found enough breath and enough walking space to speak up. “Did you wind up asking High Castle for something?”

Gale chuckled. “You mean for a birthday present? Yeah, I decided to really fuck him over; you’ll love this. I told him if he wanted my hoof, I needed a castle from him—”

“Is that what birthday presents usually are?” I asked, incredulous. “Buildings?”

“What? No! Well, maybe for me, since marrying me would make him Prince-Consort.” I swallowed nervously, taking in the scope of an expected gift for the heir to the unicorn throne. Gale, still walking briskly ahead of me, failed to notice. “Anyway, I’m sure his family actually owns two or three, and I don’t actually want a castle, but then I had the best part of this fucking idea. I told him it had to live up to his name: I wanted a castle in the clouds.”

“Oh.” I swallowed. “That sounds… hard.”

“Right? And the party’s tomorrow! I can’t wait to see that fucker trying to buy out some pegasus architect’s business with a million bits. As if you can even build a cloudstone shed in a day.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Pegasi have to compress cloud by hoof to turn it into cloudstone, which is solid even for us non-pegasi. And it takes a ton of cloud to make cloudstone. That’s why Cloudsdale’s streets are just loose cloud, and we have to drink those cloud potions to walk up there. Besides which, most of the cloudstone that gets produced gets melted and forged into skysteel for the Legion, so there isn’t a lot to go around for construction.”

I must have looked like a confused puppy when I turned my head. “Wait, pegasus swords are made of clouds?”

“And their armor,” Gale nodded. “And the strips on wagon wheels that let them ‘roll’ in midair when they’re pulled by pegasi. Frankly, most steel in Equestria is smelted clouds; it’s so much easier to make than ‘ground steel’. Even Dad’s sword that you have a fucking complex about made of clouds; he tore it out of the eye of a hurricane.”

“Huh.” I nodded. “Clouds… Color me impressed.”

I will never understand how Gale could fail to hear the scraping of ten thousand gears and springs and little… clockwork widgets (no, I do not know how clocks work—presumably, some sort of pact with fey lords or things from outside of time if the sanity of most clockmakers is to be taken as evidence) springing to life inside my head as I began to process an impossible question. Namely, with no magic, no money to my name, and less than twenty-four hours, how could I make a gift suitable of Her Royal Highness, Princess Platinum III?

As that question dug away at my confidence with all the comforts and reassurances of a flesh-eating bacteria in your gut, Gale’s lead finally saw us back to the grounds of Everfree’s palace. Our objective was not far inside the eastern gate, just past the statue of Smart Cookie, Archmage Clover, and Private Pan-Sea, where on my first arrival to Everfree City Gale’s elder half-sister had threatened to impale me with an icicle.

Fun memories!

The two Cirran legionaries, wearing armor much like that of the Royal Guard today but without the magic-insulating gold plating over the steel core, gave Gale curt professional bows. The elder, probably thirty, then gestured with a wing to the chariot they were both already hitched to. “We’re at your service, Princess.”

“Thank you, gentlestallions,” said Gale.

As we climbed into the ‘seat’ area of the little wooden tray that would shortly be our only separation from a precipitous drop and a rather messy death, I could hear the younger of the two soldiers speaking to his partner. “I can’t believe it; we’re about to be flying the Princess! Commander Typhoon’s little sister; this is such an hon—”

The thought ended when the junior soldier was clipped over the ear with a wing. “Quiet, legionary; focus.” And then, in a more hushed voice, he added “She’s out of your league anyway.”

Gale, who had heard the comment just as well as I did, turned to me and grinned. “Oh, I don’t know…” she purred, layering on the acting more than a little bit thick. Leaning forward over the front rail of the chariot seat, she dared to brush a hoof over the croup of the stallion, just above his dock and the base of his tail. “He seems cute enough.”

When Gale’s teasing hoof brushed against the hair of the stallion’s tail, he startled into a suddenly much more formal posture. “Um… Princess, I—”

“Please be seated, Princess Gale,” the older soldier ordered with steel in his voice. “We should be in the air.”

And then, all at once, we were. Both stallions charged forward with not but a nod between them to match the timings of their hooves, and with barely ten strides on the ground, both leapt and spread their wings. The palace gardens raced below us, and then the streets of Everfree, and soon ponies became ants, losing all sense of size and buildings became painted rooftops, losing all sense of height.

I only barely avoided losing all sense of my lunch. I hate flying. Unicorns belong down on the ground. If, for some incredibly stupid reason, a unicorn wants to be in the sky, then by the stars he should use his horn to redefine the direction of ‘down’, the way nature intended. And no, Archmage Hourglass, picking yourself up with telekinesis and ‘flying’ yourself around like a used tissue on its way to the rubbish bin is not an acceptable alternative, since I know you will inevitably read this someday. Have some class.

On the way up, as the contents of my stomach were in the process of violating my understanding of the direction ‘up’, Gale produced a pair of fizzing green potions from a pouch built into the rail of the chariot. From one former visit to the pegasus city, I knew they were intended to let wingless ponies walk on the clouds. Unfortunately, reflecting on that as an ‘intention’ only made the predicament of my nausea worse—given vomiting would mean that in addition to the social shame of such a public display of my stomach’s contents, I would also fall straight through the street to my death.

I desperately drank down my potion, and then held my stomach as I worked with all my might not to let it escape back from whence it came.

“Oh, get over it,” Gale ordered as she yanked me out of the chariot and onto the cloud streets. There had been dozens of lurches during our flight (unavoidable even with the best pullers in a vehicle as lightweight as a chariot), so I missed the one that signaled the vehicle coming to a stop. I was therefore terrified that Gale was flinging me into open air until I felt the clouds under me with a hoof. My other hoof, being occupied covering my mouth in the event my life-protecting drink decided to re-emerge, was in no place to keep me from falling face first on the clouds from the force of Gale’s tug.

Thankfully, clouds are soft.

Tragically, cloud streets that have been pounded smooth, even if they aren’t real cloudstone, are less so.

“Ow!”

Gale, for her part, demonstrated again that she was in far better physical shape than my svelte form when she wrapped a leg over my shoulder and hauled me to my hooves. That much was appreciated. The accompanying comment to the surrounding pegasi walking the street of, “Don’t mind him, folks; he’s pathetic, but he’s my problem,” was less appreciated.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what I said,” Gale answered. “Now come on. Baths are this way.” Just before taking the first stride after the direction of her hoof, Gale glanced to the two soldiers who had flown us up. “We’ll be back here to meet you in half an hour. In the meantime, have a drink at the Lookout. You can tell Cirrus to put it on Dad’s tab.”

“Um…” the younger soldier hesitated.

Gale rolled her eyes. “If she doubts it’s from me, tell her I said ‘Hey, bitch.’” Then, with a wink, she turned and headed away down the blindingly white streets of the original cloud metropolis.

As I darted after her to catch up on my bedsore legs, I noted how much of the tension in Gale’s form had vanished since our last discussion with a suitor. In Cloudsdale, despite the horn on her head, Gale seemed at home—though I had to wonder how much was enjoyment of the clouds under her hooves, and how much stemmed from her teasing of a poor rookie soldier.

As I pondered that question, Gale caught me staring at her, rolled her eyes, and then made perhaps just a bit too much of a show shaking her flanks as she slowed to let me catch up. “See something you like back there?”

“I…” You should be reminded, dear reader, that my only prior experience with romance before Gale was the captain of the Crystal Union’s guard, whose idea of a romantic night involved bare-hooves boxing me into a coma. Thus, rather than admitting I thought Gale was beautiful and flattering her as she obviously wanted, I stumbled my way into an excuse. “Sorry; I was thinking about, um… what you said back there. We’re going to take a bath? I thought we were visiting a suitor.”

Gale stopped, turned, and dropped her voice to a near whisper. “Okay, listen, Morty. They’re public baths. It’s a huge building. The colt we’re gonna meet is named Caporegime. His grandmother is the Dawn of the Coral family.”

“Uh… ‘the Dawn’?”

Gale rolled her eyes. “She runs the biggest criminal empire in Equestria.”

I, as you can imagine, had several questions. The first one that came to mind was the one I voiced. “You know that and your sister just lets her?”

“I wish it were that easy.” Gale shook her head. “Look, maybe this will help you understand. Way back in old Cirra when my dad was still a kid, there used to be a whole bunch of crime families. I don’t really get why, but they tended to have really close ties with the Church of Celeste—that’s what the pegasi used to call Celestia before anypony actually met her. Anyway, ‘Dawn’ was the title you called a priestess in that church, so it started to mean the head of one of these families. You following me so far?”

“Taking your word that Celestia’s church was that corrupt, sure.”

“Right. Well, when Emperor Magnus and his griffons went to war with the pegasi, and Dad had to lead everypony across the sea, Dawn Coral saw a huge opportunity. She pretty much took over. And she had Dad up against a wall, because even if he didn’t like her, she was mostly working for the good of the pegasi; most of her work was against the Diamond Kingdoms and the Low Valley. Hell, she still usually goes after unicorns and earth ponies. When the pegasi were so worn down from losing a war and most of their population, I guess Dad needed her help, even if he didn’t want it. And by the time things were built back up for the pegasi to the point that they could afford to go after her, she had her hooks in enough of the Cirran Senate and the Legion leadership that if Ty took her down, she’d take half the country with her.”

“And you don’t want to take down the corrupt half of the country because…?”

Gale huffed. “Because a little bit of organized crime is a fuck of a lot better than a civil war, or something.”

“Or something?” I pressed.

Gale shot me a pained side-eye before she answered. “This is one of those reasons why Mom thinks I’m not ready to be Queen. And fuck, maybe she’s right; I don’t know. I know the 'correct' answer is letting the Dawn be, because fewer ponies get hurt that way and the country is stronger and all that shit. But it still feels wrong to me to look the other way.” Then she shook her head like a dog tossing rainwater from its ears, frantic and violent, dispelling all lingering traces of the unwanted subject. “The point, Morty, is that you might, and probably fucking will, absolutely want to start shit with Dawn Coral and Capo like you did with High Castle. But don’t. I know ‘or they’ll kill you’ doesn’t really apply to you, but it would still be more trouble than it’s worth.”

“I hope this doesn’t come as a surprise, Gale, but I don’t purposely start arguments.”

“Maybe you should start? Then you wouldn’t cause so-fucking-many by accident. Now look, we’re here.”

Some twenty years before anypony had even spoken the name ‘Equestria’, fresh on the shores of the Diamond Kingdoms, a young Commander Hurricane had ordered those of his soldiers who were still able bodied to gather clouds and build a city for the refugees of Cirra. What began as a cobbled together encampment of villas would, over the following months, be quickly replaced by ordered streets of permanent homes, workshops, markets, and all the other buildings that would take any other species without access to cloudstone decades to build. ‘Cloudsdale’ had been an almost sarcastic name for the makeshift city, lacking any of the ceremony and honor of the great cloud-titled Cirran city-states, like the capital Stratopolis or Iron Rain’s beloved Nimbus. Despite its ignominious origins, the name stuck.

When Hurricane began to transform his ragtag city into a new respectable capital for the pegasi, his first construction was not a palace for himself, not a fortress for his legions, not even a grand monument for the losses of Cirra to the griffons. His first orders were for a Cirran bath, a common gathering place where pegasi of all social classes could be equal and share in shedding the sweat and grime of a long day’s work. I am told that in old Cirra, there were dozens of these baths in the capital alone, and every major city had at least three.

The Silver Sword Memorial Baths put them all to shame.

Even today, eight hundred years later, those baths are a feat of engineering that I cannot match with the mightiest of my architecturally-focused feats of magic. And, thankfully, at least at the time of writing they are still standing, spared the cruel fate Nightmare Moon had for all the buildings of Everfree that had the audacity to be built on soil. If you ever have a chance, reader, you must absolutely make the time for a visit. For now, though I have no intention of diving into the intricacies of their design, but forgive me for just a moment to describe in short this amazing wonder of the world. The bath’s genius is that, while the outside of the structure is the same compressed marble-grade cloudstone as most of the rest of the major buildings in Cloudsdale, the interior of walls are stuffed with uncompressed natural clouds - specifically, charged thunderheads in the caldarium and laconicum (the hot baths and steam rooms), and frigid nimbostratus for the frigidarium (the cold baths and swimming pools). Water run out of the baths is heated to a vapor, removing any sweat or dirt from the bathers, and then fed back into the clouds clean to congeal as rainfall, ensuring that the baths are perpetually full of purified, temperature-controlled water, pumped at whatever pressure a pony wants.

Hurricane’s youngest daughter had long loved the steamy halls, splashing in the pools or soaking beside her father and listening to him tell stories of his own youth in faraway Cirra. It was in those halls that Gale most often broke down Hurricane’s guard, getting him to tell his stories of his childhood best friend, Silver Sword—the pony who gave his life to spare Hurricane his death in the final siege of Stratopolis by the griffons. Perhaps Hurricane was on the back hoof, standing in a building named for his childhood friend; I can’t speak to the legendary stallion’s motives, only Gale’s occasional bouts of reminiscence about the building.

By the time we reached the back of the baths, I was increasingly glad for Star Swirl’s work enchanting my jacket, which repelled the sweat and moisture seeping through my coat. Had we come to actually bathe, naked as most bathers are, the air would have been delightful. However, dressed and with a mission, the air was instead stifling and oppressive.

Our final destination was fairly obvious once we found ourselves in the very rear of the structure, facing a doorway flanked by two burly pegasus stallions. If you have ever heard a word like ‘goons’ or ‘mooks’ used to describe the subordinates of a criminal organization, you can already picture this pair, with their overdeveloped forelegs and wings and their nearly shaved bristly short manes. They both glanced briefly at Gale, but spent much longer watching me. “You have business with the Dawn, Princess?”

“Capo, mostly,” Gale answered, holding up his letter, the waxed parchment envelope resisting the moisture well. “But I can say ‘hi’ to her too while we’re here.”

The two guards nodded to each other, and shuffled slightly away from the opening in the wooden trellis separators. Gale entered without giving the stallions a second look, but when I moved to follow, two wings shot out in front of my muzzle, barring my path.

“Your coat, sir.”

“I’d… rather keep it.”

More forcefully, the guard stated something that apparently everypony in Equestria knew except me. “No one goes into a steam bath in a jacket, capiche?”

After a brief huff of frustration, I realized that getting the thing off without the use of my horn was a lot harder than getting my legs into the sleeves in the first place. Gale turned around in the doorway as I fumbled with the sash around my waist, and after a good thirty seconds of watching me flail with the sleeves, offered a pinch of her magic to slide one foreleg free. I spitefully offered my most precious possession to the insistent guard. “Don’t lose it. It’s probably worth more than your house.”

The stallion scoffed, as he and his partner both removed their wings to let me pass. “Don’t insult us.”

“We’re professionals, colt," said his compatriot.

Gale gave me a small smile—I assume by way of silent thanks for playing along instead of insisting on keeping the garment—and then led the way into the next room. There, amongst marbled cloud pillars, set into a raised tub, an elderly mare and a young stallion were resting in steaming waters.

The pegasus mare was a wrinkly specimen, that was certain, though it was hard to tell how much of the folding in her coat was from her age, and how much came from long hours soaking in the warm water of her private bath. Atop the wrinkles, her coat was a muted scarlet, and above that her ochre mane had been styled slicked back not unlike her grandson's—though in lieu of greasy gel to hold it in place, the older mare’s looked much more like the effect of dipping her head under the bathwater and tossing it back with a wing. She was the oldest pegasus I had ever met, even edging out Hurricane by a good few years, though Dawn Coral wore her decades far more elegantly. A small cloth towel hung loose around her neck and shoulders.

“Aura?” A smile broke on the old mare’s wrinkly muzzle, and though the movement was transparently difficult even with water supporting her weight, she stood up and bowed her head until it was nearly touching the water. “What a welcome surprise. It must have been ages since I saw you at the baths. And is this young stallion the ‘Mortal Coil’ that I’ve heard so much about?”

At the welcome reception, I folded a leg across my chest and gave a bow. “I am. Dawn Coral, I presume?”

“Such a gentlestallion. Yes, I am, but just ‘Dawn’ is fine if you prefer. This is my grandson, Caporegime. Capo, Mortal Coil is the pony who fought the mad wizard from the Crystal Union.”

Caporegime Coral was a flying ball of sleaze even when he had all four hooves on the ground and his wings folded at his sides. From his musky cologne—somehow powerful enough to survive the pools of the bath—to his slicked back black mane, I have rarely met a pony I more constantly wanted to reinterpret as a collage. “I read the news too, Dawn,” Capo observed dryly, before tilting his head back. “Nice ta’ meet ya.” Then he offered a wide grin to Gale. “Now what’s this I hear about a sweet young unicorn filly comin’ all the way up to Cloudsdale just for little old me?”

Gale extended Capo’s letter toward him in her magic. “This is an invitation to my birthday party.”

“Oh, just special for me? Gods, I must be blessed or something—”

“All the suitors get one,” Gale interrupted him. “Look, it’s waxed but I don’t think you should have it in the tub. Do you want me to set it somewhere?”

Capo snatched the letter out of the air with a dripping wing and tucked it corner-first into his mane, behind one of his ears. “It’ll be fine. You know what you want for a present?”

Gale grinned like a cat looking at a mouse. “Let me think for a second.”

Dawn Coral chuckled. “Well, you two are welcome to soak for a few moments. It might do something for Mr. Coil’s neck, at least.” When I raised a brow, Dawn Coral gave a small shrug of her wings. “You’ve got quite the scar healing there. I know it’s bad form to ask about scars, but I do have to express my curiosity if that’s a story you’re willing to tell.”

“It’s bad form to ask about scars?” I asked.

Capo chuckled. “You really don’t know your way around pegasi, do ya’? Most ponies the Dawn’s age don’t like talking about the Red Cloud War—eh, if you don’t know, that’s what we call the last war with the griffons, when we left Dioda and met all youse unicorns and earth ponies.”

“Scars usually bring up tough memories,” the Dawn concurred. “Even if the war was a lifetime ago, some wounds never set properly.” Then she nodded in my direction. “But you’re young and lively; will you humor an old mare, Mortal?”

I felt myself stiffen and what remained of the coat on my neck around the scar in question bristle at the use of my first name, but Gale calmed me quickly, placing a hoof on mine beneath the water’s surface. “He prefers ‘Morty’ or Coil.”

I shrugged, finding the slight much more bearable with Gale’s support. “You didn’t know; it’s fine. Most ponies who call me by my first name use it to try to talk down to me. And my parents didn’t exactly like me, which is probably obvious from the name ‘Mortal Coil’.” I let myself slacken a bit further into the pool, enjoying how nice the warm water felt on limbs that had been stuck in bed for weeks. “Wintershimmer—he was the archmage of the Crystal Union who I had to fight but also my master... I suppose I should say my former master.”

“Sensitive subject?” Dawn Coral asked, apparently reading into the hesitance in my voice. I was struck by the gentleness and sympathy in not only the question but her body language. Perhaps I had just been primed to expect less grandmotherly good nature from Gale’s introduction that the mare was a ruthless criminal. “I apologize.”

“Huh? No, it’s not sensitive. Just complicated. Trying to figure out where to start.” I bit my cheek for a moment before I spoke up. “The guard captain of the Crystal Union is a mare named Silhouette. She and I never really got along…” I very nearly launched into a list of the ways in which she was corrupt, but a squeeze of my foreleg from Gale reminded me who I was speaking to. “Wintershimmer framed me for murder, and she chased me all the way to River Rock and back here to Everfree. Eventually, I convinced her I was innocent; when she helped me fight Wintershimmer, he cut off one of her forelegs. Then he…” Another pause was filled with my pondering just how much I wanted to talk about the logistics of ripping out and re-inserting souls. I settled on “He took over her mind and forced her to attack me. So she gave me the scar, but it’s really Wintershimmer’s fault.”

Dawn Coral raised a brow as she turned toward Gale. “And is it true you were part of this, Aura?”

“Some, yeah.” Gale nodded. “Me, Aunt Celestia, Tempest… pretty much all of Morty’s friends. I actually cut that old fucker’s horn off, but Morty did most of the hard work.”

“I see.” Dawn Coral nodded with perhaps more enthusiastic approval than a story about gruesome dismemberment deserved. “For all the bone on your brow, you are certainly your father’s daughter, Aura.”

“Why do you keep calling her that?” I asked.

“It’s Cirran,” Caporegime explained, despite not clarifying the matter for me in the slightest.

“A sign of respect amongst us old bags from old Cirra,” Dawn Coral added, laughing. “Hurricane may hate being called ‘emperor’ to his face, but amongst ponies of our generation he’ll always be Cataegis Haysar. ‘Aura’ means a gale—like the wind—in Cirran.”

“Ah. So not a magical aura.” I let myself dip a bit deeper into the warm water still, sighing with irresistible relief at the feeling.

“What did you mean about me being like Dad?” Gale asked Dawn. “I assume you don’t mean he went around chopping off ponies’ horns?”

Dawn suppressed a laugh with a wing held arthritically in front of her muzzle, but I could still see the laughter lines tuck up on her cheeks. “Aura, how scandalous! Saying those things about your own father!” When her shocked humor faded away, she shook her head most emphatically. “No, no. I suppose I should say, I mean no disrespect to Hurricane. He has my utmost admiration as the leader of Cirra. He guided us through our darkest hours. But what I meant is that Hurricane was always terrible at delegating. Absolutely abysmal. I imagine it was a poorly learned lesson from the Red Cloud War. He always did everything with his own two wings.”

“How do you learn to be bad at delegating from running a war?” I asked

Again, my naïve question led to laughter from the Dawn, though I never got the sense she was laughing at my ignorance, nor at my expense. Hence, despite Gale’s warnings, I found myself liking the old criminal much better than I had the supposed ‘nobles’ of the House of Gullion.

“Hurricane was barely older than you three when he became Emperor of Cirra, and he inherited a government that schemed behind his back constantly.” Though her smile held for a moment, the Dawn’s expression began to grow leaner as she recalled a war most pegasi in those days hated to bring up. “The war was already lost by then, and most of the senate was more concerned with how to get peace out of Magnus and make Hurricane take the fall than they were thinking about how to win, or at least preserve the empire in a defeat. Now, I was hardly in Hurricane’s inner circle in those days, but from what I hear, the news that there was even land to flee to over the ocean was almost hidden from him in a footnote of some report. And if that message had never reached his ears… well, I have no doubt we would not be speaking today.” Dawn Coral let her mane dip into the water as she tilted her hair back, soaking the wrinkled coat of her neck and breathing deeply of the steamy air. “Perhaps he didn’t offer such a critique of his own leadership style, Aura, but I assume you already know the story otherwise.”

Gale scoffed. “I wish. Dad never talks about the Red Cloud War. The most I ever get is hearing about his best friend Silver Sword and his old wife Swift Spear, and how he used to be a wheat farmer in Zephyrus. I know tons of shit about Cirra before the war, but I get more about the war from ponies who weren’t even born yet than I do from Dad.”

“Hmm…” Dawn Coral sighed. “Perhaps you should visit me more often. I’d be glad to teach you our history. Your history. You deserve to know.”

“I appreciate the offer,” Gale countered. “But if I really need to know, I’ll just ask Iron Rain.”

That name rang some kind of bell in the back of my mind, though I couldn’t place it sitting in the baths. Instead, I sat quietly as Dawn Coral leaned forward. Her face said all sorts of things to me, like ‘you really think she knows as much as I do?’ or ‘Insult me again.’ But what actually came out of the Dawn’s mouth was “I’m glad you share such a strong connection with her, Aura. And I would never want to come in the way of that.” I really, really expected a ‘but’, but it never came. Dawn Coral laid back in the water again, submerging herself nearly to her chin, and sighed in contentment. “I don’t know if you young ponies can appreciate it, but the warm water is such a salve for old bones.”

“It feels fantastic to me,” I agreed. “The location’s a little inconvenient though.”

“Hah!” Dawn Coral nodded as she chuckled. “Fair and then some. Perhaps I should speak to the magistrate about taking the baths down to ground level for a day.” Then she sat forward again. “Then perhaps Cataegis would finally stop making excuses and come to visit with me again.”

“Cataegis?” Though Dawn had said the name once a few moments earlier, it wasn’t a term I was familiar enough with to place in a moment.

“Emperor Hurricane,” Capo clarified. “Cataegis Gladioprocellarius Haysar.”

“Don’t say it to his face, though, Morty. He hates being called that.” Gale warned.

Capo shrugged and let out a non-committal huff. “It’s a sign of respect. The stallion saved Cirra, and throws bolts of lightning like spears—”

“Forty years ago, maybe,” Gale cut in. “And I still think the ‘lightning bolt’ thing is bullshit. If he could really do that, he’d still have both his wings. I know he did a lot of good things for Equestria, but come on: he’s still just some old stallion; not some ‘god’.”

Dawn Coral nodded. “With many, many ponies behind him who aren’t as well remembered. The same can be said of your mother, and of Chancellor Puddinghead, Aura. It’s a good lesson for a future ruler. For your father, yet another lesson from the Red Cloud War.”

Gale rolled her eyes. “I get the point, Dawn, thank you.” Then she chuckled, with just a hint of an edge to the laughter’s tone. “Well, if Dad learned all these lessons I’m supposed to pick up from the Red Cloud War, then I know exactly what I want for my birthday, Capo.”

“Oh?” He leaned forward, intrigued by the lead-in.

Dawn Coral, for her part, donned the first open frown of concern that I had seen on her otherwise jovially grandmotherly features; there was a mare who knew a trap was coming.

“Well, it’s simple. I want to meet a griffon, and see what all the fuss was about.”

Despite her sense of warning, Dawn Coral was struck mute by that request. Capo too was left stuttering in shock and confusion at the request. “You… you want me to what? You think it’sa good idea bringin’ a griffon here?” Some hint of a strangely Cirran accent slipped into his words as he fumbled with Gale’s audacious request. “Aren’tcha worried about restarting the whole Red Cloud War? Ya crazy! What if they attack Equestria?”

“Don’t be stupid, Capo. I’m not interested in starting a fucking war; I just want to meet one. Besides, if Magnus does decide to pick a fight, Equestria has two goddesses that Cirra didn’t. And frankly, I wouldn’t be surprised if this asshole could rip his soul out.” Gale tilted her horn to gesture to me. “So, yeah, that’s my birthday wish. Magnus, if you can get him, but any griffon will do. Maybe wrapped in a nice purple bow?”

Finally, Dawn Coral sat forward, finding both the posture and the words to speak. “Are you attempting to offend me and my grandson, Aura, or do you simply not understand the gravity of what you’re asking for?”

“Who knows?” Gale answered the Dawn with as ferocious a smile as she could muster. “Maybe neither; maybe I’m interested in seeing what I get from my suitors if I ask for something like that?” She had the audacity to wink at the older mare, and to my astonishment, it took just the edge off of the sharpness of the Dawn’s disgruntled features. “Maybe somepony who can do the impossible is what gets me turned on?” Then she chuckled as the Dawn’s eyebrows rose. “I’m sure somepony as familiar with history as you can find some damn metaphor for it. But for now, we’ve got places to be. It’s been nice. Come on, Morty; time to go.”

Dawn Coral sighed, but extended a hoof in my direction. “Coil, it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“You as well, Dawn,” I replied, shaking her hoof, and then moving to her grandson. “Capo.”

“Coil.” He nodded. “I hope you are just her friend. I’d hate to be your rival.”

“Yeah, you probably would,” I replied, unable to resist myself.

After we retrieved our respective outfits from the guards at the door and left the baths, Gale and I found ourselves once again on the streets of Cloudsdale. Thankfully, Gale knew to pull a chain on the wall near the baths’ exit. The result was a burst of warm air from a series of holes on the walls of the baths, which dried our coats before we stepped out into the much thinner and much colder air of the sky city

As we made our way back to the waiting chariot that would return us to the sanity of solid ground, Gale spoke up. “So… Thoughts?”

“I think there’s a certain hypocrisy to asking me not to start trouble, and then telling the Dawn that you want to meet a live griffon, her sworn enemy. If you really want to talk to a griffon, why not just wait until my horn is healed, and I can seance you up any dead griffon you like?”

Gale scoffed. “Morty, it’s not about wanting to talk to a griffon… I mean, don’t get me wrong, that actually sounds like it could be a lot of fun, and we should actually have you do that. But the point is screwing over Capo. He’s never going to be able to get anything resembling a fucking griffon here. Half the legion would go apeshit berserk if he even tried flying back to Dioda. And I basically told the Dawn exactly why I was asking for it; believe me, if she were actually mad, she wouldn’t have looked that mad.”

“I…” I fumbled with comprehension for a moment. “I beg your pardon, but what?”

“You can often judge the magnitude of a skilled politician’s emotions quite easily,” Gale recited in imitation of her mother’s voice, “simply by paying attention to how much effort they put into not showing emotions. If somepony has the talent to hide behind a mask, then any but the rawest show of strong emotion becomes just another mask to hide behind.”

“Okay…” I nodded. “Wintershimmer used to talk about controlling your emotions to keep your reason in control. I guess that follows. I don’t get the point of pretending to be emotional when you aren’t though. He always said being stone faced and making ponies guess is better than showing anything at all.”

“Being stone faced turns ponies off,” Gale answered, with a hint of tiredness in her voice just from that short explanation. “One of the most important parts of succeeding in politics is getting other ponies to like you.” Then she nodded down our path, where the chariot and our two charioteers were waiting. “Gentlestallions,” she greeted them with a smile. “If you could take us down to the east side of the city, we’re headed to Chancellor Puddinghead’s home.”

“Puddinghead?” I asked.

Gale nodded. “The next suitor is his son, Peanut Gallery. Now quit squirming and get on the chariot.”

The ride down was no more pleasant than the ride up, but at least I knew my hoof wouldn’t go straight through the ground when I got off.

1-4

I - IV

The Earth Pony

The only two earth pony guards I had seen in my time in Everfree City stiffened and stepped aside from the gates of a luxurious walled home, planted just past the edge of the city proper. Chancellor Puddinghead’s home (his ‘party pad’, as Gale claimed he was willing to describe it with a straight face) was honestly a more tasteful structure than I had anticipated. Wooden walls rose, slanted into angled roofs, and then rose vertically again, up and up, narrower and narrower until the whole structure culminated in a flat roof that no doubt was home to two swimming pools and a shuffleboard… board. Huge windows in a variety of shapes decorated the exterior, and grand balconies stuck off the sides of various floors, trailing flowering vines and plant life. The whole thing was built in different expensive woods, coloring it in beautiful shades of brown and red, white and gray, and even a few tasteful touches of purple, all without the need for paint or fabric.

In short, it was a beautiful, elegant structure that, while certainly grandiose, lacked the outspoken exuberance I expected from the leader of the earth ponies.

As we walked away from the chariot that had carried us down from Cloudsdale, and watched the two pegasi who pulled it fly away in total silence (though the younger dared to give Gale an awkward wave goodbye), we got quite the moment together to experience the view of the structure.

“I’m surprised,” noted to her.

“About the house?”

I chuckled. “About how egalitarian the Queen is. That she lets you have non-unicorns as suitors.”

Gale rolled her eyes. “Even letting Peanut ‘pretend’ was a political favor to Puddinghead; Mom doesn’t take him seriously. And she’s told me to my face I shouldn’t either. As for the pegasi, Dad actually put them forward.”

“Pegasi? Plural?”

“We’ll meet up with Gray Rain later.” Gale pointed forward. “For now, let’s humor Peanut. At least we can get some good lunch.”

Gale led us further into the grounds with no shortage of familiarity, but instead of heading for the door, she followed the wall around the exterior to the walled gardens. There, under a small gazebo surrounded by wildlife, I found two ponies talking over a wide glass-topped desk. One, a stallion about our age, seemed rather distracted as he plucked away at a harp. He wasn’t playing a particular song, at least unless he was so especially avante garde that I couldn’t follow any structure whatsoever; instead, I guessed he was concerned with trying to find the right notes for something he was composing. I think his most notable trait was that he was a particularly flaming hot shade of pink, with an only slightly darker mane. Thankfully, mercifully, he chose to wear a slimming gray vest and a similar bowtie that helped to restrain somewhat his aggressive colors.

His companion who stood with her back to us was an earth pony mare, not terribly older than us but certainly not a peer of ours; she had a forest green coat and wore a thick canvas jacket with a fur collar that seemed a bit warm for summer in Everfree.

Gale smiled and waved a hoof as she approached. “Good morning, Peanut!”

Peanut looked up from his conversation for a moment and donned a friendly grin. “Gale! Good to see you.” Then he looked at me and both his brows rose just slightly. “And who is this fine gentlestallion?”

It was the mare beside him at the table, turning at our approach, who answered. “Secretary, that is Mortal Coil, the stallion from Archmage Travail’s report regarding the… incident in Lubuck.” Then she offered a brief bow to Gale. “Your Highness.”

Gale answered with a swift nod of her own head. “Morty, let me introduce Secretary Peanut Gallery and… Grainwood, what is your title these days?”

“Miss,” Grainwood answered with a chuckle. “Being on the Taghfahrt doesn’t come with a title.”

“You seem to show up around Puddinghead a lot for a ‘miss’, Grainwood,” Gale observed.

“I own a shipping company,” Grainwood responded flatly. “So I have a lot to win or lose based on how parliament sets taxes on shipping up or down river, to say nothing of trading with Neighvgorod.” Then she nodded once to each of us and smirked a knowing smirk. “Sometimes you get opportunities in the capital that you wouldn’t in Lubuck, like lending a ship out to the crown to get a runaway wizard across the ocean to River Rock, in exchange for lessened tolls on harbor taxes.”

I nodded as I finally understood how the mare knew of me. “You own the Little Conqueror then? Thank you for helping our escape.”

“The what?” Gale asked.

I cocked a brow. “You don’t remember the Little Conqueror? The ship we took to Neighvgorod when we were running away from Lubuck? Come on, Gale, it wasn’t that long ago.”

Gale shrugged. “I guess I didn’t really bother remembering the fucking name. Sorry I forgot your boat, Grainwood.”

“Well, Captain Winterspell works for me, but it is actually his ship. Water under the bridge either way, your highness. Now, I’m sure you aren’t here to talk to some merchant, and I’m afraid I don’t outrank the crown princess when it comes to the importance of guests. Secretary, I’ll return later to finish up our business.”

Peanut chuckled, leaning back in his chair and briefly glancing at Gale before taking a… perhaps unexpectedly long look in my direction. “Well. Mortal Coil, the hero of Platinum’s Landing… I thought the statue was exaggerating.”

“Statue?” I asked, before remembering the time I had spent posing after my first battle with Wintershimmer. “Ah, right.”

“You get on my case for not remembering the name of a ship, but you can’t remember having a statue carved of you?” Gale massaged her temple with a hoof. “What the fuck, Morty?”

“Well, in my defense, I was interrupted by your sister accusing me of mass murder, and then getting the shock of my trial being prosecuted by the goddess Luna, so you’ll forgive me if some of my time in Platinum’s Landing escapes my memory.”

Peanut chuckled. “Please, both of you, have a seat.” His hooves gestured emphatically to a trio of cushions on the opposite side of his desk, before they returned to his harp, plucking a few strings at random. “Despite my father’s idea of good taste, I can’t bring myself to offer hard liquor while the sun’s still so high—”

“Damn,” Gale whispered.

“—but if you care for some cold pressed apple cider, I’d be glad to share a glass. As well as something for lunch.” Saying this, he stroked a series of strings in a piercing minor chord, and shortly thereafter I saw out of the corner of my eye an earth pony butler wearing a formidable beard nod once in silence toward Peanut before vanishing from sight. “Now, where are my manners?” He removed his right hoof from his harp and extended it over the desk toward me. “I’m Peanut Gallery, currently enjoying the title of Secretary-General of Equestria. I’ve heard a lot about you, sir, but the stories don’t do you justice.”

“...Thank you?” I frowned for a moment as I cleared my head at the unexpected (and frankly, unclear) compliment. “Um… ‘general’? I thought Gale’s sister was the head of the Equestrian military.”

Peanut chuckled. “Ah, ‘secretary-general’ is moreso about the title applying to all the races, generally. I understand you’re acquainted with my predecessor, Secretary Smart Cookie?”

“More than I’d like to be. I took care of his comatose body for twenty years.”

Peanut grimaced. “Yes… nasty business, that. Well, for ages we earth ponies have had a government centered around a Chancellor, elected by the general populace, and a Secretary elected as the head of what was then an all-earth parliament. When Father negotiated an earth-pony style parliament into the new government of Equestria, that title was amended to ‘Secretary-General’, since it would be a title voted on by all three races. Generally, you see?” Then he shrugged. “Because we earth ponies have the largest population, it stands to reason the Secretary-General would be one of us, but as for why it fell to me…” He shrugged, and plucked two odd notes that came out slightly sour on his harp. “I can only suggest nepotism. But I have to ask about you, Mr. Coil; is it true you survived being hung… sorry, hanged in the Crystal Union, and just walked away?”

I didn’t notice at the time that Peanut wasn’t quite meeting my gaze when his words slipped there.

I leaned back in my seat, grinning unabashedly at the praise. “Well, to be fair I teleported away. But in the spirit of the thing yes. I don’t recommend it; the rope burns are… Ow!” The latter noise was the result of my half-conscious massaging of my neck coming into contact with the stitched wound from my most recent battle with Wintershimmer.

“I see you weren’t uninjured, though,” Peanut observed, plucking a couple more notes, and then smiling. The same pair of notes rang twice more, and his muted expression grew wider by just hints each time.

“Well, this is actually more recent… The leader of the crystal army got into me with her claw.” As I explained, Peanut’s hooves suddenly began actually playing, and I caught his two repeated notes at the end of a particularly lilting phrase in waltz time.

“Claw?” he asked over his own music. “Is she… not equine?”

“Oh no, she’s a mare. All but one hoof, anyway. It’s a long story,” I answered.

“Well, I would certainly love to have you for dinner some time, Morty—can I call you ‘Morty’, or is that too personal? I wouldn’t want to intrude.” The music halted for a moment, though I hadn’t heard a wrong note, and then repeated with just a single note different, giving it a more solemn air.

I shrugged. “Whatever you like.”

“Wonderful. Are you free Thursday for... Ah, I see our drinks are here.” The comment was accompanied by Peanut’s face growing sour, and the next two notes he plucked on his harp got along like liquor and milk, curdling in my ears into something thick and sour and repulsive. “Good day, father. I don’t recall sending for you.”

Gale and I both turned on our cushions to see that, rather than the servant we’d witnessed before, the stallion approaching our place at the gazebo was Chancellor Puddinghead himself, deftly balancing four glasses, eight triangular sandwiches, and a large pitcher of cider on just one hoof. “Mornin’, Pea Pea! I heard Gale and Morty were here, and I just had to come say ‘Hi!’. So ‘Hi’, Morty and Gale!”

Something that often gets lost in historical representations of Puddinghead is his size. Whereas Commander Hurricane’s military stature often gets overstated in statuary and so forth (he was decently tall for a pegasus, but the ‘for a pegasus part’ is a big qualifier), Puddinghead, portrayed (accurately) as a bit of a dandy and a nincompoop, usually loses the fact that he was actually quite tall for an earth pony. I was reminded of this fact because he flopped down on the last remaining cushion, and even reclining on his flank he could easily look me in the eye, to say nothing of the extra height afforded by his bowl-shaped hat full of quite edible chocolate pudding.

“Hi, Pudding,” Gale answered, for a moment making me question the informality.

The tune Peanut Gallery picked up on his harp was much faster than its predecessor, in a minor key, but so presto that it came across more angry than sad.

“I’m super glad you’re coming to visit Pea Pea,” Puddinghead told Gale with a wide smile, using his free forehoof to pass out glasses, and then pour our drinks. I had to grit my teeth to avoid a chuckle at the incredibly terrible nickname. Still, I shot Peanut a look of silent sympathy. He nodded back to me with tired resignation in his eyes as he continued to play his harp, letting his apparently oblivious father continue to speak. “Stars knows he’s not brave enough to make the effort himself.”

“I’m plenty brave, Father,” Peanut snapped. “I’m just practical; we both know Gale isn’t a big fan of any of her suitors. And I don’t recall asking for your advice on romance.”

Puddinghead scoffed. “No, but you obviously need it; you hardly bring anypony home at night. You don’t even have any kids yet, Pea Pea!”

“Father… I’m nineteen.” Peanut rolled his eyes. “And it’s Peanut; I’m Secretary-General of our entire Parliament, not some four year old whose cheeks you can pinch!”

“Exactly! Look how stuffy you got; you’re not getting any younger or any hotter!” Puddinghead sighed and placed a hoof on his forehead. “Look at Morty here.”

“Believe me, I am,” Peanut whispered under his breath; I don’t know if he meant for me to catch it, or if it was only for Gale’s benefit, but she masked a small chuckle behind her hoof.

Puddinghead, apparently, didn’t hear his son over the harp marche. “He spent his whole foalhood learning from some geriatric jerk who probably died a virgin, but he still got the crown princess to give him a horn job in the middle of court, when he only met her like a week earlier! That’s almost as much game as I had when I was your age!”

That was one of the very, very few times that I had the joy of seeing Gale turn utterly red, ears to jaw, at the mention of her antics.

“I, um…” I hesitated to offer any useful comment, though the sinking in my gut made it all too clear I ought to have come up with something in Gale’s defense. At least Peanut’s music kept there from being an awkward silence.

“There’s no need to be humble, Morty. Live it up a little. I’ve got a couple of daughters you might like, since Pea Pea’s gonna end up with Gale. One of them is even almost as legitimate as Pe—”

“Father!” Peanut snapped, accompanied by the sour twinge of an off-key note. The same hoof flew from his harp and crashed down onto the glass desk; spiderweb cracks spread in the transparent surface from the show of force, sending our drinks sloshing in their glasses, and outright spilling mine. “Firstly, given that she’s carrying a bag of letters, I suspect Gale is not here looking for a date, let alone a—”

“A threesome? Given she brought Morty?” Puddinghead suggested. Winking to Gale, he continued “I don’t mind sparing a bedroom for you young foals to have some alone time.”

Peanut fumed silently.

Gale groaned, and then dug into her bag with her magic. “Sorry, Pudding, but he’s right. I’m just here delivering an invitation to my birthday party; it’s tomorrow, so sorry for the short notice.”

“Oh, I know,” Puddinghead told us with a smile. “I might be Chancellor, but I’m also the best party pony in Equestria. You think I’m not helping decorate?”

Peanut took the invitation, tore it open deftly with a dexterity of hoofwork I have rarely seen on a pegasus or a unicorn, and retrieved the letter inside. As he read the lacy script that I assume Queen Platinum or one of her scribes had actually put down, he lifted his glass of cider and took a sip. Abruptly, his face contorted again, and he turned to the side to spit out the sip before lifting the whole glass and flinging it out of the gazebo and into the gardens. A moment later, the sound of glass shattering once again filled the grounds of Puddinghead’s home.

“I thought I made no liquor perfectly clear, father. It isn’t even noon yet!”

“Well, maybe if somepony would stop being so picky and make a pass at a perfectly beautiful young mare, I wouldn’t have to try and lubricate things,” Puddinghead answered. “Maybe she’s not a perfect ten, but she’s certainly an eight or a nine. For goddesses’ sake, she gave you an invitation to her birthday and you actually opened it before you agreed? I know I taught you better than this!”

“Oh, forgive me for not offending her trying to mount her the second I met her like you do with every mare who passes your field of view.” He rolled his eyes, and with some obvious struggle for willpower, looked away from his father. “Forgive me, Gale; I’ll be glad to attend. And I’ll even spare you any pathetically unsubtle attempts at romance; is there anything you’d like as a gift?”

“I—”

Gale’s brief attempt at an answer was trampled by Puddinghead, who shot his entire apparently alcoholic cider in one swig and then leaned forward. “Really, son? Which one of our methods had actually gotten us laid at your age?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Gale snapped. “If my future is marrying you and listening to you two bicker about me like I’m a hunk of meat with a hole in it, for a birthday gift, I’d love a crossbow bolt. You can shoot it straight through my fucking eye! Come on, Morty; we’re done here.”

Though Gale dragged me away, over both Peanut’s apologies and Puddinghead’s pleas for us to stay, their ensuing argument once we were out of sight was not at all hard to hear; in fact, I doubt I could have avoided eavesdropping on them without the aid of earplugs, or a particularly large marching band.

“I told you I’m not interested in her!” Peanut shouted.

“You’re so self-centered, Pea Pea! This isn’t about you! It’s about getting the earth ponies in on that action, since Ricky and Queen Platty already got together! This is for the good of Equestria! So you can absolutely go mount Morty, or whatever stallions you want, on your time. But as your father, I expect you to put away one too many beers with that filly, make some ‘bad choices’, rut her without protection, and give me a couple of grandfoals.” I could quite literally hear the sarcastic hoof-quotes around ‘bad choices’ in Puddinghead’s voice, but my attention was on Gale massaging the throbbing veins on both her temples in unspoken fury as we left the gardens around the earth pony estate.

“Do you want to—”

“No,” she snapped. “I do not want to fucking talk about it. Let’s just go find Gray Rain.” She leaned into my side, and I did my best to support her as we walked on, but without Peanut’s harp music or any kind of discussion, the silence that hung over us was as painfully rigid as Gale’s tensed shoulders.

1-5

I - V

The Alchemist

I felt like I was inside the eye of some sort of storm, walking beside Gale through the streets of Everfree. Even the random passersby going about their business in the city could sense it, rushing out of our way. All the while, I ignored the grumbling of my stomach from missing lunch due to Gale’s anger with Puddinghead. The wisest course of action, I thought, was not interrupting my companion’s anger with a request for her to buy us a meal. Besides, the silence gave me plenty of time to silently panic as I struggled to come up with any sort of an idea for a gift that might be appropriate for my friend with less than a day’s notice and almost no resources to my name.

About ten minutes back into the streets of Everfree proper, the silence finally broke when Gale snapped at me “Are you starting to see what I mean about these assholes?”

“Peanut seemed nice enough before his dad showed up,” I told her with a shrug. “Even if he made me feel more like he was my suitor. Not that I can blame him. He has a fine taste in stallions, but—”

My words collapsed into a groan as my body collapsed onto the street. Gale had clocked me on the side of my face with a full cross punch that left stars in my eyes. I wasn’t knocked out, but given I missed most of her ensuing angry words, I can only assume the blow got me good.

I don’t think it was damage to my ears, but my mind struggling to regain its footing that meant when I finally heard Gale speaking again, it was when her face suddenly softened into worry. “Shit, you’re bleeding!”

“Well, you punched me!” I groaned, trying to find my hooves on the cobblestone street. “You could at least aim for the jacket; then Star Swirl’s enchantments might help—” My first attempt at standing up sent a feeling like fire down my spine, and I slipped in something wet, clapping my jaw straight back down onto the street and biting my lip in the process.”

“No, your neck! Where the crystal bitch tore you up with her weird metal arm.” Gale struggled to help me up, not only with her magic, but by actually tucking her neck under one of my forelegs so she could support the weight of my chest on her back.

Once I had settled into a standing position, I brought my hoof up to my neck, felt the sting of touching an open wound, and brought it into view to find a modest, worrying, though hardly life-threatening smear of red. “Oh. Fun. Well, I guess we should go find Meadowbrook.”

“That’s too damn far.” Gale took about two steps under me before I lifted my leg and stepped away from her to try and walk on my own. Though my pace was slow and shaky, it was still much easier than trying to let her half-carry me. “This way; We’ll talk to Spicy; that’ll be faster.”

“Who?” I asked—really, more grunted in pain as Gale hauled me forward down the street by tugging on the shoulder of my jacket. “Who’s ‘Spicy’?”

“An alchemist,” Gale insisted. “Come on! You’re bleeding everywhere!”

“It’s really not that…” for just a moment, my vision went fuzzy and I felt a distinct sense of vertigo threaten to topple me from my stance. “Alright. I’m coming.”

The path toward this ‘Spicy’ pony saw us pass larger and larger estates on more and more egregiously decorated grounds on a road I would later learn was named Orichalcum Way. At last Gale stopped us in front of a wrought iron gate, styled to appear vinelike despite its cold metal material. It was obvious to me that ‘Spicy’ was another noble, yet the estate shared almost nothing in common with High Castle’s metaphorical castle, save their unnecessary size. While the former home had been a fairly standard, perhaps even boring elaborate estate, the home before me was anything but. Bricks not made of stone but baked iron-red clay supported towers and spires of smoky, blackened wood. Several of the the towers didn’t even touch the ground, instead hanging suspended between the taller structures; the net effect was something like a copse of three or four giant trees… if the trees were on fire. That latter effect was the result of more chimneys than I have ever seen in my entire life on a building; the vents of smoke seemed to be everywhere, to the point that I found myself wondering if there was any room left inside the building for ponies.

Gale showed not one whit of hesitation as she rushed me up to the door and banged on the heavy brass knocker—a circular knocker with a decorative cross hanging off the bottom—to signal our presence. It took only a few moments for the door to be opened; to my considerable surprise, the face behind it wasn’t there. In front of us stood what I immediately recognized as a homunculus—a pony-shaped mass of plant life and chemicals brought to life not with necromancy but alchemy. This one was especially well made, since instead of visible sticks and dead leaves and mud, it looked like it was comprised of a uniform, nearly dry, slightly shiny red-brown dirt—like a dorodango, if you’re familiar with the art form. In addition to its uniform appearance, the homunculus also appeared in a uniform: a black and white maid’s uniform, wrapped tightly around the shape of a mare.

“Can you—” Gale started to address the creature, before it preempted her request with a nod, beckoning us in and then darting off down the long hallway that served as the entrance to this home. About halfway up the hall, it skidded to a halt, made a show of slapping its forehead, sprinted back toward us, and closed the door behind me just as I had stepped inside. Then it… well, despite not having a mouth on the lump of its muzzle, nor even eyes to close in a friendly way, it cocked its head in a way that I could only interpret as an embarrassed smile, before flying back up the hall.

“Well.” I said. “That’s… one way to decorate.”

“They might not be as smart as your flying rock, but I think they’re cute.” Gale winked at me, and though I now know exactly what she meant, at the time I was nothing but confused. “Think you could make one?”

I looked at Gale with the absolute flattest expression I could manage, given my rather sorry bleeding, hungry state. “Are you asking if I should put Angel’s core into a body shaped like a mare and dress him in a maid’s uniform, or if I could make golems that are shaped and dress like that to keep around my home? Because I can do both, but I will do neither. The last thing I need is a reputation like that. And frankly, I don’t know what I’m expecting out of whoever made these, but he obviously doesn’t care about his own reputation one whit.”

“Her reputation, sir,” called a voice from the far end of the hall, where it spiraled up into a staircase, clicking with a refined accent that would put even Gale’s exaggeration of a noble voice to shame. “Princess Platinum, to what do I owe the pleasure of a visit?”

The mare wore a white doctor’s coat, stained all manner of colors from powders and burns and liquids alike, and hanging from her neck like a macabre necklace was a plague doctor’s beaked mask, though rather than grim black leather, hers was colored in the pattern and fashioned into the shape of a vibrant red parrot. Clearly, she was an alchemist, and likely the one responsible for the homunculus who had opened the door; a fellow practical scholar of the magical arts. Underneath her practical working garb, however, she wore a beautiful, shimmering, almost liquid dress of silver. It complemented her burnt orange coat and piercing blue eyes, and accentuated the subtle curve of her horn.

“Well, to start with, Spicy, this is Morty.” I noted that, although she said nothing, a small twitch showed itself in the slight bag under ‘Spicy’s’ eye at that address. “We were hoping you could help him heal his neck.”

Despite my active bleeding, now dripping onto her floor, Spicy took the time to first approach Gale. The greeting the alchemist offered was two quick kisses, one on each cheek just below Gale’s eyes. “You look beautiful, Princess.” Only then did she turn to me. “Hm…”

“Coil the Immortal,” I introduced myself, giving as proper of a bow of introduction as I could without hurting my neck further. “But you can call me Morty like Gale does; it’s nice to meet you, Spicy.”

“My name is Spice Menage, Lady of the House of Three and Grandmistress of the Alchemical Sciences; you may refer to me as Lady Menage or Mistress if you prefer deference to my achievements; only Her Highness may address me as ‘Spicy’.”

“Whoa, Spicy,” said Gale, drawing out a huff of frustration but not a word of protest. “Easy. He didn’t mean anything by it.”

Spicy scoffed. “Stallions are rarely so innocent in their intentions.” Then she glanced at my neck for a moment, before immediately turning her back and pacing straight down the hall toward the distant stairs. “Follow me; I have some Flash-in-the-Pan’s Clotting Agent that we can apply to the wound; it will produce more scar tissue than natural healing, but it will resolve the injury.” Then, somehow more scornfully than her already icy demeanor, she added “Keep your eyes to yourself, colt.”

“Colt? I—” I wish I could say that I caught myself from snapping at being addressed so bluntly, but it was Gale’s hoof tapping my shoulder, and her silent shake of her head that actually stopped me from picking yet another fight with yet another of her noble acquaintances. “Who does she think she is?” I hissed in a whisper, once Spicy had taken enough strides to get out of earshot in front of us.

“Spicy’s family run the alchemists’ guild, on top of being nobility. I think she’s used to dealing with ponies who aren’t as educated as she is.”

“And her hang up about stallions?”

I had thought I was being quiet as we walked up the sturdy spiral staircase, but ahead of us ‘Lady Menage’ called back to answer my question. “If you have questions about my family, ‘Morty’, you would do better to address them to me than to waste Princess Platinum’s time. You’ll find that rather than humoring you, I know when to simply stop answering questions because they exceed the questioner’s intellect.” Spicy opened a door directly off the staircase that led into a room brimming with strangely shaped glass receptacles whose contents bubbled and frothed in vibrant and occasionally shifting colors, each sitting in a glass-faced cubby either alone or with matching vials beside it. Brass plaques would have told one the potions’ names, if one were literate. “Do not touch anything. Lay on the floor, away from any of the cases. And take off that jacket; I’ll need clear access to your neck.”

“Believe it or not, Lady Menage, being trained as a wizard means I know a thing or two about alchemy.” I worked to slide my familiar jacket off with my hooves, struggling a bit with getting my forelegs out of the sleeves without my magic. Again, Gale had to help with a pinch of magic, as she had at the baths, though this time there was less humor and more sympathy in the act. Once I was undressed, I rested as the alchemist requested.

“A wizard?” Spice Menage rolled her eyes in dismissal of the title. “I am well aware Archmage Diadem’s school teaches alchemy only as an elective; perhaps Archmage Star Swirl could manage to make a homunculus, but I doubt even Archmage Grayscale could manage a rudimentary one.” The mare did not look at me as she spoke, instead, her hoof traced along the labels of what I assumed were her own hoof-made potions, looking for the medicine she had offered me. “Do not try to impress me with your time at that school.”

“I’ve only been to the building twice,” I replied, honestly. “And once was to kill my mentor to save Celestia’s life.”

Spice Menage raised a brow, glanced over her shoulder at me, and then turned to Gale. “Typical of a colt to brag about murder. Is that what this wound is from?”

“No…” Gale let her eyes slide down at me and then she sighed. “Well, originally yes. But it was healing fine until I forgot about it. I kind of punched him. In the face.”

The alchemist donned a smile at the mention of her violence before she returned her attention to the wall. “That would explain the bump; it will bruise, but it should leave no permanent mark. As for the bleeding... Ah, here. Flash-in-the-Pan’s Clotting Agent.” Spice’s horn lit up, pulling a potion bottle from the wall, just as brown and square-sided as the rest. “Unlike the pure arcana of a wizard, it is possible to create true regeneratives in alchemy. That being said, your wound isn’t nearly life threatening or serious enough to waste such valuable ingredients. This potion—” which was all the lead in she gave me before pouring a sizeable portion of the liquid onto my wound, giving me a sensation not unlike being swarmed by literal fire ants. “—should suffice to close the wound before any dizziness or other complications arise from blood loss. Now, unless you have other business for me, Princess, I would be grateful if the next time you visit, you leave this one behind.”

As I glanced over to Gale for further word, I saw her shuffling with the envelopes for her invitations, and took the liberty to speak up. “I don’t think we have any business with you, but is your brother home?”

Spice scowled at me, showing by far the most spite of any of the expressions she had offered me since we arrived. “I have no brothers, Morty. There is only myself, my mothers, and my two sisters: ‘Sugar’ and ‘Everything Nice’.”

“What?” In confusion, perhaps stemming at least a bit from blood loss, I turned to the more helpful mare present. “Gale, what are you—”

“She’s one of my suitors, Morty,” Gale said, finally producing the correct invitation and handing it directly to Spicy. The other unicorn proceeded to produce a sizeable knife from somewhere inside her alchemist’s jacket, and wield it with surprising grace as a letter opener, before removing the folded parchment inside.

“Hmm...” the other unicorn noted.

As she read, I massaged my stinging neck, which felt cold, but the hard dry texture suggested scar tissue was already forming. It was wider than I would have liked a scar, and the hairless spot would probably damage my otherwise ideal appearance, but it was far preferable to bleeding to death. I climbed up to my hooves and began putting my jacket back on as I voiced the sole question on my mind to Gale. “Isn’t having her as a suitor kind of defeating the purpose of requiring you to get married at all?”

Gale cocked her head. “…no? Morty, what do you mean? She’s just as much a noble as High Castle.”

“Yes, but…” I nodded toward Spicy, taking a moment to bob my horn in an outline of her obviously feminine form. “How do I put this? You can’t take much meal if you have two mortars and no pestle…?”

Gale’s mouth hung open for a moment in confusion before she rolled her eyes. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“He is alluding to the fact that neither of us has a penis,” Spicy explained bluntly, not even looking up from her invitation as she continued to read. (Apparently, Queen Platinum had seen fit to write quite the narrative on the letter.). “He then falsely infers, as is so typical of a mage, that because the magic from his horn cannot remedy that problem to create fertile, functional genitalia, that it must be impossible for two mares to continue the royal line.” Only then did she look up from her reading to address me directly. “You had asked earlier what my ‘deal’ with stallions is, so let me clarify: your sex is redundant, a biological flaw that hampers society. Your loins consume too much of the blood that we can better devote to our brains. Your testosterone—since you likely do not know, that is the name of a chemical in the blood which generates brutish, physical, male bodily development—leads invariably towards violence and juvenile competition. If you need proof of our superiority, not only can I grow myself functioning male genitalia superior to yours in every conceivable metric, but I can be rid of it when it is no longer of use to me. If it were possible to produce enough of our family’s masterwork to be rid of the male sex entirely, I would gladly make it my life’s work, but alas the ingredients are rare. So I must settle for satisfaction in the fact that, stretching back to the days of the Wise Five Kings, my foremothers have not known a stallion, and we are the better for it.”

I don’t know if there was any merit to her claims about limited blood flow to the brain, given I didn’t feel particularly aroused, but I certainly felt like I needed more blood flow regardless given the flabbergasted empty feeling the sudden rant had left me enduring.

Unfortunately, the same blood flow was not lacking in my tongue, which grabbed hold of the very first thought my mind produced. “If you have two mothers and both of them only have female parents, but your family are the only ones who know how to make this potion, doesn’t that make you massively inbred?”

“Morty!” Gale snapped. “What the fuck?!”

Spice shrugged. “It doesn’t bother me, Your Majesty; if anything it might be his most reasonable question since I’ve met him. Since my family does not have paternal and maternal distinctions for grandparents, we refer to the line of mothers who already belonged to the House of Three at birth as our ‘foremothers’. We generally still have one grandfather, on the side of the mother who married into the family—in our case, that would be Prince-Consort Hurricane, for… I assume the foal would be Queen Platinum the Fourth?”

I could hear the gears in my brain churning for want of lubrication, and what my tongue spat out was “Prince-Consort Hurricane? That’s the title you’re going to go with?”

“It is a superior title to Commander emeritus, at least among true-blooded unicorns. What you think is most appropriate to call him does not concern me, wizard.” Spice Ménage made a show of folding up her birthday invitation and tucking it into her breast pocket as she addressed Gale again. “I’m grateful to be considered for your hoof, Your Highness, and I can’t say how glad I am to accept your invitation. I know it might be a bit blunt of me to ask you to your face what you would like as a gift, but given I already have you here in the repository, I can’t pass up the chance to let you browse with me, and find a gift you’ll truly appreciate.” Then she spared only a moment to glance over her shoulder at me. “Something a mere wizard could never match. Perhaps now that his wounds are tended to, we of nobility and the better sex can be left alone.”

Gale, to her credit, tried her best to stand up for me. “Spicy, Morty’s fine—”

“No,” I barged in, being very deliberate about my breathing and speaking slowly to make sure I didn’t say anything I didn’t truly intend. Wintershimmer would have been proud. “You two need to talk about birthday gifts, I assume? I wouldn’t want to intrude in something I know nothing about. I’ll just go find lunch. Or something.”

I was left hoping that Gale understood the implications of my painful overemphasis as I stepped out of the alchemical repository as gently as I could. Behind me, I heard Gale growl in frustration toward Spice “How about a sword? Can you do that? So the next time one of ‘us nobles’ decides to be that much of an asshole, I can fucking impale them.”

While I appreciated her support, I still knew that I needed my own answer to what gift to get Gale. Though my legs had only grown shakier from hunger and injury, I all-but-sprinted down the spiral stairs, past Spice’s uniformed dirt-mares (whose physical appearance now carried even stranger questions in my mind), and out onto the streets of Everfree City in search of an even greater wizard.

After all, even Gale could hardly turn down something enchanted by Star Swirl the Bearded.

1-6

I - VI

The Archmage

I realized about thirty seconds down the road from Spicy’s home that I had only the vaguest of ideas where in Tartarus I was in the streets of the Equestrian capital. Of the weeks I had spent in Everfree City since my arrival, I think I had only been alive, conscious, and healthy enough to walk around for a grand total of three days. In that time, I had visited the ‘haunted’ house of my predecessor (Solemn Vow, Equestrian Baron, failed usurper, and unsurprisingly remorseful ghost, who had boldly offered me tutelage in exchange for rescuing his soul from Tartarus), the Equestrian Palace, Archmage Diadem’s Royal Academy of Magic, and Commander Hurricane’s personal home on the edge of one of the city’s two major rivers, the Coltlumbia. Star Swirl could have been in any of those locations, or none of them; I needed somepony more familiar with Everfree to point me in the right direction.

My first instinct for finding a friendly face and good advice was to seek out Celestia, before I remembered that, as Meadowbrook had told me that morning, she was hundreds of miles away in the Crystal Union. Failing Celestia, I considered that my next best choice was probably Commander Hurricane, a thought I dreaded because frankly, the stallion still terrified me. Growing up amongst the victims of his military success, in a crystal culture that most often referred to the old stallion as ‘The Butcher’, would do that. Even if I had no reservations about the stallion himself, though I didn’t actually know the way to his home, since Everfree City was built on a cross-shaped fork of two rivers. And with the city as large as it was (even in those earliest days), walking all the way along even one bank would take hours I couldn’t afford to waste.

That left fewer options than I cared to admit. To run over a few of the names that came to mind: Luna, Queen Platinum, and Commander Typhoon—who were all most likely in the palace—all thought of me with something between a mild passive-aggressive dislike and outright loathing. My other friends from my journey: Graargh the changeling ‘bear’, my golem Guardian Angel, Hurricane’s granddaughter Blizzard, and Gale’s lazy soldier ‘nephew’ Tempest; were all basically useless for advice even if I had the remotest clue where to find any of them in the city.

At Diadem’s Academy I could probably find the titular mare, though asking her for any kind of advice would likely just end with her digging through her library instead of actually thinking for two seconds. But then, as Star Swirl’s grand-apprentice (Diadem was Clover the Clever’s student), she had just as good a chance of knowing where to find the stallion as the next pony. And since her academy was obviously visible on the skyline, it was perhaps the ideal destination.

Perhaps I could even find food there.

The walk was, thankfully and mercifully, short. It might have been called luck, but there was a practical reason I quickly realized on my trip. To summarize from a philosophical bird’s eye view, part of the southwestern side of Everfree City was home to an unofficial district filled with elaborate iron streetlamps and narrow streets paved with rounded blue-gray bricks. Called Lighten Heights by its native unicorns, and Horntown (pronounced ‘horn-ton’) by the other two races, the area was a home for numerous alchemists, hedge mages, and working-class enchanters who lit the magical streetlights which colored the streets with arcane lamp light and the glow of luminescent liquids. I’m not sure whether their presence was due to the Royal Academy, or whether Diadem built the academy to be conveniently close to the families of magically inclined unicorns. Either way, professional bleed-over between working mages and alchemists is common all across Equestria (and even in other magical races; the elk don’t even have words to distinguish the two disciplines), and so Horntown was also home to the Equestrian Alchemists’ Guild’s guildhouse. Since the House of Three basically was the Alchemist’s guild, that their home would be nearby is likewise not much of a surprise.

I knew none of the names in question as I made my way to the Royal Academy, but the tall, skinny painted wood storefronts of unicorn architecture were the beginnings of a hint to that idea. Once I got close enough to a few of the buildings to see bubbling, colorful potions and gleaming gemstones set into otherwise everyday objects, though I couldn’t read any of the storefronts’ signs, the conclusion was obvious. Even my rather formal mage’s robe blended in on the streets of Lighten Heights, where few ponies went naked and most wore some form of robe or jacket. I received a few friendly waves I would never have dreamt of receiving in more noble districts like the Ridge where High Castle lived, and I found myself smiling a bit as my mind wandered, imagining how any of the items in the storefront windows might be improved by a real, formally trained wizard into something worthy of royalty.

That joy vanished when Lighten Heights’ storefronts ended at the edge of a wide grassy square. The city block-sized green might have made for a beautiful park, had somepony not decided to ruin it with a show of egregiously traditionalist, hideous architecture. The Royal Academy of Magic was both the iconic symbol and the platonic ideal of the phrase ‘ivory tower’; it was almost as if its architect had wanted to gift anypony criticizing its philosophy of academic, impractical magic with twenty thousand tons of whitewashed visual metaphor. In addition to my detest toward what the structure stood for philosophically, on shaky legs I got the additional benefit of being in considerable physical pain as I finally climbed the stairs that spiraled around the exterior of the building to the entrance halfway up its side, panting as I pressed my way in more with my body weight than the strength of my foreleg.

I didn’t actually know my way around terribly well inside the academy; I’d only been in the entrance hallway there, in one single library, and up the stairs to a large auditorium at the top. Not only that, but on my first entrance I had been teleported inside by Lady Luna, and on my second visit, a pegasus carriage deposited me at an external door near the top. Now there were hallways and doors and clear Equiish labels identifying the rooms of the structure, but no pictures for an illiterate like myself. Thankfully, a few scattered ponies in the halls and the murmuring of a dozen lecturing voices, accompanied by the scratching of hundreds of quills, told me that the building was still well populated with ponies I could ask for directions.

Amusingly, I didn’t need to. “Hey!” The voice that called to me belonged to a filly of twelve or thirteen, who grinned and rushed over. “Hey, mister; I don’t think I’ve seen you before. Are you new to the academy?”

I took a moment to look down to my hooves and back up my chest as far as my neck would allow, saturating the motion with incredulity, before I replied “Do I look like I’m new here?”

Some ponies, however, weaponize social ignorance. “Oh, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. Sure, most first years are ten or eleven, but any unicorn with an open mind is welcome at the Royal College! That’s what headmare Diadem says, anyway. You’re a little late for your class, but that’s ok. I’ll help.”

I raised a brow at the audaciously helpful little filly. “Doesn’t that make you a little late too?”

The filly chuckled with all the innocence and situational awareness of a mossy rock. “Nope, it makes me very early. I’m a second year, and second year classes start in the big auditorium after the first years are done. I can sit with you, though, and catch you up on what you missed. We’ll just have to be quiet and sit in the back. That’s where most of the good seats are anyway. I’m Exuberance, by the way, mister!”

“Morty,” I replied, shaking her hoof and trying to figure out how to fit in edgewise that I wasn’t interested in sitting through an introductory lecture to magic for a mass audience. Alas, the only thing my brain could provide to question was the strangest of details from her final string of thoughts. “The good seats are in the back? Wouldn’t you want to sit in the front?”

“We have to whisper now, since we’re close to the lecture hall” Exuberance replied in a forced stage-whisper as she led me towards a stairway with which I was already familiar—it led to the large auditorium at the top of the tower where I had, not too many days prior, passed away. “Some bad wizard named Wintershimmer, who I think used to be friends with Master Star Swirl, when they were both students—can you imagine that? Master Star Swirl, our age? (as though Exuberance and I were remotely similar in age)—anyway, this Wintershimmer pony tried to kill Lady Celestia. Can you believe that? But Headmare Diadem and Master Star Swirl teamed up with one of the students from Wintershimmer’s school, named Mortal Coil, and they all beat him together. They broke a lot of the benches in the room, though.”

“Actually, I’m—”

“Shh,” Exuberance interrupted me, holding a hoof in front of her lips as a surge of magic from her horn pushed open the doors to the auditorium.

Of course, I had no idea what I would be walking in on in any given room, but my guess was that as the biggest lecture hall in the academy, if I made my way up to the huge circular room where I had only a few weeks prior died fighting my late mentor, I would find one of the Archmagi who called the structure home. That meant more walking for my tired legs, but it wasn’t much farther before I reached the doors to the room in question. Sure enough, a lecture was ongoing in the room, audible through the doors. I eased them open as gingerly as I could manage, hoping not to gather much attention.

The first thing that caught my eye was how incomplete repairs to the room were. Wintershimmer, Silhouette, Solemn Vow, Luna, Graargh, and I had done a number on the room; that much was true. Whole rows of pews and benches and desks had been cut in half, and huge gouges had been taken out of the wooden steps that created a raised stadium or amphitheatre-style seating area. Several of the benches had apparently been bolted together roughly with scrap materials as a short term fix, given how awkwardly their broken edges were joined. Even more awkwardly, the hole I had smashed in the ceiling during our battle was still all-but gaping overhead; the only thing keeping the room from the direct sunlight of the Equestrian summer was a large tarp that had, at its corners, been nailed into the beams of the still intact roof surrounding the hole.

Missing (thankfully) from my last visit to the room was the open hole in reality where the Summer Lands, the afterlife for good little fillies and colts, had been torn open atop the dais in the center of the room. In its place were a lecturer’s podium overflowing with scrolls full of notes, and behind it, three huge green chalkboards. Beside this podium, but ahead of the chalkboards, a stout wooden table supported a number of trivial magical supplies and one large smooth and rather familiar stone. I did note with some amusement that, off to the side of the platform, a huge blob of half-blackened candle wax was still stuck to the floor where Luna’s candlecorn simulacrum and Wintershimmer’s spare body had violently merged together. I did not envy the janitor who would have to scrape that up; it might have had just enough magic left to develop sentience and fight back.

I might have kept surveying the room had the lecturer not shouted at me from over his own shoulder, keeping his eyes locked on the chalkboards where he was inscriping some sort of sigil theory or other—unlike Equiish, something I absolutely could read, were I closer to the boards in question. “If you are going to be so tardy, student, why bother showing up at all? Please be seated and shut the door, at least, so that I can focus on students who want to learn.”

“I’m sorry, Master Grayscale; I think he just got lost,” Exuberance called back over the heads of about three hundred unicorns more or less her age. “We’ll just sit in the back here, and—”

“Wait… Master Coil?” The voice that shouted across the room was tinny, artificial, and geological—fitting, since it issued from the stone resting on the table at the front of the class. About half the class seemed stunned at a voice coming from a rock; the other half turned over their shoulders to get a good look at me.

The lecturer’s chalk very firmly landed in the wooden drawer beneath the chalkboard, and he took a moment to adjust the eyeglasses resting on his dull gray muzzle before he turned to look at me. “Oh. You.” Then he removed his glasses entirely and massaged the bridge of his muzzle. “Well, now that you’ve thoroughly ruined the students’ attention, we may as well make a learning opportunity of this. Exuberance, please go fetch the Headmare. For the rest of you students, may I introduce Mortal Coil.”

Exuberance had been halfway turned around to go get Diadem when she stopped and looked up at me in awe. “Wait, you’re—why didn’t you say anything?”

I shot her a silent grin and a wink, which I suspect might have damaged the filly’s mind, given how much she was giggling as she fled. As the auditorium doors swung behind me, I lifted a forehoof, slowly swept it across my torso, and issued a bow to the class. “Coil the Immortal, the Pale Master, at your service.” Then I nodded to the other adult in the room. “I’m afraid I haven’t made your acquaintance, sir. And do you know where I can find Star Swirl?”

“Archmage Grayscale,” the lecturer replied tersely. “Archmage Star Swirl isn’t actually faculty here, Coil, but as a matter of fact he is present teaching a seminar on advanced transmutation. I’ll be glad to direct you to him once the lecture is over, but I would advise against so rudely interrupting his teaching; I have never been known to transmute a tardy student for the duration of a lecture.”

“…Stars, I just opened the door.” I then set my way toward the front of the class, where my pet rock was still laying on the table. “Angel, it’s great to see you, but what are you doing here? Where are your rings?”

Guardian Angel, for those who haven’t read my prior work, was at the time my greatest creation: a Ouijan ‘learning golem’. To summarize, that means that unlike most golems which blindly follow orders literally, Angel had what was for all intents and purposes a real soul. Though I wouldn’t have admitted it at eighteen, one wouldn’t have been remiss to call him my ‘son’. And though he was quite literally a large rock, he most often hovered in the air, surrounded by a pair of enchanted golden rings—we sometimes called them ‘halos’ in keeping with his name—which allowed him to more-or-less fly, as well as to store up excess magical energy I could use in the event of an emergency.

“Just off to the side of the table, sir. Archmage Grayscale was giving the students a lecture on the magical applications of gemstones, and my rings are a bit of an interesting practical example, between the static hovering enchantments and the mana storing functions. So I took the liberty of volunteering my services. It’s… a bit more entertaining than hovering over Archmage Diadem’s shoulder in her office while waiting for you to wake up. For the record, sir, I’m glad to see you up and about as well. But I’m afraid you may want to address some questions from the masses before we catch up further.”

Angel’s note alluded to the number of hooves raised in the classroom, attached to ponies whose eyes were locked on me as I approached the front of the room. With a chuckle at their curiosity, I gestured to one pony at random.

“So you’re really the pony who broke the whole room and fought Winter Shimmer?” The colt didn’t seem so incredulous as just curious, given how wide his eyes seemed.

“Wintershimmer was one word,” I corrected. “But yes. In my defense, he was the one throwing most of the spells that actually cut the benches in half. Though I think the hole in the roof is my fault…” I awkwardly let a hoof scratch at the back of my neck to admit some sense of embarrassment, though the unusual chill of the hard flesh I found there made my hoof leave quickly. “Uh, you there, filly.”

“You said you were ‘the pale master’. What’s a ‘pale master’?”

“Well, have you ever heard Star Swirl be called the ‘emerald master’ before?” The filly shook her head. “Anypony?”

Archmage Grayscale sighed nearby at the question and spoke to me at a volume the audience had no chance of hearing. “Magical history is an elective for higher year students, Coil. Students this age don’t need to be worried about egos and titles before they know their cantrips. We start them on basic theory first, and then—”

“You there,” I interrupted quite loudly (and with a bit of joy I couldn’t quite hide) when one pony near the rear of the class raised a hoof. “Do you know what it means to say Star Swirl is the ‘emerald master’?”

“Well,” said the filly hesitantly. “Um, I read that Master Star Swirl was the emerald master ‘cause he’s the best transmuter in the world.”

I nodded. “Correct. Excellent. It seems you know more than your teacher gives you credit for.” Even if I hadn’t drawn glee from the irate glare Grayscale shot me, the beaming of the proud student would have been worth it. “Yes, transmutation is called the ‘emerald school’ of magic. Thus, being the best transmuter alive makes Star Swirl the ‘emerald master’.”

“Ooh, I know that!” another student shouted without being called on. “Then… wait, what’s the pale school?”

“Necromancy,” I replied, not thinking it a very controversial revelation. Whispers spread immediately through the class, correcting my mistaken assumption almost instantly. “With the arguable exception of Luna, who doesn’t count for any of the other schools anyway, I’m the best necromancer in the world. You’ve all practiced necromancy, right?”

Before any of the foals could answer, I got an earful from the adult standing beside me on the stage. “Are you insane!?” Grayscale snapped, this time fully loud enough to be heard by the class. “They’re first year students, Coil. You’re going to risk letting them disperse some poor soul learning to séance when they don’t even know how to draw a stabilizing glyph yet?”

I could feel my brow twitching as I turned to Grayscale. “Well, not unsupervised. But if you have that little faith in them, are you really expecting any of them to ever amount to anything as wizards? I made him—” I gestured toward Angel, still lying on the table, “—when I was younger than any of them. Wintershimmer taught me to séance when I was four, and by the time I was six, I could séance Archmage Comet without him.”

One particularly enthusiastic student in the front row of the lecture hall waved her hoof back and forth at that point, and after taking a short breath to keep from releasing my irritation at the school’s teaching methods on some poor foal who had no idea that there were other options in the world, I nodded in her direction.

“How old are first year students at Wintershimmer’s school, if you were only four when you started?”

“Ah. Wintershimmer didn’t have a school; in fact, wizards traditionally don’t learn in schools. I was Wintershimmer’s apprentice; if you don’t know that word, it means I learned from him one-on-one. I was his only student… at least, at the time. And I actually started learning from him when I was three. He gathered up all the unicorn foals in the Crystal Union and gave us a test to see who would get to be his apprentice.”

“That isn’t to say you should idolize Master Coil’s education,” Angel cut in with his piercing artificial voice. “Wintershimmer was not, perhaps, the best role model one could ask for.”

The questions went on like that for some time, pinging off the curiosity of the foals, until one of the foals asked “Why do you get to fight with your magic? We’re not supposed to hurt anypony with our magic.” Before I could answer, a commanding but gentle voice from the top of the auditorium stairs stole my momentum.

“Morty was defending himself,” Archmage Diadem answered in a commanding but gentle voice, perfectly suited for addressing a preteen foal. “And furthermore, he was in a very particular situation. One which I doubt will ever occur again. I don’t think any of you will have to worry about a rogue wizard like that in your lifetimes.”

For those who don’t have the misfortune of having known Celestia’s least interesting choice in apprentice, Diadem the Mentor (you may be familiar with her epithet being ‘the Enkindler’, but it was bestowed posthumously) was a mare in her late twenties or early thirties. She wore her teal mane in a shelf of bangs cut straight across her forehead, while behind her head she wore them tied up in a firm bun. The color blended well with a muted aquamarine coat, or at least as much as could be seen under her clothes. Oval glasses were perpetually perched on the very tip of her muzzle, seemingly on the verge of falling off at any moment, but obviously affixed by magic, given how quickly she could move her head or neck without losing them. In addition to her glasses, she accessorized with her namesake, a silver tiara with delusions of grandeur, set with six large aquamarines, resting just behind the bump of mane that formed her bangs. Over her whole body she wore wizards robes, whose baggy sleeves would surely have interfered with her if she needed to run, or even jog, anywhere at all. At least for her sake, unlike Star Swirl, the fabric was a relatively plain emerald green and devoid of bells or accoutrements.

I have the utmost admiration for Star Swirl, but I will never understand the stallion’s choice to drive himself frothingly mad by accompanying his every step with that constant jingling.

Diadem gave a quick glance down to Exuberance, who was practically clinging to the elder mare’s robe hem, and gestured for her to take a seat on most of a bench. Then the senior wizard nodded to me. “Morty, it’s good to see you up and about, and under better circumstances. I think this is the first time we’ve gotten to talk where your life was not literally on the line?”

“That sounds right,” I agreed. “I’m glad actually dying settled that.” At least six hooves shot up, and I sighed. “Right… I’m sorry I said anything. Until you know more about necromancy, students, I don’t think you’d understand that lesson. And I suspect Luna would kill me herself if I taught a bunch of foals to cast Wintershimmer’s Razor.”

As that ominous name sent a fresh wave of whispers through the class, Grayscale raised a brow and took a step away from me. “You know his spell?”

“How do you think I beat Clover?”

Grayscale looked like I had rammed a tin whistle down his throat—that is, in addition to looking shocked and short-of-breath, he was also extremely confused, and further making a slight squeaking noise when he tried and failed to breathe. “You fought Archmage Clover?”

“Clover is fine,” Diadem clarified to her student, offering him a warm comforting smile. “I’m certain knowing how to stop ‘the Razor’ was also very valuable to actually facing down Wintershimmer.”

“If I didn’t, it would have been a very short duel. And it would have ended very differently. For one thing, you’d have all of your benches in working order.” Then I offered Diadem a bitterly sarcastic wink. “But I can’t promise the sun would have come up this morning.”

Grayscale finally found his full voice after that. “I will grant that it was a dirty job that needed to be done, Coil. But if you’re expecting me to lift you up as the pinnacle of magical practice in front of young impressionable minds over an act of violence, instead of using your magic constructively, you are sorely mistaken.”

Leaping to my aid, Angel called out from his place prone on the display table. “Master Coil can be quite constructive when his life isn’t on the line, for the record.”

I, however, had a different perspective to the golem. “Acts of violence are the point of having wizards, Grayscale.” That claim, which I had thought was not especially controversial, elicited a wave of gasps from the students listening. “Certainly having to kill a power-mad archmage is an unusual task even for me, but the world will always have monsters and spirits.”

Grayscale scoffed. “And now ‘the world’ has a legion of soldiers and two living goddesses to address those problems, and unicorn magical education can be put toward positive ends. We need not be the barbarians of history anymore, Coil.”

“I see you two are getting on well,” Diadem observed wryly as her hooves—impeded as they were by the oversized robe of a wizard without a sense of taste—clicked on the steps up to the podium. “I think you both have very valid points to be made about the applications of magic, but I’m afraid they’re a little bit too philosophical for our class of first year students.” Then she coughed heavily into her hoof. “And I certainly can’t imagine the lesson it would convey if two esteemed senior mages stood arguing like foals and setting a bad example in front of so many impressionable young minds.”

Grayscale bit his cheek and briefly found his eyes locked firmly on the boards underhoof. “My apologies, Coil.”

“It’s fine,” I replied with a shrug.

Diadem nodded sagely, though I caught a bit of a judgemental edge out of the corner of her eye—likely the most condemnation she could show without it being noticed by the students—but before continuing to speak to us she turned to the class. “Alright, everypony; it might have been a surprise, but let’s give Mr. Coil a hoof for sharing his time with us and answering our questions.”

What I got in reply to that address was a fairly tame round of applause that I had no earthly idea whatsoever how to react to. As the noise of young hooves died down, Diadem’s voice picked up again. “I’ll arrange a time for him to give a lecture and teach us all some very different magic in the future, but for now that’s all the time we have. Remember to practice your cantrips; Archmage Grayscale’s test schedule will not be moving. And remember, in magic, like in life…” The final five words were delivered in a rhythmic, sing-song tone that would have obviously prompted some sort of reply even if the teacher had called it out in an empty cave.

In the presence of so many foals, however, she got back a cacophonous failed attempt at harmony. “Differences make us better.”

I quirked a brow in Diadem’s direction as the students shuffled out of the room. “Is that supposed to be some sort of political creed?”

“Oh, it’s just something cute Clover told me once, years ago. A while ago, I noticed some of the older students acting a bit… superior… to a couple of the pegasi I was paying to help paint the walls of the tower. I’m hoping if I end lessons with that, we’ll nip that problem in the bud with the younger students.” She gave me a gentle smile. “Not that you aren’t welcome anytime you want to come listen in on a lesson, Morty, but I suspect that isn’t what brought you here. Certainly not with the first year students, at any rate. Is there something we can help you with?”

“Something with Master Star Swirl,” Grayscale observed.

“Of course you aren’t here to collect me,” Angel muttered in complaint. “Well, let’s hear it, Master Coil.”

I had to double take at Angel when his biting sarcasm hit my ears. Angel was a learning golem, a recreation of the thesis research of the ancient necromancer Ouija, and up until the latter half of my most recent ‘adventure’ (a word which here means ‘procession of elaborate attempts on my life’), he hadn’t learned enough about the concept of emotions to understand sarcasm if I sent it his direction.

That made Angel probably the foremost work of enchantment in Everfree City at the time, and thus explained his presence in the classroom. Still, I was used to thinking of the golem as little more than a floating yes-mare.

In case I have not made this abundantly obvious in my writing, I hold a much higher opinion of Star Swirl the Bearded (his lacking fashion sense and hygiene notwithstanding) than I do of Diadem; nevertheless, cornered as I was by the two teachers, I didn’t feel strongly enough to keep my opinions close to my chest. “Gale’s birthday is coming up, and I’m told it’s customary to give a gift.”

“You’re ‘told’ it’s ‘customary to give a gift?’” Grayscale asked, brow raised to the point of joining it with his maneline.

Diadem frowned for a moment in thought, and then donned a sympathetic smile. “I take it Wintershimmer didn’t believe in celebrating birthdays?”

“Not especially, no. At his age, I can imagine he might have been happier not thinking about them.”

“Ah, I see.” Grayscale nodded slowly, turning his horn to cleaning up his teaching tools as we spoke. “I hadn’t considered how odd your upbringing must have been in the Crystal Union.” Then the wizard frowned. “How do you know Her Highness? And why do you call her by her pegasus name?”

“Well, that’s what she told me to call her,” I answered as flatly as I could. “Judging by how angry she got at me when I found out who she really was, I’m honestly surprised you’re brave enough not to.”

Diadem suppressed a knowing chuckle. “Morty met Her Highness when she last ran away a few months ago. I believe she may have even had a hoof in defeating Wintershimmer.”

“More or less the decisive hoof, if I’m being completely honest.” I nodded. “I should thank you for teaching her to teleport, by the way, Diadem. But regarding getting her a gift: Mage Meadowbrook may have cleared me to stand, but my horn isn’t healed yet. And without my magic, I don’t have a fantastic plan for how to make her a gift… or even what a suitable gift would be. I thought since Archmage Star Swirl’s enchantment work on my jacket was so effective—”

“You got Master Star Swirl to enchant that thing?” Grayscale asked over his shoulder.

I sucked down a deep breath as I felt a vein in my brow twitch. “My jacket tells you that I am the Grandmaster of the Order of Unhesitating Force, and unlike more academic robes, I can actually run in it without tripping. But please, do go on about the superiority of your pajamas.”

Grayscale made a bit of a show of turning fully away from the chalkboards to face me—either that, or the difficulty of turning casually proved my point about our apparel before he had even answered. “Well, for starters, my robes don’t make me look like I belong to a cult that sacrifices foals in the woods at midnight.”

“That’s what I fucking said!”

As a trio, all three of us mages on the stage turned to look at the doors into the auditorium. There, Princess Platinum III in all her glory was struggling to make headway against a tide of foals who had been making their way out into the hall. I use the past tense here because, in addition to painting both Diadem and Grayscale’s faces a variety of interesting colors, Gale’s colorful shout had also managed to halt the progress of the foals around her.

“Miss, what does f—”

“Your Highness!” Diadem nearly shouted, her eyebrow twitching behind her glasses. “How nice of you to join us. And make your presence known. In a roomful of first-year students.” Though those three sentences were spoken at a much calmer volume than Diadem’s first greeting, their staccato delivery and occasional jump in pitch suggested that some part of the school’s headmistress’ sanity was fraying.

Then again, I have never met a truly sane school administrator, and I suspect I never shall. Some occupations inevitably attract the unhinged.

“Hi, Diadem.” Gale tried to take a step forward, frowned when she realized that the step would have put her hoof down on Exuberance’s face. She rolled her eyes, lit her horn, and appeared on the increasingly crowded podium with the rest of us adults with a mild pop and the scent of ozone. “Morty, how the hell did you know this was where I was headed next?”

“A wizard never reveals his secrets,” I replied with a small smile, since the real answer was ‘dumb luck’.

“Please tell me you didn’t spy into the future as a parlour trick,” Grayscale begged with an expression that seemed to stretch out his muzzle into a presumption of disappointment.

“Nothing so dangerous.” Then I slowly turned to Gale as, my response done, my mind caught up with what she had initially said. “Wait… him?” I asked, pointing at Grayscale.

Gale responded not with words, but by handing the irascible academic an envelope in the glow of her magic.

Grayscale chuckled as he beheld the envelope, not even bothering to open it in front of us. “Oh, didn’t you know, Coil? Yes, I’m one of her Highness’ suitors.”

I glanced at Gale with a raised brow. “If he’s allowed just for being a wizard, why was Chrysoprase so obsessed with bloodline?”

Gale sighed, but she answered by addressing Grayscale. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Grayscale, but Star Swirl is your great uncle?”

“Two ‘greats’, actually. He’s almost a hundred years old, your highness. To answer what I assume Coil’s question is building to, Archmage Star Swirl is the head of one of the great noble lineages, the House of Zodiac. Archmage Clover, my second-cousin-once-removed, is next in line as the actual head of the house, but as a senior mage closest to Your Highness’ age and of the appropriate sex, I was put forward.”

“Are all the wizards in Equestria related? Do you have some sort of—”. I took a moment of self-awareness to glance over my shoulder and check for any foals remaining before continuing “—recurring wizard orgy going on?”

Diadem blanched. “Morty!”

“Oh, of course,” Grayscale deadpanned with a glare. “We take turns lecturing out of the Libris Amoris, and take copious notes on staff enchantment. It’s exhilarating.” Gale had to muffle a chuckle at the bitter sarcasm, which prompted the insufferable stallion to shoot her a wink. Then he turned his attention to me. “Nopony is going to think the implication of incest you were building towards is funny, Coil. It’s disgusting. Our family has a lot of wizards because given the choice between taking a relative or a stranger as an apprentice, most ponies choose the former; it’s an artifact of selection bias, nothing more. And even that will fade away quickly now that our education of new mages isn’t shackled by the apprenticeship system. If you have any more sophomoric barbs, you would be better off sharing them with the students. Perhaps you could even learn something about the value of peacefully applied magic from them.”

“Kindness, Grayscale,” Diadem chided gently. “We need to remember, Morty comes from a very different upbringing than we’re used to.”

Grayscale resisted the urge to roll his eyes, though by the way they dodged from matching Diadem’s gaze, it was obvious that’s what he wanted to do. “Of course, Master. Your Highness, I’d be glad to attend your party.” And then he asked the seemingly inevitable but dreaded question. “Is there anything in particular a wizard could gift you?” He chuckled. “If you truly enjoyed learning to teleport from Master Diadem, I would be glad to offer you a lesson or three.”

“Sure,” Gale answered. “You know any spells that will let me spar with this asshole?” She gestured her horn in my direction.

Grayscale swallowed nervously and adjusted his collar with his magic. “Your Highness… Um... like Archmage Star Swirl, I am a pacifist. I know a few dueling spells for academic purposes and theory, but I would certainly never use anything more than a stunning charm on another living being. And I can hardly best the pre-eminent duelist of our generation.”

“I can teach you anything you want,” I offered her, seeing my chance to figure out a gift of my own.

“One,” Gale countered, “No you can’t. You’re a shitty teacher, Morty. Remember the wine glasses thing?”

“How is it my fault I had never seen a ‘normal’ wine glass before?”

“And two, if I wanted to actually spar with you and win, it would feel awfully shitty to have to remember you taught me all the tricks I learned, right?” Gale rolled her eyes before turning toward Grayscale. “But I do have to ask: when I’m Queen, I want to go hunt down the last windigo, so we can finally free River Rock from eternal winter. What good is a pacifist wizard for that?”

“Well, to that purpose, I’ll admit: very little. But in the administration of a government, where secretarial quills could be enchanted to do work without error and crime could be anticipated and prevented, instead of merely punished, I would imagine you would find…”

Grayscale’s words trailed off as Gale yawned; to this day, I don’t know if the motion was a forced show or a genuine tiredness on her part. “Do you do anything interesting, Grayscale?”

“I…” Nervously, Grayscale looked to his mentor, Diadem, for support; her shrug was obviously not what he was looking for. “To be completely honest, Your Highness, I’ve always been more concerned for whether or not my research is practical, not whether or not it is interesting. Interesting does not light our streets, it does not put food in ponies mouths, and it does not save lives. Practical magic does all of those things.”

Gale sighed. “And how is fixing River Rock not practical? Because from where I’m standing, this asshole I found at random in a tavern in the middle of nowhere—” In case it isn’t obvious, the future queen was referring to me. “—can do all the shit you can do, making quills talk and seeing the future or whatever, and he can also go kill a monster or an evil wizard if there’s a problem.” Then she grinned, the evil grin of a deliberately difficult (if not outright impossible) birthday wish. “In fact, that’s what I want for my birthday. I want a court mage like Morty. Figure out a gift that shows me you can come through if things go sideways for Equestria.”

“I…” Grayscale swallowed as he tried to find resolve somewhere in his throat. “Your Highness, I accept your challenge, so long as I have your word that if my solution does not involve grandiose flashes of light and the shedding of blood, you’ll still accept it for its practical value.”

“I look forward to seeing it,” Gale answered, a smirk still on her face.

Diadem glanced nervously at her student. “Grayscale, perhaps we should talk over lunch. Until then… Morty, Gale, if you’ll both forgive me, I do have a lecture to teach in a few moments.” Diadem lit her horn and vanished with a whiff of ozone and a crackling pop. Only a moment later, however, she reappeared. “Oh, right; Morty, if you’ll humor me in the future, I’d be more than happy to have you give a guest lecture or two on necromancy—especially golem-making. Angel is frankly fascinating, and since Wintershimmer had the only copies of Ouija’s work, I think you’re the only pony who currently has any idea how to create such an animus. I’d hate for the knowledge to be lost. If you’re ever interested, I’d be likewise happy if you wanted to sit in on some of the seventh-year classes; I have no idea how proficient you are in transmutation or illusion, but Star Swirl and Mistmane do occasionally offer some fascinating seminars on their respective subjects.”

“I…” My gut reaction to snap to a refusal, in deference to my skepticism of learning any kind of magic in a classroom, foundered when my mind caught up to what was being proposed. Mistmane the Beautiful was no mere footnote in the annals of illusion, and as I had mentioned to the students at the beginning of my discussion, it would be patently idiotic of me to turn down a lesson in transmutation magic from Star Swirl the Bearded, considered the greatest master of that school in all of equine history, living or dead. “I’ll have to find some time.”

“Excellent.” Diadem genuinely smiled; at the time I cynically thought of it as a reflection of her desire to enhance her school’s reputation by calling me a student, though I now can say in better faith of her character that she was just that passionate about education.

“Well,” Gale sighed. “See you tomorrow, Grayscale.”

“Farewell, Princess. Coil.” Grayscale nodded, and then likewise teleported away.

With the room mostly emptied, Gale grabbed my shoulder. “Come on, Morty. Next are the Rains.”

“One second, Gale. Could you lend me your horn?” After she gave me a brief nod, I made my way over to Angel and held his rock like a particularly low budget rendition of Shake Spear’s Piglet. “Lift up his halos with your horn, and you should feel them sort of ‘snap’ into place.”

“Ah; thank you Master Coil,” the rock in question voiced as Gale helped grant him his flight. “And thank you Mistress Gale.”

“I told you, don’t call me Mistress, rock,” Gale growled.

Though Angel had no nostrils and no breath, he still managed to emit a noise that was a decent approximation of a huff. “Shall I accompany you today, Master Coil?”

“No, Angel.” I shook my head, and slipped into a whisper. “You don’t want to be around these ponies. I’m only putting up with them to help Gale.”

“I see,” Angel replied with a similarly quiet voice. “In that case, shall I simply stay here and assist at the college?”

“Do what you want,” I told him. “I thought we had already settled that you had real free will, Angel.”

“Ah…” The golem seemed to hesitate, at least as much as body language can when the body in question is a mostly round stone. “I… suppose I don’t know what I want.”

I shrugged, and though it might be incredibly wise in retrospect, my response was delivered mostly full of teenaged sarcasm. “Welcome to ‘life’, Angel.” Then I nodded to the doors. “If you don’t want to hover around here, you could go find Graargh and Blizzard.”

“They’re staying with my dad,” Gale added.

Angel did a little spin in midair—his way of showing happiness. “Ah, our friends. That does sound like a welcome reprieve. I shall be off.”

Angel could move quite quickly; quickly enough in fact that he was already through the doors and out of the lecture hall before I could ask the next question on my mind.

It was clearly on Gale’s mind as well, since she asked me “Does he know the way?”

I shrugged. “He has a sort of magical compass that points to me, so he can’t get that lost. Now, where did you say we were headed?”

Though I tried to sound as chipper as possible, the facts that I hadn’t found Star Swirl, nor lunch, still ate away at the backs of my mind and stomach respectively.

1-7

I - VII

The Soldier

Gale was practically giddy as we approached the home of the next suitor, a far-cry from the mixture of dread and disgust that had dominated her approaches to the former nobles.

“C’mon, Morty,” she called over her shoulder as she nearly skipped up the cobblestones toward a clay-red home that, despite sitting on the ground, was clearly pegasus architecture.

“Somepony you like better?”

“You remember ‘Finder?” Gale asked. “Pathfinder? From the Legate’s Lookout?”

While it had been a few weeks since the first and only time I had met the stallion in question, I had spent most of the intervening time in bed, so the image in my mind was still fresh. “The old stallion with all the scars? The one who named his sword ‘Sword’? He’s a little old for you, I think. Probably a little too senile too…”

Gale shook her head. “No shit, Morty. He’s probably not here anyway. But this is where he lives.”

“So, what, one of his grandfoals is the suitor?”

Gale held a hoof in the air and rocked it back and forth. “His youngest son, Gray Rain. He’s… well, he’s fucking weird. Better than the others, I guess, since I don’t hate his guts. I just can’t stand trying to hold a conversation with him.”

“Alright… so why’re you so giddy?”

“’Cause you get to meet Rain!” Gale rapped on the door to the house while I was still a few strides away, and then sat down, seeming genuinely happy to be addressing whoever awaited within.

“I thought you just said you didn’t like—”

I let my words drop off when the door was opened to reveal an aging steel-blue pegasus. Her most notable feature was an eyepatch over her left eye, failing to cover a gash that stretched from her mane line to the edge of her sharp chin. After one got past that wound, they might notice she was—like so many of the old soldiers who dominated the upper echelons of pegasus society—in impeccable shape despite the graying of her mane and tail. I think most of all, though, I noticed how large she was for a pegasus mare—so much so that, though I now know better, at first glance I assumed she was just an unusually shapely stallion. On the incredibly off chance you who are reading this have not met a pony before, or interbreeding between the tribes has changed our bodies, at the time I met the old soldier, pegasi were by far the smallest breed of ponies and mares tend to be smaller than stallions.

“Gale?” She spoke with a surprisingly gentle voice for such a scarred warrior, and as she spoke, donned the kind of grin that only shows up on older ponies whose faces can carry the wrinkles of a lifetime of practice. “Garuda be damned, it’s good to see you.”

Then, abruptly, she slammed the door in our faces.

“Um… what?” I turned to Gale in hopefully justified confusion. “Did we do something wrong? Did I offend him?”

“Calm down, Morty. She’s just getting her swords.”

“Swords? Plural?”

“Just stand back, unless you see an opening. I’ll keep her attention.”

“You want me to fight h—wait, her?!”

‘Rain’ opened the door before I could get an answer. Sticking out from under her right wing was the handle of a sword most of the length of my foreleg, and with a blade to match tucked under her feathers and past her flank behind it. For those unfamiliar with pegasus swordplay, there’s no value in a sword having a handle much larger than the width of their mouth, so this huge weapon caught my full curiosity with a raised brow—so much so that until she dropped a full five other swords onto her own doorstep with a cacophony of clangs, I didn’t even notice the small arsenal she had been carrying.

“I don’t know what you prefer, colt, so I brought a few. I don’t have a real ‘rapey-er’ like you unicorns like, but I brought both my straight blades, plus a cutlass if you’re a naval type and—”

“No!” I interrupted. “No, no, nononono! Nope! Uh uh. No.” I waved my hooves in front of me as emphatically as I could.

Rain frowned. “Oh, calm down. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Gale chuckled, picking up an apparently familiar curved blade in her magic and spinning it in the air just a hair or two… thousand… too close to my jawline. “Relax, Morty. I enchant the swords so they can’t cut more than skin deep. We barely ever draw any blood. Don’t be such a pussy. It’s just good fun.”

“Gale, even if I were allowed to use my magic right now—which I’m not, my horn is still healing from killing Wintershimmer—you want me to fight your…” I turned to Rain and looked her up and down more to catch my mind up to my words than for actual inspiration, before finishing “…your weird elderly lesbian pegasus cyclops suitor?” After a pause, I sighed. “Does she… you know... grind meal with two mortars and no pestle too?”

Rain started at Gale for a very long moment as Gale just hung her head, massaging her temple not with a hoof but the pommel of the sword in her magical grip. After waiting for an answer, I gestured to Rain’s gray hair. “Even if my horn were healed, I can’t fight somepony her age. Even if I just stunned her, it would probably stop her heart.” That seemed to break the silence, as in perfect synchronization both mares began to cackle without any semblance of control.

“Kid, I’m not—” Wheezing, Rain couldn’t even finish the sentence.

“Morty…” Gale rubbed her eyes to wipe away tears, but she finally managed to drag back enough breath to at least put out a full thought. “This is Iron Rain. Not Gray.”

“Ah…” I nodded. “I’m not sure if it’s better or worse then, that you want me to fight your suitor’s… unusually masculine grandmother?”

“O-kay!” Rain managed between her wheezing chuckles, before finally picking up a hoof and slamming it (with a sound I could only parse as bones cracking) against her own rib cage. “Right, kid…” Though the slap had slowed her laughter, it was still piercing through her words. “First, if you take another stab at my age, I am gonna stab back. Second, even if I am getting old and gray, I will still crack you like an egg if it comes to a fight.”

I raised a skeptical brow, which apparently got the older mare’s oddly jovial ire even further riled up. “You think you’re tough, colt? You want to know how I lost this eye?”

“Rain, easy,” Gale patted the old soldier on the shoulder. “Morty wants to think he’s above this argument, but he’s too fucking smug to keep a straight face. He’s right, but it’s not because he’s a good swordspony or practiced or anything. His asshole mentor taught him a spell to pull out somepony else’s soul and just kill them.”

It was Rain’s turn, then, to raise a skeptical brow—and it was a curious quirk of the old mare’s that she always lifted the brow over her missing eye when she was intrigued or disbelieving. “Alright… Sure. Why not?” Then she lifted her hoof, spit into the frog, and extended it towards me. “Iron Rain. I used to be Praetorian Prefect, but don’t worry about titles.”

“I…” Hesitantly, I clapped a hoof against Rain’s, making sure the bone of our hooves kept her spit well away from my clean coat. “Frankly, I don’t know what that means, but I’m Mortal Coil. Pale Master, Grandmaster of the Order of Unhesitating Force…” At Gale’s telling frown, I quickly concluded. “Et cetera. But you can call me Morty.”

Gale sighed. “Morty, ’The Legion’ is organized into legions of 640-ish ponies. The first legion is called the Praetorian Guard. They’re usually veterans of other legions, and they get better pay. The Praetorian Prefect is the pony in charge of them.”

Iron Rain emitted a snort of non-committal acknowledgement, as if she couldn’t give two shits about her own history. “So you’re ‘Morty’, huh? The colt Commander Typhoon was talking about?” Rain sighed. “I was really expecting better, Gale. He’s all skin and bones!” The old soldier stepped out of her own doorway and made absolutely no subtlety in the act of looking me over. “Not much battle damage… not really much to look at at all. Scar on his neck’s interesting I guess… Oh! Is that much muscle supposed to be showing?”

“Not much to look at?!” I asked, incredulously before my mind caught up with my ears. “What do you mean ‘that much’ muscle showing?”

Rain shrugged. “I don’t know how else to describe it. It’s a little hard to see past your jacket collar, but you’ve got about a hoof’s width of your neck missing, kid. No coat, no skin. I can see some of the tendons, and a little bit of the ligament for your jaw. It’s not bleeding or anything though. Actually, that maybe ought to be more worrying than if it were a normal wound.” Rain raised her blinded brow. “On the other hoof, I’ve seen a few ponies with wounds like that in my life, but I’ve never seen one standing up. They all bled to death… How are you alive?”

Before answering, I lifted my hoof to the apparently open wound and gingerly touched it. Just as it had been on previous touches, the flesh was three things: cold, dry, and increasingly, hard. If I held perfectly still, the exposed muscle felt more like metal, though the fact that I still had mobility in my neck suggested something else. “Oh… Huh, I never thought of that. I probably shouldn’t have let Spicy applied that ointment.”

“What? Morty, what are you talking about? Are you okay?” Gale pulled down the collar of my jacket to get a better look, and then similarly pulled my hoof away with her magic. “Holy shit! Why aren’t you freaking out?”

“It’s just a simple magical mistake, Gale. I’m fine; it just looks scary. I’ve never actually worked with Flash-in-the-Pan’s Clotting Agent; I should have asked Spicy what was in it… though with how she acted I doubt she would have explained. Since it clots the blood, though, if it’s based on lesser troll’s blood like how most healing potionswork, the way it clots is dependent on the tissue it’s applied to. The most important rule with those sorts of potions is to make sure the wound is completely clean before treatment. But Spicy didn’t know I still had trace amounts of quicksilver in my muscles from Silhouette’s golem-claw-hoof... thing. Which means I now have a transparent metal neck.”

“Is that… okay?” Gale asked. “Isn’t quicksilver poisonous?”

“Oh, absolutely,” I nodded. “That’s probably why I needed so much rest to recover, instead of being back on my hooves in just a day or two. But if it’s formed a shell over my wound, it means now I can’t be stabbed there very easily. The only downside is I’ll have to wear high collars, or I’ll look like an amateur zombie for the rest of my life.”

Rain raised her same eyebrow. “An amateur zombie?”

“Any self-respecting necromancer knows it’s a sign of professionalism not to have chunks of flesh missing from your creations. Not that I’m actually in the business of raising dead corpses; I much prefer just talking to the dead and making golems of stone or clay or what have you. Much more sanitary.” I did my best to prop the collar of my jacket up fully as close to my skin as possible, and then extended a hoof toward Rain. “Sorry for that; ‘exposed muscle’ made me a little nervous I was going to drop dead. I guess calling me ‘skin and bones’ to my face is a little funny in light of that. Did you have any more judgments you wanted to make?”

Rain actually whinnied by way of a sarcastic laugh. “I’m kidding, Morty. Honestly, I’m just glad Gale finally met somepony she can actually stomach being around.” She then shot Gale the heaviest wink I have ever seen, before concluding, “even if it’s only for fun on the side.”

Gale shook her head, and then said something that nearly stopped my heart. “Oh, no; we’re gonna make him a suitor.”

The transparent metal spot on my neck made a sound distinctly like ice cracking as I whipped my head around toward Gale. “What happened to keeping that under wraps? After all the trouble we went through—”

“Rain’s not going to tell my mom,” Gale answered. “Right?”

Rain chuckled. “I try not to talk to her at all if I can help it. I sure as hell would not pick that fight if I were you, Gale.” Then she turned back to me. “Gale was never very good at picking her fights. I assume that’s why she keeps coming back to get her sorry flank kicked by a mare three times her age.”

“Or a necromancer and a grizzly bear,” I observed dryly, recalling my first encounter with Gale in the woods of the hodunk backwater of Manehattan.

“Well, I had to learn to fight somewhere,” Gale answered more spitefully than I was expecting. When I raised a brow to the daughter of Commander Hurricane, Gale rolled her eyes. “Dad’s too fucking creaky and crippled to teach me anything even if he were any good with a sword—which he’s not, he’s only famous ‘cause he’s good at pegasus magic—and Ty won’t give me the time of the fucking day, let alone a lesson. And regarding your sorry ass, Morty: one, you wear fucking evil cultist robes around all the time—and don’t you fucking dare say any shit about ‘orders’ or whatever when you got them from Wintershimmer—and two, you stunned an eight year old colt in the face mid-sentence when you were afraid he was going to say something you wanted kept secret. You were asking for it.” When I opened my mouth to protest anyway, Gale punched me in the muzzle. “Rain, is Gray home? I need to give him one of these stupid letters.”

“Oh? What for?” Despite the question, Rain stepped out of her doorway, beckoning us inside.

“My birthday,” Gale answered with a combination of depressed acceptance and spite that really belonged nowhere near anypony’s mention of their birthday. “All the suitors are invited.”

“Gonna make them fight for your hoof?” Rain asked with a grin and a wink. “If Finder hadn’t fought those giant spiders, I was gonna do the same thing to him.” Then she turned in the doorway of the home and shouted upward. “Gray! Get your ass down here!” With that, she stepped fully into her own home, beckoning us in again with a wing, which only momentarily got caught on the massive guard of the sword still slung under her shoulder. “We’ll have to see how much you learned on your trip another time, Gale. Why don’t you two both come on in and have a seat? There’s honey drops and berries on the table. I know I’m not as good of a chef as Pathfinder, but I can scrounge something up if either of you is hungry. Let me just get these put away.” And with that rather shocking change in tone, she set about picking up the swords she’d dropped on her doorstep.

I must have looked rather desperate when, the moment Rain was out of sight, I lunged for the bowls of fruit and ‘grandma candy’ on her coffee table. Trying to lift berries with my hooves ended in a sticky purple mess almost immediately, and very little of the food made it into my mouth.

“You’re pathetic sometimes, you know?” Shaking her head, Gale’s magic tugged me over to one of a trio of long lounging couches in a bracketed shape centered on the house’s massive fireplace. Without a word, she pushed me down onto one of the couches, and then lifted one of my forehooves with her magic, slid to rest her back against my chest, and lowered my leg over her shoulder.

“Comfy?” I asked.

“Rain’s right,” Gale answered, nuzzling into my immaculately groomed—and thus naturally fairly fluffy—chest. “You’re all skin and bones.” Then she nuzzled further back, sighed, and chuckled. “I’m teasing, Morty; you don’t need to get so fucking stiff.” I had to admit, though, I appreciated it when her horn lit up again and carried the bowl of berries over toward us. “Open wide.”

After enough of a snack to at least satisfy my immediate hunger, and more than a bit of comfort holding one another, I let out a satisfied sigh. “I could get used to this. A beautiful mare in my forelegs, feeding me berries.”

I heard Gale scoff. “When your horn’s better, you owe me.” Then, with a slight show of awkward discomfort, she rubbed her spine against my belly as she shifted. “Push your hind legs back; have you never spooned with somepony before?”

“I didn’t even know it was called ‘spooning.’ And who in Tartarus would I ever have ‘spooned’ with?”

I could hear Gale roll her eyes in the way she sighed. “I don’t know, that crystal bitch? What was her name?”

“Silhouette,” I replied. “And no, for a lot of reasons. To state the most obvious one, she has some jagged edges.”

“Huh. I never thought about that. I guess crystal ponies probably don’t cuddle much.” After a moment of silence, she added “That would make an awful fucking noise, wouldn’t it?”

“As I understand it, they usually use some… they call it oil, but I’m pretty sure it’s rock polish. If a crystal says to another crystal that they look especially polished, instead of a compliment on their appearance, they’re usually implying that the other crystal has just had an... intimate encounter.”

“You learn something new every day.” Gale’s eyes and my own were distracted from our conversation when a stallion emerged from a hallway on the far side of the room.

He wore plain steel legion armor (as I mentioned previously, the use of gold leaf plating as a magical insulator had not yet become standard in those days), and from the way his buzzed mane was tousled at the edges, I surmised he had only just removed his helmet. Beneath that, the pony I assumed (correctly) was Gray Rain matched his name. Unlike his mother, he wasn’t gray from age, since he was only a year or two at most older than me, but that fact did nothing to add any pigment to his appearance.

Dear reader, you may be enough of a student of history to recognize the name of Gray Rain, the Wolf of Cirra. And if you are familiar with Imperial Legacy’s Complete History of the Equestrian Royal Guard, you might find what you are about to read to be completely at odds with the characterization of the charismatic, self-sacrificing stallion who would become Equestria’s first Commander of the Royal Guard. If you wish to compare our two narratives, let me remind you of two facts. Firstly, I am an immortal necromancer with a magically enhanced memory. Secondly, Dr. Legacy was a stuffy academic who wasn’t even born until almost seven hundred years after Commander Rain died.

A naturally awkward pony, Gray walked up to the arm of the couch Gale and I were reclining on, fell into a rather stiff standing posture, and… just stood there. Staring. I should clarify, lest any reader misunderstand, that he wasn’t staring in shock or disgust that I had my hoof around Her Royal Highness, or anything of the sort. There was no surprise in his features. There wasn’t anything. His expression was as milquetoast as his coloration.

“Hello, Gray,” Gale greeted the stallion. “This is—”

“Mortal Coil,” Gray interrupted abruptly, as if acting on reflex. “Titled ‘the Immortal’.” He nodded his head just as stiffly as he stood. “Gray Rain. Praefectus Faborum, Legion Eight auxilia.” That string of unintelligible pseudo-Cirran poured out of his mouth at a near monotone, and when it was done, he resumed staring through us in absolute silence.

“Hello,” I offered.

“Hello,” he repeated himself, making my pet rock’s intonation sound natural by comparison. “Good day, Aura.”

Still nestled in my legs, Gale gave a slight chuckle. “Here’s your letter, Katagismos.” Gray snatched the letter floating in the air in Gale’s grip with his wing like a viper, or as if he were afraid she might yank it away at the last moment. He then ripped open the envelope with his teeth and maneuvered the letter out between his feathers.

“It’s an invitation to my birthday party,” Gale explained.

Gray read silently for a very long second, tracing over the words three times with an utterly steady pace, eyes swinging back and forth like a pendulum, until at last he lifted his eyes. “What would you like for a gift?”

Gale opened her mouth to answer and then abruptly shut it, catching herself from whatever thought first flew to mind. “I think,” Gale continued, before hesitating for a moment. “No, you know what, I know what I want.” Then Gale stood up from my legs, walked over to Gray, and laid a hoof on his shoulder. “I want a Legion commission.”

Normally, when one tried to dig into Gray Rain’s eyes and read, one could see gears whirring at a dizzying pace as his calculating mind raced a dozen times faster than a normal pony’s. After Gale’s words, however, I saw mud and wet sand clog those gears as his face at first considered the request, and then began to seize and shudder with the malformed input. “I think I don’t understand, Your Highness… Commander Typhoon is your half-sister, isn’t she? Why not approach her for such a request? My position as Prefect does not grant me commissioning authority.” His speech was surprisingly fluid, but in all the years I knew him, Gray’s word choice never grew less stilted, rivaling even the awkwardness of his tendency to stare straight through a conversation partner while waiting for them to speak.

Gale sighed. “For some reason she’s never explained, I can’t convince my own fucking sister for a job. She won’t even explain it.”

“If I may be so bold, why do you even want a posting in the Legion? Is being the royal heir not sufficient to keep you occupied? Are you short on coin and that desperately in need of employ?”

“Gray…” I sensed a bit of cursing coming on, and was genuinely surprised when Gale instead sucked in her frustration and addressed the pegasus in as absolutely soft of a tone as she could manage. “No, I don’t need coin. The problem is that being crown princess is useless as shit. I don’t do anything; I sit in on tea parties with my mom and all of her friends. The best thing I have ever done in my life so far was run off and meet Morty and help deal with Wintershimmer. But I’m not stupid enough to think I’m gonna make any kind of difference in Equestria. So while I’d like to ask you to snap your feathers and let me make some sort of decision that’s actually going to help Equestria and make a real difference, with real stakes, instead of kissing ass and selling my body to the highest bidder for power, that’s not exactly a ‘birthday present’.”

Gray scratched behind his neck with a wing. “I understand your frustration with the lack of value in being princess, but I imagine if you seek to impact Equestria for good, following in your mother’s hoofsteps will have a far greater impact than work as a hoofsoldier or even a legate.”

“So in the meantime, I wait what, thirty years? Forty? And I just fuck around becuase everypony knows that someday, oh someday all that wasted time will somehow be worth it? Fuck that.”

Gray bit his cheek. “I see. I… will see what I can do, Your Highness.”

“Yeah…” Gale walked back to my side on the couch and tilted her horn toward the door. “See you at the party, Gray.”

1-8

I - VIII

The Crusader

In early Equestria, huge, elaborate temples to Celestia and Luna as goddesses were quite common sights, despite the former sister’s objections to being called a god. (Luna, it should be mentioned, actively opposed her elder sister by encouraging this perspective). In the earliest days after the pegasi were reunited with the unicorns and earth ponies, the fact that they shared these two goddesses (and only them, despite the considerable size of the Cirran pantheon), that strange overlap caused considerable confusion and speculation amongst the scholars of all three tribes of ponykind.

After Commander Hurricane showed up from his assumed death, not only alive but with both goddesses in the flesh, virtually all debate on the subject died away in the face of empirical fact.

Unlike most Equestrians, however, I was raised in the Crystal Union, where the deity of choice was the rather philosophically regarded ‘Artist’—not that I had any particular reverence for him either. Wintershimmer, the closest pony I had to a father-figure, was unabashedly atheistic, believing that Celestia and Luna were spirits assuming the forms of ponies to deceive and control us, or more likely mortal ponies elevated to apparent divinity by some imbued magic. Given how close his plan to steal Celestia’s control of the sun had come to fruition, I knew the latter fact to be empirical truth.

I emphasize this so that you understand the considerable trepidation that filled me as Gale led me into a massive stone cathedral decorated with enough stained glass to make a nigh-infinite supply of tacky lampshades, if one were in a destructive mood. There was no service in progress inside, but a number of priests and acolytes in white tabards with gilded trim flitted around the place, attending to a frankly impractical supply of candles, praying in the alcoves at the sides of the room, or providing the utterly necessary ambience of odd, archaic chanting that made the place seem really, really holy.

Oh, sorry; the word I’m actually looking for is haunted.

Have I mentioned I hate churches?

Gale seemed less perturbed by the architecture than I was, though some fragment of that likely stemmed from the fact that she was silently fuming at the apex of the day’s rage. I could practically hear her blood pressure in the click of her hooves on the polished marble floor, just on the threshold of whistling steam out her nostrils like a tea kettle, or a bull in a shop selling the same.

“Almost done…” I heard her whisper, and I don’t know if she meant it to me or to herself. Regardless, I didn’t answer, following silently along the ambulatory at the back of the structure until we reached a chevette with a stained glass depiction of Celestia holding a flaming greatsword in her magic, her eyes glowing in the day’s sunlight by the craft of an especially talented… windowsmith?

In the fragmented rainbow light of the work of art were two ponies: one probably thirteen years old by my guess, a young stallion in a slightly oversized tabard without the hauberk that a knight was supposed to wear beneath it. He had a tomato red coat that I would later learn was almost certainly his namesake, and a little tuft of messy green mane that certainly didn’t help.

The other was immediately recognizable as our undesirable objective.

Count Halo, His Eminence, reached the impressive achievement of being detestable to me even before we had actually gotten into earshot of one another. He wore a breastplate so polished it looked like silver, and a brace of rapiers (six in total, as though they provided any benefit other than making him look pompous) covered his flanks. Surrounding all that metal was a brilliant scarlet-and-gold jacket, rather similar to mine in cut, though trimmed to a far more muscular physique. On his back, the blonde-coated stallion wore a small kite shield with an actual mirror on its face—presumably for use in deflecting magical attacks—and another of similarly polished steel. But the most notable thing the stallion was wearing was the most ostentatious moustache I have ever had the misfortune of witnessing: a tufted, waxed, elaborate thing that stuck off both sides of his muzzle and sagged with the shape of a half-drawn recurve longbow, all in the same flaming red-orange as his thinning mane.

“Huhah!” he greeted us as we approached, wielding his own lungs like a blacksmith’s bellows. “Your Royal Highness; it is a delight to see you in Her Holiness’ church, finally. Praise the sun; will you join me in a prayer?” As he offered up that half-breathed phrase, he drew a circle on his chest with his hoof.

Gale gritted her teeth audibly. “If I wanted to talk to Aunt Celestia, Count, I’d go find her face-to-face.”

“Ah; the blessings of royalty, to have her blood in your veins and her ear in your deeds.” Halo nodded. “But still, Her Holiness’ time is precious; perhaps a prayer might be better received.” Then, as if finally noticing that he and Gale were not alone, Halo raised a bushy red eyebrow in my direction. “Ah, sir, you will have to forgive me my ignorance; as a knight of the Order of the Silver Chain, my eyes are first for my queen and her heir. I am Halo, Count of the House of the Rising Sun, under the Banner of Late Afternoon—”

“I’m sorry, but I’m gonna stop you there. The what?”

Halo opened his mouth to answer, but Gale (mercifully) held up a hoof to stop him. I watched her brow briefly furrow before she began to speak, though, as if the words (or the ideas they forced her to remember) were driving a nail through the frog of her hoof. “The great noble houses like Castle and Aunt Chrysoprase’s House Gullion and Spicy’s House of Three have families who are loyal to them, called ‘Banners’. Mom and I’s family is technically ‘the House of the Rising Sun’, and Count Halo belongs to one of our banner families.”

I quirked a brow. “No offense meant, but if you’re already one of Gale’s ‘banners’, why would the Queen want you to marry her?”

Halo guffawed a long, drawn out guffaw; that is, I think, the only way to capture the depths of his laughter… or at the very least, his lung capacity. “I am hardly a courtly mind of Her Majesty’s equal, but if I had to hazard a guess, it is that my leadership of the Church of Her Holiness makes me an influential enough member of our society for her consideration, praise the sun.” Halo again traced a circle onto his chest with a hoof, its shod steel surface ringing against his breastplate. “Forgive me my curiosity, sir, but what unicorn does not know our culture enough to understand the idea of a ‘banner’?”

Gale sighed. “Right. Count, this is Mortal Coil. He—”

“Her Holiness’ chosen?!” Halo bowed deeply. “Forgive me my ignorance, Lord Coil; it’s an honor to meet you.” Before I could even react, let alone formulate an opinion, the beefy unicorn had lifted my forehoof and bestowed a rather overly-mustached kiss to my fetlock. Then, his face still well within hoof’s reach, he bellowed over the church’s ominous chanting. “Squire Cherry, behold! Her Holiness’ Chosen One!”

The little red colt, ‘Cherry’, who had been surreptitiously watching us from behind his master’s outspoken presence, stepped up beside the Count and gave us a smile. “Hello. My name is Cherry Tomato. I’m Count Halo’s squire. It’s very nice to meet you, Lord Coil.” After a pause, he added “Hello, Princess.”

Despite his word choice being somewhat formal (or stilted?) I should emphasize that Cherry Tomato’s words were delivered smoothly and jovially. In fact, everything about the colt was friendly, to the point that he almost seemed ‘perfect’. I don’t mean that in the sense that he was unusually attractive, some sort of marble-jawed, chiseled physique at 13 years old. Rather, he had the perfection of innocence. His smile would put you at ease without any apparent effort on his part. Though his tabard didn’t really fit, it was ideally bunched to look adorable instead of the awkwardness every other thirteen year old in all of equine history has suffered under.

In short, I immediately found myself hating him. I don’t even know that I know why; something about him just felt… unnatural. But, judging by the fact that a small smile even broke onto the corners of Gale’s furious expression, I suspect I may have been the only pony in Equestria who felt that way.

“Is it true that you’re the chosen one? From the prophecy?” Cherry asked. He didn’t speak loudly, but a squeaky teenage voice—and the worst part was that it wasn’t even annoying to listen to—echoes in a certain decisive way around the stone walls of, say, a cathedral.

Now, it should fairly be mentioned that I have been ‘the chosen one’ a surprising number of times in my life for various cultures, sects, and yes, as Gale would so love to remind me, cults. I estimate that if the words ‘chosen' and 'one’ are uttered consecutively in my earshot anywhere, at any time in Equine history, there’s a solid two-in-three chance I am the subject of the prophecy in question. Still, in centuries of life, I have never, never been made as uncomfortable by those two words as I was when the faithful of Celestia turned as one toward me and the spooky chanting stopped.

“Um… Hi?” I offered, waving around the room over the deafening roar of echoed whispers.

“I must confess I envy you, Lord Coil—"

“You know he’s not actually a noble, right?” Gale interrupted her eldest suitor. “Morty grew up in the Crystal Union. He’s half-crystal, even if it doesn’t show.”

I leaned down to whisper into Gale’s ear. “I’m not exactly proud of that…”

I hadn’t seen Cherry step forward, but when I looked up he was just inside earshot of my whisper. “Oh, it’s okay, Lord Coil. Everypony has parts of their background they aren’t proud of. But it’s okay; all that matters to Lady Celestia is that we do the best with what we’ve got.”

Halo, unlike his squire’s comments and my own fears, seemed only the more impressed, raising his bushy eyebrows up his balding forehead. “To have overcome the blood of the barbarian heathens and rise to such heights! Your Highness, while his birthright may not be nobility, I assure you any pony who is the chosen of Her Holiness deserves all the respect we can give him. Tell us, Lord Coil, what was it like to be shielded by Her Radiance?”

I glanced over to Gale, who shrugged. “Well… I’ll be honest, I wish her aim was better.”

Rather than the laughter I had hoped for, the best I got were a few chuckles and an awful lot of blank stares or gasps.

“What… whatever do you mean?” Count Halo asked.

“Well… When we were fighting Wintershimmer, he created an illusion that Celestia didn’t see through, so she shot some sort of a fire beam from her horn that would have killed Gale. I pushed her out of the way…” I tapped my side. “So now most of my small intestine is only a few weeks old.”

Cherry cocked his head like the little confused puppy he basically was. “Oh my… wouldn’t that have killed you?”

Halo guffawed in what a less cynical author might have mistaken for good humor. “Compared to the wonders of raising the sun, I’m sure it’s only a trivial matter for Her Holiness to heal a mere wound, Cherry. Remember, all things are possible through she who giveth us the day.”

“Oh. That makes sense.”

Halo then turned to me. “It does. Though I’m just as certain Her Holiness must have seen through the illusion but wanted to give you a chance to prove yourself. Also, it is unfitting to use her name so… mundanely.”

I frowned. “She asked me to. Herself. To my face.”

“Morty, don’t pick this fight,” Gale warned as a vein in her temple visibly bulged, near to bursting from the stress of keeping her irritation at the older stallion in. “Count, here. An invitation to my birthday party.” Those words were accompanied by her presenting the envelope with so much violent, unnecessary force that it audibly sliced the air, coming not to a calm floating rest, but a visibly vibrating offering in her magenta magic.

“Ah… My goodness, Your Highness; I’m flattered. That you should hoof-deliver such an invitation.” He gently adjusted his moustache with his magic, a sort of fiery red glow that made him look almost like he’d blushed his cheeks. “Am I to understand this means I have your favor, or—”

“All the suitors got one,” Gale cut him off. “You’re welcome to play whatever games you want to try and posture with them in front of mom, but don’t assume I care.”

“Is that what the six swords are for?” I asked, hoping my tone carried enough good humor to avoid sounding especially petty.

“Holding six swords is hard,” said Cherry in his chipper little voice, ambling around his much taller mentor. “I can barely hold two.”

“You’re an earth pony…” I pointed out as dryly as I could.

“Morty,” Gale hissed, punching me in the shoulder. “Don’t be racist.”

“I’m being realistic,” I answered. “I don’t claim I can outfly a pegasus, and I’m sure he grows a better garden than I do. I’m just saying holding six of anything with a horn isn’t that impressive.” Then I turned to Halo. “Unless you… weave them into your moustache or something? It does seem stiff enough.”

I like to think that it is obvious when I am intentionally insulting someone (primarily because such commentary is scathing and sometimes literally soul-crushing), but in that moment if I had to judge from the way in which the mustached knight snapped back at me, my comment cut to his quick. “These blades serve Her Radiance’s honor; I would not sully them with blood over the pursuit of a fair maiden’s hoof. Besides, that would hardly be sporting; I alone amongst Her Highness’ suitors have actually seen combat, Lord Coil. I earned my knighthood in battle in my youth, warring with the crystal barbarians.”

“I’m sure your father and your grandmother being knights of the order had nothing to do with it,” Gale muttered.

“I do take offense, Your Highness,” said the Count. “Ask Sir Chiseled Gem about our service together. Or, if you prefer a more authoritative—if more distant—tale, I’m certain your father remembers how I led my forces against Halite at Amber Field.”

I watched Gale open her mouth—presumably to expel some foul expression of her irritation—before she thought the better of it, clenched her teeth, and nodded. “Next time I find myself dealing with Sir Gem, I’ll be certain to have him share some stories, Count. However, with utmost respect for your service, I’m not really concerned with how you got your title, nor with whether your skill in battle will or won’t win you favor over the other suitors.”

The Count let out a little chuckle. “I’m not certain you have a choice, Your Highness. You are somewhat de facto the judge, given it’s your favor we are competing for.”

“It would be very nice if you picked my master, Princess,” said Cherry with an entirely innocent smile. “Then you could be like my big sister. I think I would like that very much.”

I’ve rarely seen Gale so torn as she was refraining from swearing out the thirteen year old colt in front of her (whose naivety more reminded me of somepony six or seven), but she finally managed to put on a smile. “Well then, Cherry, you’ll just have to help him be the best suitor he can be, won’t you?”

“I will do the best I can,” said Cherry. “Though I think it will be hard for me to make Master Halo a better suitor than Lord Coil.”

The wheeze that escaped Count Halo’s lungs and the hairy filter of his moustache could have collapsed a cavern. “Coil? A suitor?” By the time the ensuing storm of guffaws settled, and I felt my eyelids stop quivering like a plucked guitar string, there were tears at the edges of Halo’s eyes. “I… No offense meant of course, Coil, but your blood does rather disqualify you, Her Holiness’ favor or not.” He raised a hoof and wiped away his tears with a fetlock, before boldly placing it on Gale’s shoulder to steady himself as his chest continued to tremble. “Squires say the darnedest things, do they not, Your Highness?”

Gale looked at the offending hoof for a very long second, but Halo seemed not to realize he was troubling her. When Gale’s patience ran out (and it didn’t take long) she briefly winked to me. I watched as her horn lit up, and a bit of a glow built up around Halo’s leg.

“Oh my; I’m sor—” The Count’s apology devolved into a gasp as Gale picked him up by said hoof and hurled him into a spin, head over hooves, onto his back. Six swords and two shields made an incredibly satisfying noise when they clattered on the stone floor of the cathedral.

“Ah, no, I’m sorry,” Gale lied, her lips struggling to hide a grin even as the furrows of her brow suggested the motion wasn’t as satisfying as she had hoped. There was quite the edge to her formal accent when she picked it up to speak again. “A princess must insist her body not be touched by any suitor so forwardly, lest they get untoward ideas.” She couldn’t seem to resist rolling her eyes as she turned away, though. “Good day, Count.”

“Wait, Your Highness,” called the Count just as we’d turned. Gale offered him a tired glance back, and the fatherly (in that he was some twenty years her elder) stallion asked, “Given we are being so unabashed about discussing the competition, is there anything you might like as a birthday gift?”

Gale growled. “I’d love to not be talking about it. Think you can figure something out for that? Some way to keep all this political bullshit away?”

Perhaps it was her bluntness, or perhaps it was the sour word there near the end, but something about the brutal parting meant that as we paced out of Celestia’s hauntingly en-chant-ed church, no further words were spoken.

1-9

I-IX

The Hero

Celestia’s temple compound sat on a hill on the eastern side of Everfree’s rivers, near a huge stone wall that had been meant to encircle the city when it was founded and charted out. At the time, before the mass evacuation of the old Diamond Kingdoms to escape the threat of eternal winter, the city’s planners and architects assumed the old population would largely spread out across the new Equestria, as evenly distributed as they had been before.

These predictions were impressively wrong.

As mass migration dodecatupled the expected population, the city’s quarry workers, masons, and architects kept demanding pay, and as is typical with representative government, the promise of ‘stimulating the economy’ was enough to justify finishing paying them, without any adjustments to the planned shape of the walls. Thus, instead of offering much by way of defense, Everfree’s wall sat with all the value of a fifth knee, awkwardly dividing the so-called ‘Temple District’ from the rich stench of the paper mills near Lumber Way.

I always found it surreal to reflect on the fact that, only a few years before I was born, the number of ponies who knew of Celestia and Luna by intellectual fact, rather than religious faith, could be counted on one’s hooves. Thus, even though both sisters had gone on record claiming they knew nothing of any other ‘gods’, in those brilliant days of Everfree’s youth, one could still find shrines to the deities of the Cirran Pegasi, the old purely unicorn incarnations of Celestia and Luna, the ‘saints’ of the earth ponies, and some even stranger things still.

“Well,” I told Gale with a smile. “I guess that’s done, then.”

“I was hoping you’d make it better somehow,” Gale replied, before shaking her head. “I’m not mad at you, Morty; it’s not your fault they’re so shitty. Just… After having you there dealing with Wintershimmer and Silhouette and all those assholes in our trip…”

“I dunno, Gale.” I shot her my friendliest grin. “None of these ponies are trying to kill me. And honestly, I don’t think any of them actually even could if they tried.”

Instead of cheering her up, the comment made Gale roll her eyes. “I’d take Wintershimmer over this any day. Nopony ever expected me to fuck him, and I was allowed to cut off his horn and beat his face in with my bare hooves when we won.”

I swallowed. “Sorry. Um… what do you want to do now? Is there something that can cheer you up? I’m not the heaviest drinker, but if you want to drown your sorrows…”

“I wish,” Gale snapped, before dropping into a harshly formal voice. “Alas, a princess doesn’t get time like that. I have to go sit with Mom to get sized for a dress for the party. And since she’s invited like four different dress-makers, there’s going to be a huge shitshow if I show up drunk or something.”

“Do you have to leave right now?” I asked, hedging my bets and gesturing my hoof toward the various… well, in retrospect the temples weren’t the most interesting surroundings to offer a theoretical date. Gale, thankfully, caught the nuance to my point.

“I probably ought to go see her now…” I caught just the hint of a mischievous glimmer in the corner of her eye. “But fuck it; you haven’t really gotten to see Everfree yet, have you? Hurry up, and I’ll show you around Riverward.” No sooner had the words left her mouth than Gale’s hooves were clopping on the brick streets downhill toward the heart of equine civilization’s greatest city.

Since the once beautiful city is now covered in a demi-planar haunted forest that’s bigger on the inside, and also full of wooden golems—and frankly I haven’t the slightest clue how Celestia and I are ever going to fix that problem—I suspect I shall have to describe my late favorite city in the world assuming the reader has never even seen a map. Everfree was founded shortly after the events we now commemorate with Hearth’s Warming Day, at the site of a geographical freak accident. Two rivers, the Coltlumbia and the Delamare, meet in the center of the city. This, of course, is not unusual; rivers merge all the time. What is peculiar about the Coltlumbia and the Delamare is that they simply refuse to do so; instead, Everfree was built atop their fluvial ‘X-marks-the-spot’, where both rivers continued their separate ways as though the other simply did not exist. The division did make finding one’s way around rather simple, however. Since the rivers mostly ran northeast-southwest and northwest-southeast, the city had four easy quadrants to refer to: one for each cardinal direction.

Riverward was a neighborhood on the usually sunny banks of the Delamare. There, two streets: North and East Riverward Way, ran parallel to the water on their respective shores. Current-smoothed cobblestones underhoof defined the roads, lined with carefully groomed maple and birch trees that cast the streets in a speckled, soothing shade. In the wide gaps between the trunks, a few vendors had set up stalls and wagons, thankfully keeping their voices down as they tried to entice the wanderers on the roads and bridges to step over and treat themselves to a candy apple, a glass bead bracelet, or any number of other momentary delights. On the far side of the twin streets from the water, more permanent storefronts promised bookbinding, floral arrangements, and other artisanal luxuries.

I was panting when Gale’s hooves finally slowed on those smooth stones and turned to face me with a grin on her face and her meticulously groomed mane fraying onto her brow. “Here we are, Morty! This is Riverward.”

“It’s…” I had to pause as my heart pounded in my chest and my ears alike; I was in no shape for running around after spending so long in bed, and it was beginning to get hard to pretend otherwise. “It’s nice. The shade’s well-appreciated.”

“Not used to Everfree weather yet?” she teased. “It’s been a few weeks now.”

I casually loosened the collar of my jacket. It would show off the gaping hole in my neck if anypony looked closely, but that was a price I was more than willing to pay for the breeze. “And before that, eighteen years in the Crystal Union, where it snows most of the year. What do you wanna do?”

She shrugged. “Walk around? Look in the shops?” I think I must have been staring, wide-eyed and gobsmacked, because Gale took three solid steps and then turned around. “What?

“Sorry, I just… I guess I figured you’d want to go to a bar, or start a fight, or—”

“A mare can’t enjoy a fucking walk now and then?” Gale rolled her eyes. “You idiot. Come here. We’ll get some chocolate or something. Then maybe I’ll feel better.”

“Choco-what?”

“Holy shit…” Gale shook her head as she chuckled to herself and steered me toward a tall storefront with its door set on the corner, at a diagonal to the street. “Okay, let’s blow your mind.”

I began to suspect at least one reason Gale might have liked Riverward when the chocolatier earth pony behind the counter called out to greet us. “Ah, welcome to Ruffle’s Truffles, sir; ma’am. You’re both looking fine today; might I ask the occasion?” For those failing to follow, it isn’t something the mare said; rather, it was that she failed to recognize either of us.

“It’s my birthday,” Gale answered with at least a hint of enthusiasm, though I literally watched her face sour as she unerringly reminded herself of the obligations that came with that date.

The mare behind the counter, mercifully, either missed that expression or knew better than to ask as she stepped away from her stool and over to a large glass case. “Well, perhaps we can find you something to really spice up the day, then? Do you know what you favor, or should I make a few recommendations?”

Gale slapped me on the shoulder and somewhat awkwardly held her hoof there. “Well, it’s this idiot’s first time having chocolate, so you should probably start with something simple. But I love almond liqueur.”

“Ah, amaretto, yes.” The mare opened the case with deft brown hooves, nearly the same color as the darker chocolates, and pulled out a tray of delicate orbs, each topped with a fragile sliver of white almond framed in woody brown. “You have refined tastes, ma’am; these are Queen Platinum’s favorites too.”

Gale’s face instantly wrinkled. “Eh… maybe something else then. Let’s help Morty first.”

“Morty?” the chocolatier inquired with a raised brow, meeting my gaze fully.

By that point, I was already beginning to get used to explaining the appellation. “Yeah, it’s a nickname. My full name is Mortal Coil—”

“You’re the Hero of Platinum’s Landing?” she interrupted, boldly leaning over the case of chocolates to get a closer look at me. “Here? In my shop?”

“Um…” I had to completely reframe my position in the world, and coughed into my hoof as I tried to find words. “Well, yes. Were you there, or…?” My question quickly devolved into spinning a hoof in a circle in an attempt to find my thoughts.

“Oh, no; no. I live here. But cocoa pods only grow in the warmer climate down that way, so we heard a few things from the suppliers. But no, it was all over the papers.”

“The… papers?”

“Newspapers, Morty.” When Gale’s explanation only held my eyebrows suspended up by brow, she rubbed her own temple with a hoof and let out a sigh. “Do they still use fucking town criers in the Crystal Union?”

“No, Jade tended to do all the shouting herself if she wanted something.”

Gale frowned, and then turned back to the chocolatier. “You’d be amazed at the things he doesn’t know about how the world works.”

The other mare chuckled in the exact sort of good humor a merchant tends to practice with potential customers. “Well, I’m honored to be the one introducing you to the wonders of chocolate then.” Pulling out a tray from her display case, she carefully set a single truffle, dusted in cocoa powder, onto a tea saucer. “This one’s on the house, sir. That’s milk chocolate, which tends to be a bit sweeter, since purer dark chocolate can be a little bitter for a dessert if you aren’t expecting it. Put it in your mouth, but don’t chew; just let it melt, and you’ll get a much better sense of a flavor.”

“Treat it like you’re pleasing a mare,” Gale added unhelpfully as I dipped my head down and popped the morsel into my mouth.

The chocolatier stiffened. “I… well, um… ma’am, you must be a lucky mare to be that intimate with the Hero of Platinum’s Landing.”

“You haff no ide—” My awkward delivery around the chocolate in my mouth was interrupted by Gale’s mean straight jab, which both sent my chocolate flying out of my mouth, and left a smear of my drool down the facade of the glass display case, along with a wet slurping sound not unlike a yet-to-be-invented squeegee.

“Yeah, I’m so lucky to have found such a stuck up asshole.” Before I could even recover my hoofing, she hefted me up by the collar of my jacket, and started magically hauling me toward the door without even looking at my motion. Her attention was on the now horrified chocolatier. “Get us a box of six, please. Mint, orange blossom water, and daffodil. And I’ll toss in a little extra for the mess.”

“Y-yes, ma’am.”

—-

As I finally found all four hooves under me outside the chocolate shop, Gale tucked her chocolates into the small of her back, tightening her sundress with a few awkward lumps that she obviously could not have cared less about.

“What was that for?” I demanded.

“You’re not the only good thing that’s ever happened in my life, you know? You’re not ‘Celestia’s gift to Gale’.”

“I think I am.” I had the foresight that time, at least, to block Gale’s next punch. The process, unfortunately, proved that her forelegs were much stronger than mine, as I was left with a throbbing right fetlock and a scowl for my efforts. “I’d be dead if she hadn’t come to rescue me from Cyclone and Jade in River Rock, remember? And as much as she liked to play coy about it, I’m pretty sure she only bothered showing up in person because she thought you were happy running away with me. Or something. So saving my life was literally her gift to you. I didn’t mean it as some ego exercise.”

“Bullshit,” Gale replied, but the explanation did put a little grin on her face, so I counted it as a win. “Every word out of your mouth is about ego. Even a fucking idiot would realize that after a week on the road with you, and I had… what, two months?”

I shrugged. “Something like that. I didn’t exactly have a calendar.”

“Not like you could read one if you did,” Gale teased, taking my throbbing forehoof and pulling me into a casual saunter up East Riverward.

I watched the little rays of afternoon sun that made it through the maple canopy cast speckles on Gale’s hay blonde mane for a few seconds before my mind caught up to my ears. “I can read numbers, you know. I’m pretty good at math. It’s just Equiish text—”

“Morty, I’m just being an ass. I know you’re not an idiot… well, at least, not that kind of idiot. It’s just been a fucking long day, you know? Sorry if I’m taking it out on you.”

“You’re fine,” I told her with a smile that, blissfully, I didn’t think to force. “Just maybe lay off the punches? That’s, what, four today? I’m still a little fragile right now.”

“Right. Sorry…” Gale and I walked for a few more seconds in silence as that apology hung in the air, before she took the initiative to gesture around the streets with a hoof. “Well, Morty, anywhere you want to look around? Any shops interest you?”

I let my gaze sweep around the streets, but nothing caught managed to catch both my eye and my curiosity. “Gale, I’m just glad to be out of bed. Just don’t break off in another sprint, and I’ll be happy.” And then, nibbling on the inside of my cheek, I nodded to her. “What about you? Anything catch your eye?”

She led me briefly toward a vendor’s cart manned by a rugged pegasus in a checkered cap, his stand covered in little gray tubes that he served up to a few other pegasi in a short line. We were probably three strides from the back of the line when Gale shook her head. “Nevermind. Let’s find something else.”

“Something wrong?”

“Sausage is meat, and I know that’s not your cup of tea. Sorry; growing up with pegasi, it’s easy to forget.”

“It’s alright.” I had to focus more than I liked on swallowing before I spoke up. “How about this: is there anything here you’ve always wanted to get, and just… never felt like it was worth the cost?”

Gale looked at me like I’d grown a second muzzle for a few solid seconds before realization broke over her face like a wave does the face of an overconfident sailor. “I don’t need a fucking present from you, Morty.”

Of course, she’d hit my goal on the head, and it left me sheepishly staring at the surface of the river. “Gale, I can’t just show up empty-hooved, looking like—”

Gale sighed, and then her voice dropped to the kind of forced whisper that always reminds me of a tea-kettle just on the verge of a full boiling whistle. “Alright… I don’t want to come across like a total asshole, but if this is what it takes for you to understand: Meadowbrook told you not to do magic, right?” I nodded. “Right. And I know you don’t have a bit to your name right now. Now, remember, I’m the fucking crown princess. It comes with a lot of bullshit and baggage, like we sat through fucking all of today, but it also means I have ‘treasury privileges’. I can buy literally anything I could ever actually want. Frankly, Mom would probably be happy if I was more irresponsible with the money, too; she’d be ecstatic if I bought myself a ton of jewelry or something. So no, there’s nothing here I’ve ever looked at and said ‘eh, not worth it’.” Then she sighed. “Which isn’t to say I wouldn’t appreciate it if you bought me something someday, Morty, but right now if you showed up in front of the suitors and Mom and everypony with something you can afford, you’d probably just be embarrassing yourself for it being too cheap.”

“Well… assuming I could use my magic, what would you want?”

“No. Stop. Ok? What I want is for you to show up tomorrow, stand in the back, stay quiet, and be there if I need somepony to lean on—and ideally, to vent at when it’s over. That’s it. You’re not a suitor, you don’t need to make a scene, you’re just a friend. This party is going to be bullshit, I’m going to hate it, and I’m gonna be miserable tomorrow evening. End of story. No gift.”

“You really think I fought the strongest wizard in the world to death twice and I can’t come up with a gift?”

“This has nothing to do with how you look in front of the suitors! And you sure as fuck don’t have to prove yourself to me!” Gale slapped a hoof on her forehead, painfully striking the base of her horn, and then wrinkling up her face in a fury that only compounded with the self-inflicted pain. “If my plan is gonna work, it can’t be about you. So if your ego is that fucking precious to you, and you can’t bear to get shown up by my other suitors one goddamn time, then for my birthday, you can get the fuck away from me!”

I swallowed, and gave her a nod in silence. “I’m sorry, Gale.”

“So you can learn.” Gale rubbed her temples. “Fuck. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. Let’s just talk about something else.”

I was more than happy to oblige. “Alright… What do you do for fun?”

“What?” It was a question that found Gale blinking like a kitten having just discovered the function of its eyelids. “Morty, we’ve known each other for months; I’m not Tempest’s marefriend-of-the-week.”

“True,” I replied. “And in that time, I’ve learned you like drinking, running away from home, and starting fights, and you hate your mom. But I’m guessing by your lack of liver failure and black eyes that there’s at least one other thing you do for fun? A hobby? Do you just like to… wander around here?”

“Well, anywhere really.” Gale answered. “Anywhere to get away from the palace.” Then she rolled her neck, producing a few apparently satisfying cracks, unlike the ‘clinking’ mine still makes all these years later. “Let’s see… do you dance?”

“I—” I bit back my response. “I’m gonna go ahead and let you guess on that one. Do you think Wintershimmer, who was already eighty years old the day I was born, taught me how to dance?”

“Well, I dunno; maybe you had another friend. Maybe metal-leg… what’s her name, Silhouette?”

I raised a brow as high as it would go. “Seriously?”

“You must have had some friends, right?”

Stars bless the cricket who somehow got confused about the time and started chirping in the middle of the afternoon that day.

“Really?”

“I had Wintershimmer and Angel. Who were, basically, my dad and my… not especially well-trained butler? That’s really it.” I waved a dismissive hoof. “So no. I don’t know how to dance.”

“It’s not that hard; I’ll teach you sometime.” Gale nodded, casting her eyes across the street to a bigger building set between a haberdasher’s and a pet shop (that at the time, from the sign, I assumed was a butcher’s). “That’s the Sordid Affair; it’s a music hall. Most weeknights they’re playing mom’s kind of boring music or earth pony polkas, but on the weekends you can get something good to move to. Tempest and I used to go when we were younger. Sometimes Ty would even come along…” There was a wistfulness in Gale’s voice as she let the thought fade away in the summer breeze.

“Ty?”

“My big sister? Commander Typhoon?”

“No, I… I know who Typhoon is; my apologies. It’s just that she doesn’t seem the type to enjoy dancing.”

Gale chuckled. “You’ve only met her in uniform. She’s gotten stiffer as she’s gotten older, but there was a while there when she got over herself and started actually dating Frostfall, when she really loosened up like she used to be when I was really little.”

“Before she was the Commander?”

Gale shook her head. “Dad retired when I was born. Ty’s been in charge of the Legion my whole life.” Then she scraped her hoof on the street and kicked a rock down the road. “What about you? I assume that old bastard didn’t keep you busy with magic bullshit your entire life?”

I chuckled. “No, he did not. But at the same time… You only knew him when he was actively trying to kill me, so this is going to sound insane, but… he wasn’t my ‘friend’, but he was the closest thing I had. We used to love playing board games, and we’d grow bonteks…” I think I must have slipped into a wistful voice by the end of that, at least until I realized how incredulously Gale was looking at me. “What?”

“Well, one, what’s a ‘bontek’? But two, you and that old bastard actually just sat around playing chess and making golems all fucking day? Seriously?”

“No, Wintershimmer hated chess.” I lifted my hoof to gesticulate a board, and then paused. “I think he hated the idea of chess as the ‘kings game’ or whatever more than he actually hated the rules. But any time I mentioned it, I’d get another earful about how real conflict is never, ever symmetrical, and how King Lapis was an imbecile for pretending… No offense to your grandfather, Gale.” Then I made a brushing motion in the air with my hoof. “A bontek is a magical miniature landscape. See, way east of River Rock, the feline empires have this idea of a ‘bonsai’, which is an art form made by grooming a dwarf tree. And Tectonic was a unicorn archmage who figured out how to push earth to cause small earthquakes and make mountains and that sort of thing; really he couldn’t make much more than a molehill, but the theory was what mattered. So now it's traditional for wizards to make little replicas of the sites of famous battles or cities. It was really a lot of fun; Wintershimmer would animate these little tin soldiers and we’d ‘play’ old battles .”

Gale silently stuttered for a very long moment, her lips and tongue moving rapidly without making a single sound. Finally, she just shook her head. “You are, without a shadow of a doubt, the weirdest pony I have ever even heard of, let alone met. You’re telling me you and your ninety-year old asshole teacher sat around and played with tin soldiers like you were three? And that’s honestly what you did for fun?”

“Oh, come on, Gale; be fair. Half the fun is ‘growing’ the canyon or the forest or the plains. And tin soldiers are a lot more interesting when they move on their own and their lives are in your hooves. Believe me; you’d love it if you tried. Just imagine the thrill of watching your enemy’s commander conquered, your siege-engines pounding on his fortress walls, as you watch his little tin intestines spilling out on the miniature battlements…” I, thankfully, had enough foresight to realize that a few ponies in the street were staring at me and nervously moving to the far side of the street to keep their distances from us. “Maybe I’ll tell you more later. In private.”

“Yeah, that might be a good idea.” Gale sighed, and cast her eyes up to the sky. “You want to grab a candy apple before we head out? I probably ought to start heading back to the palace soon.” In accompaniment to her question, Gale pointed with her horn across the river to another vendor serving delicious red caramel-coated apples on thin wooden sticks.

“Absolutely.” I took two confident steps toward the river as my eyes searched for the nearest bridge before sighing when I realized that, as we were talking so blankly under the leafy shade, we had left the last good path a solid few blocks behind us. “You want to just teleport us across?”

“Morty, I’m still not that strong at teleporting. Last time we tried I nearly threw us both down a cliff; you do remember, right?”

I shrugged. “That’s true, but I also remember a certain wizard catching us in time, no worse for the wear.” As I said this, I placed a hoof on my own chest. “This time, there’s no danger to be worried about, so you can be calm and take your time. And even if you don’t make it, the worst that happens is we get our legs a little wet. The river isn’t even that deep here, is it?”

“Deeper than it looks,” Gale countered. “And I’d be getting my dress wet; Mom would be pissed.” Then, her concerned expression slowly morphed into a grin. I watched as scarlet magic built on her horn. “You know what, fuck it.”

The pop and the lurch of teleportation sent my gut twisting before I could even tell her I was ready, and a moment later my head was underwater. I gasped, brilliantly exercising the survival instincts of a fish, and then began flailing as I tried to swim upward.

This motion had two side effects; the first was that I punched Gale in her shoulder with most of my body weight. The second was that my other hoof almost immediately kicked me up out of the water; it was barely a couple of hooves deep.

After a few seconds of hacking and choking, I managed to get the water out of my lungs and gasp in a breath of fresh air. A moment later, I heard Gale do the same, and then I had just flicked my mane out of my eyes when I found a hoof flying for my face.

“Ow!” I gasped as I managed this time to catch myself before I fell in the water.

“Teleporting was your fucking idea!” Gale snapped. “I told you I probably couldn’t make it. Why the hell’d you hit me?”

“I wasn’t trying to!.” I flicked my neck like a wet dog until I could see properly again. “Sorry, Gale. I was just trying to stand up. I wasn’t expecting my head to be underwater.”

Gale huffed, sending a spray of water from the hair around her nostrils, and I quickly realized that she too was completely soaked—not just her legs, but mane-to-tail. “Yeah… I think I got us turned sideways. Sorry for hitting you again.”

“It’s fine,” I answered. “Just remember I’m still not back to my usual self.” I took a few tentative steps on the river bottom to make sure I had my balance, and then reached back to offer her a hoof up out of the deeper part of the river toward the shore. “Well, you got what you wanted about the dress.”

After Gale took my hoof and found her own stance, she glanced back at her body. “I… oh shit…” I caught a hint of laughter in her voice. “Yeah, this is fucking ruined…” Then she laughed a little more, and suddenly the cracks in the dam broke outright. On the one hoof, looking back, the thought of Gale having ruined her dress just to spite Queen Platinum is a bit amusing, but more than that I suspect our laughter was her way of letting go of the day’s frustrations. By the time we climbed up the bank of the river and onto the far street, laughing together the whole time like a pair of complete idiots, it was already obvious that Gale’s movements seemed… lighter.

I couldn’t put my hoof on what single thing had changed then, and even now with hundreds of years of life experience behind me, I’m still not sure I can say. I just know that somehow I felt a little lighter myself too.

We put in our orders for the candy apples, dripping and getting strange looks from the vendor the entire time. I picked out a caramel apple with little stripes of white icing, while Gale opted for a brilliant red ‘fireball’ candy apple, dusted with cinnamon and a few flecks of pepper. Then we walked away from Riverward, her holding both apples in her magic to spare my horn, hardly even saying anything; just crunching bites of our respective treats and occasionally letting a little chuckle slip.

It didn’t take us long to return to the palace, and we parted ways after she led me to the kitchens. Though the chefs in the palace were some of the best in Equestria, and their food exquisite, all through the meal my mind lingered on that caramel apple, and as I made my way back up to Celestia’s bedroom for a night’s sleep, I found it hard to come by; my mind was still wandering the streets in Riverward, side-by-side with my thoughts of Gale.

1-10

I - X

The Light of the Sun

I awoke to the gentle nudging of feathers against my shoulder, and in the mental haze of having just woken up, I responded by rolling directly into them.

“Morty, I’m afraid I’m already done up for the party this evening, and I’d hate to have to preen myself again.” I jumped, very possibly bucking the wing in question as I did, at the sound of Celestia’s voice. “But it’s good to see you too.”

I assume that any reader of this story in any time in the future will know of Celestia’s beauty, coloration, etc. and so I’ll spare you all a redundant description. Notably differing from her usual appearance in more modern times, rather than her usual gilded peytral (which, I believe, had not even been forged yet at the time of our story), Celestia in our day was usually as naked as any other pony of the day. I emphasize that so you understand why I was surprised to find her clad in a modest violet evening dress, emphasizing the slenderness of her form while drawing attention to her face and—thanks to its open back—her considerable wingspan.

“Celestia!”

The immortal, at least in theory my new mentor, muffled a laugh with the wing that I had struck. “I’m sorry for surprising you, Morty. I heard from Gale that Meadowbrook gave you a clean bill of health, so I thought I might wake you up and invite you to join me at a little party.”

“A party?”

“Gale’s birthday party,” Celestia confirmed. “I know in theory it’s only for her suitors and some of the more decorative members of the court, like my sister and I—” (again, it would be a full eight hundred years after these events before Celestia and Luna seized the Equestrian throne following the collapse of mortal rule) “—but I hear that it’s fashionable to have a young, handsome companion at your side. I thought that might be excuse enough to get you through the doors.”

I chuckled. “Oh. Right. Gale actually invited me.”

“Did she?” Celestia quirked a brow. “That… wasn’t very subtle of her. Are you admitting that because you trust me, or did Gale forget to tell you to keep it quiet?”

“The latter. Why would I need to keep an invitation quiet? Isn’t she allowed to invite who she wants, if the party is for her?”

In response, Celestia sat down and offered me a hoof. I took it gently, curious if she was expecting me to shake it or something, and instead found myself reminded of just how much brute strength there was in her slender build when she smoothly pulled me out of bed and beckoned me to sit facing her. “As your mentor, Morty, I mean to spend my time teaching you about magic. Equestria has plenty of statesponies who know more about diplomacy than me, and I suspect your talents would be wasted in politics. If you’re going to go much further up this road, I’m afraid Queen Platinum will be a better teacher than I could ever be… though I understand she largely has her hooves full with her current student.”

“Is Gale really that bad? I thought she was an excellent statespony. She did a fantastic job on our adventure dealing with the polar bears.”

Celestia ushered me over to a Celestia-sized vanity, which I was just barely tall enough to see the surface of. There, at eye level, I found a small oval picture frame, and inside a loving oil portrait of Gale, feathered strokes showing a face younger than I had ever known. It was no master’s portrait, no perfect mirror image of reality, but in the fuzzy edges of the strokes, it captured Gale’s distaste for sitting still so long. Her brow was creased, her eyes averted though her shoulders kept proper posture.

Celestia’s golden magic lifted the frame, pulling it closer to my view. “When her passions flare up and she actually cares, Gale is an exceptional statesmare. Unfortunately, she lacks subtlety and patience, and so as the Queen often tells me, she cannot see the big picture. Like hosting a bunch of suitors because of the friendships that could cultivate, even for the families she didn’t choose.” Celestia nodded in my direction, and set down the picture. “Which would mean that if she gave you an invitation, she’d be giving away the game and admitting she wanted you as a suitor, because that would give her immediate gratification. Unfortunately, at least from Queen Platinum’s perspective, that comes at a massive cost to her political influence.”

“And at that point the Queen finds some excuse to banish me from Equestria?”

Celestia chuckled, covering her mouth with the ridge of a wing. “I see I’m repeating something Gale has already explained. Probably with more cursing. I could probably protect you from outright exile, but I’d also advise you not to push your luck.” The gaze she cast toward the portrait on her vanity was wistful, heavy with memories I didn’t understand. “I’ve fought with the Queen before, and I lost bitterly.”

Some phrases beg silence, and I was more than happy to oblige. Celestia herself, though, seemed quick enough to recover, smiling and wrapping her wing over my shoulder. “On the other hoof, if you were to attend the party as my guest, I’ll be the only pony to blame. Without some evidence of what you two are trying, the Queen and the sponsors can’t do anything to affect your candidacy without looking extremely petty.”

I nodded. “Well then… The age gap might make this look scandalous, but I’ll be glad to accompany you.”

Celestia buried her whole face in her wing with laughter. “Morty, I can already tell you’re going to get me into so much trouble.”

“I hope not,” I replied, extending my foreleg as a stallion might when offering it to a date—though I knew full-well I could no more hold Celestia’s leg than a carry a tree trunk over my shoulder. “But as Wint… well, as it’s said, ‘a wizard who isn’t making some kind of trouble is wasting his horn.’ When does the party actually start?”

“Oh, not for another few hours. But I had a suspicion you would want time to have some proper grooming, perhaps get something tailored… after all, though you may be young and handsome, it wouldn’t do to have bed mane at my side, would it?” I caught the teasing tone on the edge of her voice, though even if I hadn’t the smile gave away the game.

“How long have you known Gale wanted me to become a suitor?”

In response, Celestia opened the door out of the bedroom with her golden magic and offered me a wink. “Known, not until you asked that question. Suspected… since before I had even met you in River Rock, when Hurricane brought her back to Everfree and she told me all about your adventures.” And then, as we stepped out into the hallways of the palace, Celestia leaned down to my ear. “But to teach you another small lesson in politics: even if Gale hadn’t asked you yet, and you had no idea about any of this business, I would still have invited you.”

“Why?”

“Because everypony has an agenda.”

—

Under Wintershimmer, I had always worn my mane fairly short, but without worrying much beyond that practical requirement; it tended to grow forward in a sort of shelf, and both I and apparently most of the ponies I had encountered in my life thought that looked good enough to put me in the top 1% of attractiveness of ponies. But, as I learned under the tutelage of one of the palace’s many numerous serving staff (Humble Servant, my friend from my trial during the Wintershimmer incident, in fact), there is a massive difference between swiping your mane down with a hoof, and looking like you don’t care enough that you swiped your mane down with a hoof.

The difference is about four hours of work, an almost sacrilegious number of bottles of bubbling mane tonics, and fewer hair brushes but far more paint brushes than you might think. As I was sitting there somewhat awkwardly next to Celestia, slowly realizing the real reason that nobles envied her magical flowing mane, she elected to distract me from my growing emerald streak of envy with a gentle question.

“I think I mentioned that I haven’t had a student in magic in a long time, Morty. So that you know what you’re getting into, it’s been seventeen hundred years. And you’re starting out far more advanced than anypony I’ve taught before. What do you want us to learn first?”

It was an intriguing question, though it had a fairly simple answer. “I think I’d like to learn to read. That’ll be a nice departure from Wintershimmer’s style to get us off on the right hoof… not to mention Meadowbrook said I can’t use my horn yet, since it’s still healing from the duel.”

Celestia nodded. “That sounds like an excellent choice. On the topic of Wintershimmer, you and I are going to have to take a little field trip back to the Crystal Union, once Mage Meadowbrook gives you a fully clean bill of health.”

I turned to raise a brow at Celestia, only to be slapped on the muzzle with a hairbrush for the crime of daring to turn my head. “I thought I made it clear I was turning down the title of being her court mage. And there’s nothing more I can do for Smart Cookie; now that he has his soul back, he probably just needs to stretch his legs and build up muscle mass from his coma, right?”

“Both true,” Celestia agreed. “That’s actually why I’ve been away these past few days, Morty: helping Smart Cookie catch up on the times. Queen Jade also needed some help getting affairs in the Union back in order. But there’s still a little bit of cleanup left for you, Morty. Queen Jade and Smart Cookie decided that since you were his apprentice, and technically his legal heir, you’re the best pony to inherit Wintershimmer’s belongings.”

I frowned for a moment, and then chuckled. “That might be the best idea, but I don’t exactly have somewhere to put all that stuff right now. I imagine you don’t want any of it in your bedroom.”

“No, I think I’d rather not,” she agreed with a slight laugh, before pausing pensively. “Well, except the bird stand.”

“Bird stand?”

“For Philomena.”

“Philo… who?” Before she could answer, enough memory came back to answer my own question. “Wait, you’re actually keeping that phoenix? It’s vicious; trust me. You don’t want it around. Throw it out the window and let it fly off or something. Ideally into a cliff face.”

For the record if you happen to know Celestia personally, yes, it is that Philomena, and yes, she still tries to burn off my eyebrows every time I visit.

I hate that bird.

“As I understand it she hasn’t been free in thirty lifetimes, so perhaps some unhappiness on her part is fair. I offered to let her go, but she needs a little more time to get used to being free again before she can go back to the wild. I told her she could stay with me as long as she likes. We’ll have to bring her back with us when we visit the Union; I flew by myself instead of taking a carriage, and she isn’t up to flying that far on her own wings yet.” Celestia smiled as she continued, though my mind was torn away from her by a rather foul smelling poultice being swiped through my mane by Humble Servant.

The alicorn, as ever, seemed unaffected even by the mane concerns of others. “I think the same decision has been made for a few of the physical effects he left here from your final battle.”

“What, the last two candlecorns?” I restrained myself from grinning as I nodded. “Trying to kill us aside, they’re incredibly useful. Especially to me, since they can cast basic spells for me without me having to flare up my horn and injure myself.” I frowned from deep thought. “I’ll have to figure out what illusion Wintershimmer was using to make them look exactly like him; I wouldn’t want to ruin this face trying to copy it with molten wax.”

A candlecorn, for those unfamiliar, is a type of golem which Wintershimmer invented (although this may be the last surviving record of that fact, as Celestia, Star Swirl, and I personally hid or burned most of his life’s work), which can essentially be summarized as a slightly oversized unicorn made of wax, with a candle in place of a horn. This unusual material and feature, while not as resilient or brutishly strong as a walking statue or as cheap as a dirt effigy, was capable of casting simple spells--and as Wintershimmer had proven to horrifying effect, could even cast fairly advanced spells, provided a real unicorn inserted his or her own soul to possess one.

“I believe Star Swirl also mentioned that he had set aside Wintershimmer’s jacket, which he suggested was lightly enchanted in a somewhat different manner than yours… and his staff.”

I winced. “Ah…”

The staff in question, for anyone who hasn’t read my preceding adventure, consisted of the skull and spinal column of an adolescent dragon. And I do mean that literally; at least if the story Wintershimmer had told me as a foal was true (it was, though I didn’t have a way to verify at the time), he had killed the creature it was made from, and then enchanted the bones into the terrifying symbol of his magical power that I had grown up seeing constantly at his side.

It was not, as you might imagine, an especially friendly symbol.

“You don’t need to worry about it right now, Morty,” Celestia advised, sensing my hesitance. “Have you had a chance to meet any of Gale’s other suitors yet?”

I briefly quirked my brow in Humble Servant’s direction, but Celestia seemed to trust him enough not to worry that he had clearly heard her use of the word ‘other’, so I shrugged and answered her question. “All of them, actually. Gale sort of... dragged me around to meet the suitors while she was delivering their invitations to the party.”

“That must have been an experience. What do you think of them?” I hadn’t, at the time, known Celestia long enough to tell the difference between when her blank face actually conveyed a lack of emotion, and when she kept her expression flat because there was no way to move the muscles of one’s muzzle enough to respect the implication of one’s words.

This was one of the latter cases.

But again, in ignorance I assumed she didn’t know the seven stal— ponies well enough to realize how loaded her question was. So, nervously, I swallowed. “Well… I think I can see where Gale is coming from.”

“That bad?”

“I may have gotten into a few arguments with them myself.” I swallowed. “Let’s see… first there was the unicorn noble Castle and his mom.”

“High Castle,” Celestia nodded. “I haven’t spoken to the young stallion much, but from my interactions with his mother I can see where Gale is coming from. I would have expected him to be the worst. Well, second worst.”

“For Gale, probably,” I agreed. “They expressed the opinion that you have to be born into a heroic family to be a hero. I, shall we say, disagreed.”

“No doubt talking about being descended from Luna and I?” Celestia asked with a mixture of dry distaste and fatigue in her voice.

I nodded as much as I felt comfortable without fear of being once again struck on the muzzle by an irate manedresser. “Is it true?”

“You think I’ve kept track?” Celestia scoffed, in an expression that, all these years later, I relate to much more closely. “I have had the joy of being a mother, Morty. And the first such joy was long enough ago that, conceivably, many ponies could be my great grandfoals many times over. But I have no idea if the noble families of the unicorns really are descended from me. And just between us, I think it’s silly to assume such a distant relationship with me means anything.” Celestia concluded the thought with a sigh, before pulling a cushion over from across the room and making herself more comfortable. “You seem to always know just what to ask to dredge up ancient history, Morty. I think we were talking about Gale’s suitors? That’s a more pleasant topic, I think.”

I raised one eyebrow into the mirror in front of me, which let me meet Celestia’s gaze without turning my head. “If you say so. After High Castle, we flew up Cloudsdale to the public baths.”

“Oh, that must have been fun for you!”

Though I didn’t want to be such a downer as to squash Celestia’s smile, I had to roll my eyes. “I’m learning not to like flying. At least, not in open chariots. But while we were there, we met the pegasus… Cap-something, I think, who might have been the nicest one of them all. It was something of a surprise; Gale led me to believe he and his grandmother were criminal masterminds.”

Celestia offered me a sage nod from her cushion, before giving Humble Servant a brief nod of approval at some tweak to my mane. “Not all cruelty is as overt as Wintershimmer’s. There’s more than one way to wield your reputation as a weapon.”

“If you say so.” If only I had learned the truth of that lesson faster... “After we got back on solid ground, we visited with Puddinghead’s son, Peanut. I’m fairly certain he would rather be with me than Gale.”

“Oh?”

“I mean… I’m not one for stallions, but if I were, I am the obvious choice.” Through the reflection of the mirror, to avoid turning, I winked at Celestia. “You’re doing great work, by the way, Humble.”

“I live to serve, sir,” Humble Servant replied curtly, more focused on my mane than our conversation.

Celestia let out the smallest of sighs.“Luna did tell me you were a bit enamored with her when she took on your form. Have you ever heard the story of Neighcissus?”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m not going to starve to death looking in the mirror just because I know I look good.” Then, thinking back to my next encounter, I subconsciously brought my hoof up to my neck. “Not that looking increasingly like a corpse is helping.”

“Ah, you’ll forgive me, sir; I wasn’t going to comment on it if you didn’t bring it up.” Humble Servant nodded. “Shall I powder your… fatally open wound?”

“It’s not actually open,” I clarified. “There’s a thin layer of metal there. It just looks open.” Then I chuckled. “You’re welcome to put whatever make-up you want on it to cover it up, but I was just planning on wearing the collar of my jacket up more often.” I turned my head ever so slightly to look back to Celestia. “Gale hit me and opened up the stitches Meadowbrook had put in. The alchemist suitor… what was her name? Spicy?”

“Lady Menage,” Celestia gently completed with a nod. “I don’t mind nicknames between us, Morty, but if you learn to think of Gale’s suitors by their preferred titles first, it will spare you and Gale a great deal of pain in the future. Are you saying she deliberately put a layer of metal over your open wound?”

“Well, it was a forgivable mistake. She gave me something to clot it, but since there was still quicksilver in the wound from Silhouette’s claw…” I lifted my hoof, rapping on my own neck, and the faint metallic ringing in the room finished the thought.

“Sir, you will be pleased to note I took the liberty of selecting a few scarves and cravats, as well as an earth pony ‘neck-tie’, as accessory options for your outfit. Any one of them should be more than enough of an excuse for a taller collar to your attire.” Humble Servant smiled. “Once your mane is settled, of course.”

“Of course,” I agreed in feigned comfort with the process, returning my attention to Celestia. “Um… Spicy had some strong opinions on stallions. Like why we shouldn’t exist.”

“I’m vaguely familiar,” Celestia answered dismissively. “The disagreement there seems obvious.”

“Yeah… After her, I had the delight of meeting ‘Archmage’ Grayscale.”

“You say that like you don’t consider his title valid?”

“Grayscale is…” I paused not to choose my words delicately, but to make sure they were at least (in my perspective) fair. “He’s the apotheosis of everything wrong with Archmage Diadem’s philosophy of magic. I don’t know that I care that much about using a school to organize education, if it actually put forward wizards who were capable of using their magic to protect society. But if Grayscale is who those poor students are going to grow up to be… Frankly, I think they ought to shut it down before the school does any more harm.”

“That is… certainly a strong opinion, Morty.”

“Just wait; I’ve got lots, now that I’m not worried about being framed for murder.” I chuckled. “After Grayscale, we met Gray Rain… I know I’m going to get those two confused. Mrs. Rain was… unusual. I think Gale honestly likes talking to her more than the stallion himself. I guess Mrs. Rain was the one who taught Gale how to use a sword?”

Celestia hid a chuckle behind a hoof. “Yes, much to Hurricane and the Queen’s annoyance. But then, given recent events, I suppose I owe her my gratitude for those lessons. You didn’t ask her about her eye, did you?”

“No!” I shook my head, to Humble’s annoyance. “She offered to tell me, but the Dawn warned me so I didn’t ask. Not about Mrs. Rain in particular, but just not to ask old pegasi about war wounds. She suggested they consider it rude?”

“Often, yes. And in Rain’s case especially it would be a poor choice. I thought I would warn you in advance, since you wouldn’t want to get on that mare’s bad side, but I’m glad you made a good first impression. Iron Rain is one of Gale’s few real friends, and she loves their sparring matches. Though I worry that one of these days, Gale will finally get good enough to put up a real fight, and Rain will hurt herself trying to win against such a younger mare.”

I raised a hoof to force an awkward throat-clearing cough. “No offense meant, but—”

“Point taken,” Celestia interrupted with a chuckle. “My age does have its flaws, Morty, but arthritis is not one of them.” After a moment of amusement, I watched Celestia’s face fall, and she picked up again with a laborious low tone to her speech. “I take it your last introduction was with ‘my’ knight, then?”

“Count Halo, you mean? Yes; he seemed to think you taking me on as a student made me some kind of ‘chosen one’. He and his little apprentice, both.”

“Cherry?” Celestia cocked her head, before smiling. “He’s a delight, isn’t he? Just so friendly. It’s a shame he’s squiring under Halo, but hopefully he’ll come into his own before he gets too blinded by the faith.”

I bit back my complaints about the colt’s weird ‘perfection’. “Isn’t it your church? Why not just walk in and tell them to knock it off, if they aren’t doing what you want?”

“For the most part, the church’s teachings aren’t harmful; I do agree with the moral lessons they put forth. And for many of the worshippers, unfortunately, dismantling the body wouldn’t just be an end of a false faith; I’d be destroying their social circles, some of their jobs… a huge part of their identities.” With a resigned sigh, she added “And… it isn’t as if they’re completely wrong. As you well know, Luna and I do judge the souls of dead ponies. But judgement of souls does not make us omnipotent, or infallible, or as you know, even factually immortal.”

Celestia leaned her head back on her long neck, until she was staring up at the ceiling and her mane was billowing down in its unfelt wind onto her wings. I can’t be sure if it was an expression of unspoken frustration or merely a stretch, but she held her head up that way as she continued. “It’s Halo, and the other knights and clergy, who cause problems. They’re always inclined to go past just following good moral rules, trying to do grandiose tasks in my name, or ‘defend my honor’, whatever that means. And Halo is by far the worst. I try to tell him off, but usually he insists that I am making a ‘test of his faith’, and goes on doing whatever it was he was going to do ‘in my name’ anyway.” Holding the leading feathers of a wing to her temple, she added “I have met more than a few stubborn ponies in my day, Morty, but I’ve never before met somepony who managed to be so obviously able to hear while also managing to be completely deaf.”

“He… well, I suppose I can see that. He insisted when you burnt out most of my belly, that it was on purpose, to ‘test’ me or something.”

Celestia’s head snapped down, and she had to mask her entire muzzle with her feathers to contain a laugh in response. “Oh no, Morty; I’m afraid you’ve failed your lesson on dietary fitness. I guess we’ll have to start over.”

Humble Servant was at least sympathetic when my laughter pulled me away from his brush.

“In all seriousness, Morty, I wasn’t lying when I told you I can’t stand being a ‘goddess’. I don’t even really like being a leader.”

Celestia, you have all my sympathy. I could never do what you are doing. And while Everfree City may be no more, Equestria still exists because of you.

Unburdened by such knowledge of the future, my younger self chuckled. “Well, if your ‘followers’ don’t actually listen to you, I can sympathize. Though I think Graargh is still easier to work with than Halo.”

The joke didn’t seem to amuse Celestia. “Even the knights who do listen to me make me uncomfortable.” Celestia shook her head. “I don’t deserve that kind of power. I don’t know if anypony does.”

“The power to move the sun?” I asked. “I mean, forgive me if I sound like I’m belittling you; I’m just trying to understand. From my perspective, it seems like an ageless alicorn body and nearly infinite magical power is a trade that would absolutely be worth it to miss out on sleeping in every morning to raise the sun. Is there some downside? Some curse? Some cost?”

Celestia gave a small sad laugh as she shook her head. “I suppose you could call ‘responsibility’ a curse. But no, Morty. There’s no magical cost to my form. The ‘curse’ is in how other ponies view me, what they come to expect the second they meet me. Much like a certain teenage colt who now knows how to send somepony’s soul to the Summer Lands with nothing more than a thought, I didn’t actually ask for this. And, much like I’m sure you’ll learn in the next few years—if not the next few hours—both of our magical powers come with expectations from the ponies around us. And unfortunately, even the power to move the sun doesn’t give me much influence on those expectations. As you’ve observed, I’ve been telling ponies for twenty years not to call me a goddess. And yet...”

“Hmm…” I raised a brow. “I can see your issue, but I don’t know if it applies to me. The Razor was the reason everypony respected Wintershimmer; that spell was his whole claim to fame.”

Celestia nodded solemnly. “As grim as it is to discuss, most of his respect was because he was more than willing to use his spell. Meanwhile, the fact that you didn’t kill Clover like Wintershimmer wanted tells me that the same cannot be said about you.”

“And the fact that I’m a good enough necromancer to use that spell, even if I’m not a sociopath or a serial killer, doesn’t count for anything?”

“I’m afraid it won’t mean much to the ponies who matter for winning Gale’s hoof.” When I frowned, Celestia patted me on the shoulder. “For what it’s worth, it means a lot to me.”

While our conversation went on for some time longer, making smalltalk and holding my neck at uncomfortable angles, the majority of our discussions were simply her catching me up on the politics and affairs of the Crystal Union, and my sharing awkward stories from my youth as a ‘softcoat’ amongst crystal teenagers. I’ll spare you the misery of how I had no friends before Gale, and cut to the only other discussion of meaningful note.

“Celestia, could I ask for your help with something before the party?” I asked her as my mane was just setting from the last of the thirty-something additions to its shape and texture.

“Hmm?”

“Well… I had an idea for a birthday gift for Gale, but I’m not sure I can arrange it on my own.”

Celestia chuckled. “I’m sure she’ll forgive you for not getting her anything.”

I nodded. “She practically ordered me not to. But… I’m just going to need some money, and somepony who’s known Gale longer than I have to help work out a few of the details.”

“I did hear that the crowns wanted to give you… I believe they said ‘a boon’, in thanks and apology for what happened to you.”

I raised a brow. “I don’t know this is worth a boon.”

“No,” said Celestia. “But it would certainly be an impressive gesture to give up something with that much worth for somepony else’s happiness… assuming that’s what you’re actually thinking of, and this isn’t just for you to save face in front of the other suitors.” The look Celestia shot me told me that the thought wasn’t hypothetical, and was rather more of a warning. Thankfully, that was at least one rare moment in my life utterly undefined by ego, and I was able to answer with a warm smile.

“If she’ll appreciate the gesture, then absolutely.”

I think I saw a shred of relief on Celestia’s expression when she answered. “Very well. What did you have in mind?”

So I explained myself.

1-11

I - XI

The Party

The court herald announced in his most powerful voice “Announcing the Lady Celestia, and… oh goddesses…”

“You can keep it short this time,” Celestia whispered.

The herald swallowed and whispered back “Thank you, merciful one,” before picking up again “The Mage Coil the Immortal of the Crystal Union.”

If the vinyl record had been invented on that day, I am certain one would have audibly scratched. As it was, in reverence to ‘her holiness’’ arrival, the lutists and psalterists and the hurdy-gurdian (along with the other, less amusingly titled musicians) ceased their performance of elevator music, and the more-or-less abrupt silence led heads to turn. Most of the room had the decency at least to feign their looks of confusion or disbelief as reverent glances to the living goddess who had entered the chamber, but from her place at the head of the room, Queen Platinum I could have stopped a lesser pony’s heart with the glare she shot me.

For those picturing the ballroom of Canterlot from familiarity with events like the Grand Equestrian Gala, I can say that the size of the Everfree Palace’s ballroom put that chamber to shame. This is likely largely owed to the fact that the architects of the latter structure had the advantage of building on flat ground, instead of projecting out of the side of a mountain. To make up for the lack of such a notable location, Everfree’s ballroom was host to a number of interesting decisions. Firstly, the room occupied three floors of the palace, with galleries overhead where those too old, infirm, or quadruply left-hooved to feel comfortable cutting a rug on the marble floor could nonetheless participate in high society. Despite being called a ballroom, the chamber had further been built with dining space and decoration in mind—the latter emphasized by a massive stone orrery whose depictions of the planets and the stars would one day be replaced by a set of six immensely powerful magical artifacts… but that’s neither a story about me, nor my story to tell. At the time of Gale’s birthday party, the orbs were glass, enchanted by some half-baked wizard or other to glow with an inner sparkle, the memory of which would one day inspire the invention of the disco ball following a period of ill-advised drinking and reflection on ages past. At the time, however, rather than gauche they could only be called avante-garde, and therefore utterly symbolic of the party itself: matching Queen Platinum’s taste over her daughter’s, and frankly, disgusting the younger royal.

Celestia delicately lit her horn, and seven notes rang out on one of the lutes hidden among the bandponies; apparently, that was enough of a sign to start the music back up, and soon the party had gone back to the discussions they were already having. She must have sensed my curiosity, as she whispered to me “You must have heard that some of Gale’s suitors belong to noble houses, right?”

I nodded. “I think I heard one or two. Spicy—” Celestia shot me a disapproving frown for using Gale’s nickname. “—is from the ‘House of Three’ or something?”

Celestia nodded. “Legend has it that Queen Platinum’s bloodline is descended from my foals, hence their name: ‘The House of the Rising Sun.’ That song is in their honor.” Then her voice jumped about a dozen decibels and an octave as she lifted her head. “Ah, good day Luna.”

“Sister,” Luna replied with a nod of her head, before her tone turned a touch icier. “Coil.”

“Lady Luna.” I offered my best elaborate bow, only for Luna to yank me up by my collar.

“Save yourself the embarrassment and just be rude passively, colt; whatever overblown self-origami that was will not impress anypony here.” Then she chuckled. “Though I am curious how many bridges you even have left to burn.”

“Says the mare who accused me of murder.”

“I believe I already explained myself,” Luna answered. “And further, did I not aid you in your final battle?”

“Fair enough.” I nodded. “Thank you.”

“Do not forget that you still owe me a geas,” Luna answered, before turning back to her sister. “I’m curious, sister; do you intend to wait in line to greet Gale, like a mortal, or are you at least going to exert your authority to skip the line and walk up to her side?” Luna gestured with a wing to where a rather offensively long line of ponies had queued up the steps to a dais at the head of the room. There, Gale slowly shook hooves, made small talk, and visibly contemplated suicide beside her parents—Queen Platinum I and Commander Hurricane, for anypony who has forgotten—each flanked by a small cluster of hangers-on.

I had eyes for none of them. For all Gale’s complaints about the effort it took to appease her mother with her appearance, the effect was startling. She wore just a touch of makeup—a faint gloss on her lips and two arcs of a purple eyeshadow to add tone and depth to her lilac coat. I’m certain she had to fight to keep the effects at that, given that for all her beauty in her age, Queen Platinum was nearly caked in the stuff. Still, it added just the right touches to compliment her regal silver dress, scaled like dragonskin and glittering up to a metallic rose on her left shoulder, sitting on the only strap the garment had. Though the trail covered her tail (since in our adventures, she had cropped it far too short to be seen in ‘polite’ society), it was with a slimming fabric and no petticoat, in an almost Cirran style which alluded to her paternal parentage and also scandalously alluded to the fact that she did, in fact, possess hind fetlocks.

Society in those days could sometimes be astoundingly prudish.

I only caught the trail end of Celestia’s comments when my ears caught my name. “...for Morty’s benefit, I can survive mingling in line for a bit. If you’d be so kind, though, do send one of the ponies with the horse d'oeuvres trays over; that should tide me over until the cake, at least.”

Luna chuckled. “Never was there a greater evidence of our immortality, Sister dearest, than that you haven’t yet died of a heart attack.” Walking away, she waved a wing back toward us. “Fear not, big sister; you shan’t starve on my watch.”

“Shan’t?” I asked, incredulously. “Mareistotle would like her vocabulary back.”

“Luna thinks she’s a poet,” Celestia answered. “Morty, do my flanks look wide to you?”

Now, I should remind the reader that Gale was my first and only real romance, save a sort of ‘arch-nemeses-with-purely-theoretical-benefits’ relationship with the commander of the crystal guard. Hence, I had no idea just what sort of a bear trap had been set in front of my poor, unguarded sensitive parts when I heard that question.

Fortunately, by the sheer blind luck of a newborn foal at a construction site in a slapstick comedy, I managed to evade what might otherwise have been certain death when I answered “Um… Proportionally, no?”

“It’s refreshing to be around somepony so direct,” Celestia replied, patting me on the back. “Come on; let’s go meet Gale.”

However good Celestia’s intentions may have been, the reverence of the other ponies at the party was greater. “Please, your holiness, go ahead.” “Oh, I couldn’t dream of making you wait in line, Lady Celestia.” “I couldn’t live with myself if I stood in your way.” “Thank fuck you finally got up here; I want to die.”

In case it wasn’t obvious, that last one was Gale when we reached her at the end of the line.

“Language,” snapped Queen Platinum at a volume that Celestia and I could both hear quite clearly over the music, but which at least I have to imagine the rest of the room could not. “Lady Celestia. I see you’ve taken the liberty of inviting Coil.” I don’t know if I could have fit so much derision into the last few of those words. It wouldn’t be fair to say that the Queen looked in my direction, but she certainly addressed me from out of the corner of her eye, where her practiced smile seemed all the more malevolent. “May I have a word in private, Mortal?”

“Coil, your Highness.” I tried to match her smile, calm and forced and porcelain, though I suspect the hint of teeth at the edge of my cheek showed I was an amateur up against a practiced master.

As I stepped past the Queen further up onto the dais and away from the line behind us, she corrected “Majesty” into my ear. “I don’t take offense, Coil, but if you intend to be around Gale and I for any length of time, you ought to know: Majesty is for the seated monarch, while Highness is for other members of her family.” By the time she stopped us walking, I was more than comfortably able to lean up against one of the marbled cloudstone pillars supporting the chamber. “And that is precisely what I wish to speak to you about.”

“Being around Gale?” I clarified.

Platinum nodded. “The crown apologizes for wrongly accusing you of Wintershimmer’s crimes, and we would like to reward you on another day in the near future: some funds, help settling yourself permanently in Everfree if that is your final plan, perhaps even a boon. That being said, I cannot encourage you enough to consider taking up Queen Jade’s offer and returning to the Crystal Union to serve as their court mage.”

“Are the rumors that bad?” I asked jokingly.

Silver nostrils flared as they sucked in a harsh gasp of air, covering over what might otherwise have been a very harsh response. “You will recall that when Lady Luna was making her case in court that you were guilty of Wintershimmer’s crimes, it was my daughter’s intercession that bought you another day to plead your case?”

“Well, apart from the fact that I ran off and actually fought Wintershimmer instead of coming back to court… but yes.”

“I am curious what spell you cast to be in two places at once. And why your substitute seemed so intent on eating the furniture and scratching itself like a dog…” The Queen shrugged; apparently, nopony had explained that I had a young changeling in my services to Her Majesty. I tucked that thought into the back of my mind as she continued. “But my point is moreso that by a means of distraction, the Princess took the liberty of… shall we delicately say romancing your horn in full view of an open court?”

“Ah…” The experience—my first real encounter between my horn and the inside of another pony’s mouth—would have been hard to forget even without the unusual and extremely public circumstances. “Yes, I can see how that would give the wrong impression…”

“I want this to be clear, Coil. I know you have not grown up around the subtleties of court, and if I speak to you in that way, you may not understand my meaning. So forgive my bluntness. First, you have done nothing to earn my ire, and I do not want to be a tyrant of a mother who tells my daughter whom she can and cannot befriend. But I must be the Queen first, just as she will one day have to be. And right now, your presence around my daughter is swirling with unpleasant, unwanted implications. So I wanted to make my stance clear.”

She drew in another slow breath, and then leaned forward, placing a hoof against my chest as she did so. “You are the sort of pony who sucks the air from every room he enters. But your hero’s story ended with Wintershimmer. I may not have your former teacher’s magical prowess, but do not make the mistake of thinking that means I am impotent. This is the most important day of my daughter’s life. If you pull the eyes of Equestria away from her in this critical time, I will treat you like any other enemy of our nation.”

“I…” I lifted my hoof to push hers away, only to feel the tingle of magic as her horn restrained my leg from doing just that. The force was trivial—as I may have mentioned, I was by no means a physically powerful young stallion—and after a moment I caught the Queen panting as my muscle strength overcame her telekinesis; I didn’t even have to push her hoof away in the end, as she lowered it to the floor to support herself. “Right. Queen Platinum, let’s not kid ourselves; you can’t even put up enough strength to stop my hoof. I know you mean to be threatening me with some kind of vague ‘political power’ warning and not blunt magic, but frankly, you’re not going to get far with that. I don’t really answer to you. And as we’ve already established, Celestia is on my side. I’m not going to pick a fight with you, so please, don’t humiliate yourself trying to threaten me.” I grinned. “I don’t mind keeping out of the spotlight tonight; you could have saved a lot of breath and just said that.” Then, when she kept panting, I offered her my foreleg as a brace. “Do you need a hoof? Or a doctor?

The Queen massaged her temple with the same hoof that had moments before been pressed against my chest. “I appreciate the offer, but no. I’m just not as young as I used to be.” Then she nodded. “Let it not be said, young stallion, that I did not give you fair warning.”

When we returned to Gale’s little entourage, we found Hurricane and Celestia sharing some humor which, judging by Gale’s blush, was at her expense.

“It was better when it was short! I—Right, Morty?”

“When what was short?”

“My daughter is asking for your opinions about her tail length,” clarified Commander Hurricane. “So I suggest you choose your next words very carefully.”

“I…” I swallowed as I stared at Hurricane and, once more, my brain struggled to reconcile the aging scarred pegasus with the monster under my bed as a foal. Hurricane had not led the Equestrian armies in decades, having yielded his command to his eldest daughter Typhoon since before I was even born. However, growing up in the Crystal Union, I interacted with no small number of ponies who had stood on the opposite line from this dreaded stallion on the battlefields of a thousand tiny wars. It was no small testament to how badly he had beaten back the crystals that ponies called him ‘the Butcher’ in the north.

Thus, while I had (foolishly) brushed off the Queen’s warning, the former Commander’s threat left me with a surprisingly large knot in the apple of my throat. “I… like braids?”

Hurricane chuckled, nodding. “Well played, Morty.”

“Fuckin’ pussy,” Gale muttered under her breath. “I know you liked it when we were hiking to River Rock.”

After a moment to still my quivering legs, I addressed Hurricane. “For the record, sir, I’m sorry for lying to you about Gale being in danger.”

Hurricane shrugged (it always looked awkward when he did that, since pegasi usually use the base of their wings in lieu of their fore-shoulders, and one of his was completely missing). “You were right. I should have given you more credit. I suppose I’m sorry for our argument about your magic.”

Celestia patted me on the back with her wing. “Using necromancy, you mean?” When Hurricane nodded, she smiled softly, and rather sadly. “Your experience was… unique, Hurricane; I promise Morty isn’t doing anything so… drastic.”

“Wait… are you dead, Dad?” Gale looked briefly between Celestia and Hurricane. Celestia muffled a chuckle with her wing, while Hurricane’s reaction was to bury his entire face in his one remaining blue-black feathered limb.

“No ‘e’, Gale. I’m just Dad.” Hurricane chuckled, before the humor abruptly fell from his face. “I am not dead. And we won’t be discussing that further.”

“That’s exactly what somepony dead would say,” Gale teased.

I shook my head. “Undead are usually cannibalistic and almost always cold-blooded.” I reached out a hoof toward Hurricane, before realizing just who I was nearly touching. He rolled his eyes, and then extended a foreleg, which I dared to briefly touch. “Besides, with the apparent exception of Luna, I’m pretty sure I’m the only pony alive who could make an undead that could talk—and I’m not exactly inclined.”

Hurricane closed his eyes as he shook his head, and I watched a little knot build up on his back, just above his one wing—a common tell of disgruntlement in pegasi, though I didn’t know that at the time. “Is pulling somepony’s soul away from their eternal rest to pester them with questions better?”

“Hurricane, there’s no need to be so blunt,” Celestia chided. Then she turned to me. “You should know, Morty, that while I happen to know that Hurricane’s perspective is justified, there are also a lot of ponies in Equestria who look down on necromancy for less personal reasons; you might want to use a lighter touch when discussing it.”

I shrugged. “To be fair, it’s not something I do lightly. Seancing somepony is like walking into their bedroom without knocking; it’s rude, but if it’s important or you know the pony very well, it’s acceptable. Dragging their soul back to create an undead is like breaking into somepony’s bedroom, locking them in manacles, and dragging them out of their home, and forcing them to work for you.”

“Kinky,” Gale ‘helpfully’ added.

I rubbed a hoof across my face. “You know, I’m beginning to think Spicy’s weird mud-maids might be part of some complex all nobles have, and it’s not just her.”

“I assure you, Coil,” said the Queen, who had finally caught up to us and was doing an impressive job not looking worn out by whatever signs of age were showing under her makeup, “that it’s a product of age, and not birth. Now, with respect to our conversation, you have my daughter’s ear any other day of the year; those in line behind you cannot say the same.” She nodded. “If you need somepony to socialize with, I believe you’ve already met all of Gale’s meaningful suitors; I understand they’re in the drawing room there on the second floor above the bandstand, enjoying some sort of party game or other. Lady Celestia, if you would do us the honor of staying for a moment, we have some things I would like to discuss with you.”

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

The seven suitors always seemed an odd sight to me; even dressed their best, their respective ideas of ‘best’ were so dramatically, culturally disparate that they might well have been different species altogether. High Castle and Spice Menage seemed to be holding some sort of fiercely petty discussion in the finest unicorn fashions, all clad in lace and threaded metals and gemstone jewelry. Both also held drinks in thin-stemmed glasses, hovering aloft in their respective magical grips, though I suspect Spicy’s just may have been some sort of alchemical creation rather than alcohol, given its unnatural purple color and the way it visibly fizzed, well before the invention of modern carbonation. Count Halo spoke closely with the two much younger ponies, and from what I could see under his armor, he was attired similarly. The weapons and shield he wore were obviously some sort of formal uniform for a knight, covered as they were in sashes and ribbons, but I still found myself surprised he had been allowed into a party of any kind with that many weapons on his back and sides.

The next group, consisting of Caporegime Coral and Secretary Peanut, could not have been more foreign to their appearance. While Peanut was clad in a modest brown leather tunic with puffy green frills at the shoulders, the animation of his limbs certainly offset any restraint in his outfit; he could not have been further from the subdued business stallion I had met the prior day if he tried. And evidently Caporegime would have far preferred the former; dressed in a Cirran tunic, all dark gray with a pattern of lines that would, in more modern days, have been identified as pinstripes, the pegasus seemed to be completely interested in whatever small ball of cheese and vegetables was resting on the plate he had balanced on his right wing, and not whatsoever in the topic of Peanut’s interest.

Finally, whether confident enough in their value to society or just clueless enough not to know better, Gray Rain and Archmage Grayscale proudly kept to themselves as they fought for the apparently enviable title of worst-dressed suitors at the party. Gray wore what I would later learn was a Cirran dress uniform: steel segmented armor over a Cirran tunic. Unlike Count Halo, however, his armor was not further decorated with ribbons or sashes or medals of any kind; apart from a pair of cloth strips on his shoulders marking his rank, his torso was nearly dominated by the color of cold skysteel. Even worse, as a Cirran Praefectus Faborum (basically, an army engineer), the color marking his rank was also gray. The result was a dull monochrome stain on a lively, colorful party.

Archmage Grayscale at least provided contrast to his discussion partner. Really, that is the highest compliment I can pay the appearance of that sniveling excuse for an overblown hedge mage; he had enchanted his pajama-length robes to swirl in a whirl of colors all across the spectrum of the rainbow, unrestrained by order, or artistic inspiration, or good taste. Tie-dye would not be invented for literal centuries, and yet in the single figure of Grayscale, it was already ruined.

In short, the ponies assembled were dressed to the nines, for better or for worse. They should, therefore, have known to show me some respect, as I was a ten naked, and when dressed up formally, got dizzyingly close to the legendary heights of a twelve. Alas, with the exception of Peanut Gallery (who knew a proper stallion when he saw one… probably in an ancient religious text sense), the suitors were hapless as to matters of decorum, or taste, or when they were simply outmatched.

“Ah, Coil! Everypony, have you met her highness’ newest pet?” I gritted my teeth as that introduction from High Castle got the other stallions—and one mare—to look up from their focus on an as-yet-unformed slab of ice and toward my direction.

“Castle…”

High Castle wagged a hoof back and forth in front of his chest. “I believe I told you it was Lord Castle to you, Colt.”

To my surprise, it was Count Halo who came to my defense. “Duke Castle, Lord Coil is Her Radiance’s chosen; if anything, Her Highness is lucky to have him as her confidante.” Then, perhaps slightly deferentially, the knight covered in swords added “Not that he is not a bit rough around the edges, but such things are to be expected when one is raised amongst barbarians. Come, join us; we’re just about to play a round of Ice Castles; do you know the game?”

I scratched a hoof to my brow. “Build a castle out of ice with your magic and see whose looks best?” I’d played a game of that sort with Wintershimmer when I was a foal; for teenage unicorns who have regular access to ice as we did in the Crystal Union, it was a common way to teach telekinetic control. With the curious case of my horn, prone as it was to bursts of uncontrollable power that would often drain me into unconsciousness from overuse, it was instead an exercise in seeing how cleverly I could achieve an abstract goal in as few spells as possible.

Spicy answered as if speaking to the worst bred dog at a dog show. “Well, there are points to be had, for things like height and number of spires and so forth, but yes; that’s the gist of it. Secretary Gallery has volunteered to judge for us.”

“I appreciate the offer,” I told her, “but I’m afraid I’m on doctor’s orders not to use my horn right now unless there’s some sort of actual emergency; I could do permanent damage to it.”

“That’s no trouble at all,” offered Peanut, grinning ear-to-ear. “You can sit over here with me and judge.” In what I’m sure he felt was an inviting gesture, he patted the ground next to his flank.

“Well, that works.” I nodded, and though I didn’t sit quite as close as Peanut clearly wanted, I did take the offered seat. “Gray, Capo, will you two also be judging since you aren’t unicorns?”

Caporegime clicked his tongue. “Ice is one of the elements of pegasus magic, Coil. If anything, we’ve got ourselves an unfair advantage. Though since ice isn’t my strong suit, it probably evens out.”

Gray Rain nodded. “Commander Typhoon—who is largely considered the strongest ice empath in the Legion—is said to have once bested Archmage Diadem at such a game. I similarly lack a strength in the element, but we shall manage.”

I won’t bore you describing the slow and laborious process of building six castles out of blocks of ice, dear reader; despite sounding like a fun party game, it is really just about as fun as anything else that nobles do at dinner parties. That is to say, I would rather have had my old ‘Schroedingallop’s ex’ from the Crystal Union rip out the back of my neck again.

The one notable development in the process of about an hour, as spires and battlements and crenellations emerged from frigid pale ice, was when High Castle produced from inside his dinner jacket a small spindly vial, and from it released a thick layer of fog that coalesced into a rather dense cloud floating at about head-level in the room. His castle, just beside it, was unique amongst the shapes present for the fact that instead of leaving the base of his block of ice untouched, Castle had whittled it down into almost a wine glass stem, concerningly thin to support the weight of the bulk ice above it. Using his magic (since unicorn hooves tend to be useless for that sort of thing) he wrapped the bottled cloud around the underside of his tapered structure, and then with a show of magical force, snapped the ‘stem’ completely. Everypony turned at the sudden sound, but to all of our surprise, his creation floated in midair, suspended safely atop the cloud.

Caporegime was the first to acknowledge the trick with a short and muffled clap of his hooves. “Bellissimo, Lord Castle. Did you have that planned in advance to win our little game, or—”

Castle chuckled, grinning in pride at himself. “Sort of, pegasus.” I think my expression may have soured more than Capo’s at how haughtily the young unicorn raised himself up through that particular expression of blatant racism. “I arranged the ice to be here for the game in the first place, but I assure you it wasn’t out of any particular desire to overshadow anypony. But you see, Her Highness made a particularly difficult request of me for a birthday gift.”

“You too?” Spice Menage shook her head in frustration.

“I surmise that was her real challenge to all of us.” When Gray Rain’s monotone observation was done, he turned to me. “You accompanied her yesterday, Coil; am I correct?”

I shrugged. “Well… If I’m being honest, I don’t think she actually wanted most of what she asked for. ‘A crossbow bolt through the eye’ doesn’t seem like a real birthday wish to me.”

Grayscale sighed. “She should be careful what she wishes for.”

“Oh please; she’s going to be Queen some day, Archmage.” High Castle shook her head. “This isn’t some cautionary story about a fairy or a genie; it’s obviously a test of us as suitors. One I intend to pass.” He gestured to his visibly floating castle. “What do you think, Coil? It’s inarguably a castle in the clouds—and with less than a day to prepare I think she’ll be hard pressed to argue I failed her wish.” Then he turned back to his structure. “I assume the rest of you are keeping your particular challenges to yourselves? Certainly, I won’t blame anyone for saving face that they could not satisfy Her Highness’ whims.”

As the other suitors grumbled, I reflected on how satisfying it would have been to break High Castle’s nose. Peanut at least made for better company; despite how unsubtle he tended to be with his motions and body language (a fault shared by many party ponies, in my experience… though they tend to be surprisingly good at cards regardless), he was restrained enough in his dialogue that, if I took my eyes off of him, it was easy to forget he was hitting on me.

“So Gale told everypony she could find all about your adventures,” Peanut began as soon as the other suitors had started sculpting. “But I only know the story as far as River Rock, and what little I picked up from the gossip around town. Did you really fight an army of golems at Platinum’s Landing?”

I couldn’t help but smirk. “Well, I don’t know if it was an ‘army’; there were only a few dozen. But when they’re twenty feet tall…” I shrugged. “You tell me. I imagine I’m going to have to start earlier in the story, though…”

We talked for some time about my journey, interrupted by some waiters with plates and tiny cups of exotic juices—dragonfruit and starfruit and pomegranate (which at the time was an unheard of delicacy in temperate Equestria)—and finally, after my story was done and I looked up, I saw in front of us a half dozen mostly formed castles.

“So… how does this scoring work? I’ve never built an ice castle competitively.”

Peanut shrugged slightly. “There are competition rules, but between us, I don’t really know how they work. I just know what’s worth awards. In short, anything tall and narrow is to be awarded. Architecture is a must of course, and creativity. Color is a plus, but most especially if it isn’t from magic. I probably won’t give any points for Castle’s cloud thing, since he had the advantage of planning.”

“Anything for motion?” I asked.

The question earned me a raised brow from not just Peanut, but also Count Halo and Caporegime. It was the latter who spoke up. “Coil, it’s ice. I don’t know what you’re imagining, but I don’t think most of us can manage to make it move without actually having our wings or horns on it.”

I shook my head. “Sorry; I have no idea if pegasus magic can make something move on its own like that. But… Grayscale, you know what I mean, right? That it’s not that hard to make the ice move on its own?”

Grayscale huffed. “If you’re implying I would cheat by bringing a carved golem core into a perfectly fair competition, then the morals you learned from Wintershimmer are showing. Even if I had wanted to cheat, as Lord Castle already said, he was the only pony who knew we’d have the ice for a game set up in advance.”

“Of course not!” I rolled my eyes. “I apologize; I was assuming you were good enough to make the ice itself into a simple golem. But I forget you’re inept at necromancy.”

There was, suddenly, the loud clang of steel cutting through ice, as in a burst of surprised force, Count Halo drove one of his blades through the walls of his frozen redoubt and decapitated the keep into shards of snowcone base. Unlike Castle’s stem snapping, it was transparent simply from the volume of the noise that the blow had not been intentional. “Lord Coil, please! I knew you came from a dark past, but surely Her Radiance has taught you the error of such dark magic!”

“Necromancy isn’t—” I caught myself as my discussion with Celestia and Hurricane came to mind. I slowly bit my tongue and did my best to heed them. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you, Count. In my defense that is the magic I used to save Celestia, but—”

“And now you besmirch Her Radiance’s honor again?” If the shattering of the ice sculpture hadn’t gathered the room’s attention, then the increasing volume of Halo’s shouting did.

I held up my hooves to try and calm down the stallion. “Look, Halo… I’m not trying to besmirch anything.”

“Very good,” the stallion nodded. “Then if perhaps the Goddess has not yet seen your practice of the black arts, I shall educate you: such things are forbidden in her faith. If you are to be her chosen, you will renounce their practice forthwith.”

Peanut gently tapped me on the shoulder. “That seems like a nice way to settle things down, and—”

“It’s my special talent,” I interrupted, feeling my ears slowly flatten against my meticulous mane. “You want me to give up my mark?” I reached back with a hoof and patted my flank.

“Surely you’ve misinterpreted it, then,” replied Halo. “Her Radiance would never willingly accept somepony so fundamentally evil—”

“You’re wrong,” I interrupted, my voice trembling as I held back the urge to shout. “But even if you were right, even if I stood here, the greatest living necromancer in the entire world, the pale master, younger than anypony who ever held that title before—even if I were somehow wrong, Halo, what happens to your idea of your supposed goddess when I tell you she uses the same spells I do?”

Halo’s face turned a startling shade of red. “You would blaspheme Her Radiance with an accusation of the ultimate sin?”

“Ask her yourself,” I answered, gesturing a hoof toward the door out of the room, where Celestia surely stood.

This, in retrospect, was very much the wrong move.

“Hmph,” Halo scoffed. “I know she speaks to the dead when she judges them; she is a goddess, and it is her right. She does not make corpses walk as you do, Coil.”

“The only corpse I’ve ever made walk is my own,” I snapped back. What I had meant to imply was that I had never forced a soul to act against its own will with my magic.

As it is said, however, implications make an imp out of lies… or something. Maybe that was about assumptions?

Regardless, when Halo drew all his blades in his telekinetic grip and pointed them toward me, along with a shout of “Abomination! For assaulting Her Radiance’s honor and her law, I will destroy you. Duel me, or yield your unnatural existence.”

“What?” I shook my head. “No, I’m not undead; I meant—”

“I will hear no more of your lies!” Halo shouted to cut me off. “Serpent-tongued deceiver!”

“Can we not do this now?” I asked. When a sword cut through the air toward me and I had to hop back, skidding my shod hooves on the drawing room’s polished wooden floor, that answer was made painfully clear. “Well… alright. Can we call it a duel to unconsciousness, then? Or first blood? Something—” I rolled backwards when a thrust shot forward, aimed for my throat. “—sporting? And possibly more formal?”

As Halo swung his blades, the suitors scattered backwards. From somewhere on his outfit, Caporegime produced a small knife that he held in his teeth, but the rest were unarmed, and most did not even move as much as to light their horns. I was left to hop behind Spicy’s ice castle, and then wince as a shower of icy shards covered my face and chest—the result of the artwork exploding from a powerful blow from Halo’s swords. Without so much as a pant of exertion, the foppish knight suddenly seemed much more terrifying. His exorbitant moustache was the only part of his body that seemed to twitch.

“Count Halo, you need to stop,” Gray Rain ordered.

The knight merely scoffed as he thrust at me from two separate directions. I narrowly avoided the blades, falling backwards on my back and slightly twisting my hind right hoof in the process. When another sword slashed down from above, I was left with no choice but to roll over as fast as I could to get out of the way. I still felt the blade kiss my shoulder, and I heard the fabric of my new outfit torn open, along with the cold bite of frigid steel in my skin. The blow wasn’t deep, but it filled me with a nervousness, a fear for survival.

And so, taking the fight to Halo, I grabbed a hunk of ice off the floor and flung it at his face. Focused as he was on manipulating so many blades in midair, and I had to assume wary of my magic, he wasn’t prepared for an attack flung from my hoof. The sound of ice breaking on his muzzle was quite satisfying although it didn’t immediately do any meaningful damage. What the blow did buy me was enough time to scamper back to my hooves and throw myself away from his further slashes.

“Halo, stop this!” Grayscale hazarded a blast of magic from his horn—a simple stunning spell any idiot could have managed. In retrospect, it was an absolutely pathetic choice for somepony who called himself ‘archmage’ with a straight face, though I was hardly thinking so critically in the moment.

It hardly mattered; with a surprising display of speed, Halo literally slashed the spell out of the air. Either his swords were coated in a thin layer of a pure metal like silver that would insulate against magic, or the stallion had spent so much time polishing them to a mirror shine that they truly reflected enough of the light in the bolt to turn it away. Regardless, I realized I had underestimated the stallion.

Fortunately, I found myself with an opening when he turned to shoot a glare in Grayscale’s direction. “He has blasphemed Her Radiance; are you not a noble, mage? Where is your honor? You ought to join me?”

“In fighting Coil? I don’t have a…”

The drawing off of Grayscale’s answer was my fault. As he had been talking, I gritted my teeth and lit my horn, in spite of Meadowbrook’s orders. After all, I had to imagine a bit of damage to my horn would be easier for her to heal than my death by impalement. And with my horn lit, I let my magic build up into a surge.

My horn, you may recall from my first volume, had a peculiar defect: its grooves were too tightly placed together. Whereas the groove on a normal unicorn’s horn wraps around the horn three or four times from base to tip, mine wrapped something closer to a dozen. If you aren’t a unicorn, this might simply mean I had a subtle, unusual appearance, but in fact it had a far more tangible effect. When a unicorn casts a spell, they first saturate the grooves of their horn with magical energy, called mana; since magic is inductive to itself (like the relationship between electrical current and magnetism), this results in a powerful magical aura (the glow you see around the horn) emitting out the direction the horn is pointing. The more raw mana, the stronger the aura, which is what most ponies would actually think of as ‘magic’, such as speaking to a dead pony or turning somepony into a newt or a pair of socks, or in one particularly situational example, telekinesis.

Young unicorn foals, whose grooves occupy more of the surface area of their horns than adults, tend to exhibit magic by huge surges of brute power that can sometimes cast powerful, if basic, versions of a mage’s spells like teleportation or the inversion of gravity. These spells are vastly more powerful than a pony of that age ought to be able to wield, but they are also tiring; the blood only contains so much mana at a time, and using up too much begins to deplete calories one needs for tasks like staying conscious. Due to my unique horn condition, I never grew out of that phase; my spells were brutally powerful, easily the rival of Star Swirl the Bearded’s might in brute force (though even I won’t pretend I was his equal in complexity or education, at least at the time). The cost, however, was that I could cast only two spells without considerable rest—usually, a night’s sleep. A third spell would most often find me passed out unconscious as my body was drained of all the energy it could muster. This also delightfully came accompanied the following morning by a ‘sober hangover’, as Gale would term it.

I stressed this for two reasons, and the first one was that with a sudden surge of telekinesis, I removed Halo from the drawing room completely. I will emphasize that the previous sentence said telekinesis and not teleportation, because Halo left through the door. I will emphasize that the previous sentence said door and not doorway, because I did not use any form of mental control. I will emphasize that the previous sentence did not specify mental control of Halo, because the room into which I threw him, in a cloud of splinters and shattered drywall, was the massively occupied ballroom where any manner of music or small talk stopped with all the grace of a harp string snapping.

“...deathwish,” Archmage Grayscale finished, turning to me with a noticeably paler tone to his face than usual.

“Did you kill Count Halo?” Peanut asked hesitantly.

I shook my head. “He’ll be fine. At worst, maybe I broke a rib or two. But in my defense… well, it was self-defense.”

High Castle shook his head, disbelieving. “Coil, you threw him through the wall!”

Caporegime, who had a slightly better perspective out the hole in the wall I had created added “And straight through one of the cloudstone pillars in the ballroom. And then off the balcony and down a story of open air onto a marble dance floor. I mean, I could walk that off, but it’d hurt. And he’s not…” As the pegasus gesticulated and his words failed, more of his peculiar accent slipped into his speech. “Yanno, he ain’t no spring chicken.”

“I was holding him with telekinesis, so my magic would have blunted a lot of the wounds,” I explained to the assembled suitors. “Trust me; I used to hurl guardsponies through walls in the Crystal Union all the time.” This was not, in retrospect, the most helpful addition. Gray Rain, in a particular show of self-awareness, took a single step back.

I took a moment with my hooves to settle my outfit on my neck and shoulders. “Well… I should make sure that calmed his temper. Gentlestallions. Spicy. It’s been a pleasure.” Halfway out the hole that had formerly been a door, I glanced back and added “Oh, and… Caporegime, I think it was part of your castle I broke on his face, so for helping save my life, I vote that you won the contest.”

As I walked out onto the balcony overlooking the ballroom, all eyes were either on me or on Count Halo, who was slowly stirring in the quite visible crater his weight and my somewhat brute force ‘spike’ of his body had left in the ballroom dance floor. More than a few guardsponies had gathered around him, though when I appeared I saw their swords quickly aimed in my direction.

Halo flicked out a hoof. “No; he’s mine.” When the soldiers held their ground, he bellowed with a force that sent his blazing orange moustache bouncing like as much fire. “All of you; that is an order. I am Sir Halo, Knight of the Platinum Throne! Stand down!”

To my amusement, the guardsponies settled back, though a quick glance toward the head of the ballroom suggested Commander Typhoon and Queen Platinum were both on the verge of intervening themselves.

“Had enough, Count?” I called out. “I understand this isn’t how a duel to the death usually ends, but now you’ve got to realize you’re out of your league.”

“Coil!” Queen Platinum shouted. “What is the meaning of this?!”

“He’s an abomination, my Queen!” Count Halo helpfully explained in the form of a spiteful shout. “A walking corpse, in violation of Her Radiance’s will and all natural order, and—”

“No. For the last time, I died, but that doesn’t mean I am dead.” I shook my head as the old knight responded not with words, but by lifting his armaments with a glow on his horn. I had the foresight, at least, to realize that most of them had not come with him from the room behind me, and to roll to the side as they came flying, points-first, through the theoretical Morty-shaped outline in the air where I had just been standing.

“Stop this, both of you!” Celestia shouted, rushing forward from the crowd with wings flared wide and horn lit. “There’s no need for violence!”

“My Lady, my oath is clear.” Halo lifted his swords toward me and readied his shield. “Not only is he an abomination and a deceiver, but he blasphemes your power! I cannot stand idly by such sins! This can only end when one of us lies dead.”

“Don’t be so stubborn!” Celestia snapped, her teeth practically gnashing.

“I would rather die than betray your honor, my lady. My faith holds strong through any test. And he admits his own mark is heresy.”

Somepony in the crowd gave Halo a bit of applause. Celestia actually turned her glowing horn toward him, her brow furrowed and her wings raised. “Count Halo—”

“He’s too stubborn to listen and too stupid to see he’s outclassed,” I called out to Celestia. My own rage at his comments still seethed in my blood, but I managed to force it down enough at least to make a promise. “Let me finish this. I promise I won’t do anything permanent.”

Halo shook his head and nickered, scraping at the marble ballroom floor. “Do not think you can best me now that I know to expect your spells, necromancer.”

I made a show of letting out a sigh loud enough that most of the room could hear it, and turned fully away from Halo to raise a brow at Celestia. She sighed, shrugged her wings, and gave a single fateful nod. Then it was my turn to face Halo. “Last chance,” I told him. “You absolutely insist on this being to the death? You won’t give up even if I stun you and you wake up the day after tomorrow?”

Remember that I could only cast two spells in a day without passing out; that was the primary concern in my warning. Were I in possession of a normal horn like most wizards, and not on the mend from a far more dangerous battle only a short time earlier, I could have easily defeated a pompous imbecile like Halo blindfolded. It wasn’t fear of the stallion, but my concern for my dwindling supply of mana that prompted my warning.

Halo drew his shield. “Your spells are no match for my mirrored shield, Coil. You won’t take me by surprise again. I—”

And then he collapsed. Because I ripped out his soul. Six blades clattered on the marbled floor along with a mirrored shield (which, judging by the lack of shattering glass, must have been enchanted). I also let out a small scream as my horn burned like it had been dipped in molten skysteel, protesting the use of my magic. Most notably, though, the ethereal, faintly blue-tinged and partially translucent soul of the late Count Halo hung in the air above the room.

Several ponies screamed. One especially dramatic mare fainted. I just rubbed my forehead, both in physical agony and emotional irritation.

“There you go, Halo. You’re dead. Congratulations.” I turned to Gale and sarcastically added “Happy Birthday, for what it’s worth.” That comment earned me a lot more astonished, offended gasps than I had intended; in my pain, I had largely forgotten about my audience.

With some sheepishness, I turned back to the soul I had in my magical grip. As I spoke to Halo’s personality and will and consciousness, severed as it was from his more… meaty existence, I paced along the balcony and toward the stairs down to the dance floor. “Now, you’ve got two choices. If I let go, your soul goes… well, I guess right over there to Celestia, and she judges you. Presumably she lets you carry on into the Summer Lands, you get your eternal reward. That would mean you’re actually dead like I was, even though your body right there below you is still alive; comatose, but very much still breathing. If that’s what you want, I’ll smother your body with a pillow or snap its neck or something to put it out of its misery, and your family or whoever cares about your stubborn, puffed-up obsession with honor buries you. But if you agree to stop trying to murder me, and that your soul being out of your body counts as being dead, like I tried to explain while you were trying to stab me, then I can still undo this spell and put your soul back into your—and let me repeat myself—still very much living, breathing body right there on the floor.” I nodded down to the comatose stallion in question. “Which is exactly what I did to save my own life. So to reiterate, I’m not undead, and you won’t be either.” I sighed and gritted my teeth against the pain of my horn. “I am going to need you to make a decision soon, though; my horn still isn’t healed from the last time I had a magic duel, and it’s starting to get very sore.”

Halo—meaning his disembodied soul—looked down at his own ghostly hooves. “Unhand me with your dark magic, you—”

“Celestia, do you want to try and get it through his thick skull, or should I actually let go? My grip really is failing...”

“Please put him back, Morty.” Celestia outright flew down to his side. “Count Halo, I want you to listen to me very closely.”

“Hold on,” I interrupted her. “Getting his ears back will be a little disorienting. At least, it was for me.”

With a sort of slurping noise, I returned Halo to life. He immediately gasped, and then massaged his body as if checking for open wounds, or perhaps loose change.

“Let me make myself clear,” said Celestia, looming over him. “In the past you have insisted that I was ‘testing your faith’ when I disagreed with you, and then ignored my wishes and did things in my name I did not approve of. The truth is, I am not interested in testing your faith. I humored you because nopony was getting hurt until today, but you tried to kill Morty for being completely honest with you, and I cannot abide that. If he had been somepony weaker, you would have killed an innocent pony in my name, and if he had been less forgiving, you might have died. So I must insist that you never, ever again try to use violence to defend my honor. If I truly feel offended, I’m quite capable of defending myself, as Morty and Princess Gale can both attest.”

“I…” Halo hung his head. “Forgive me, Your Radiance.”

“Celestia,” the alicorn corrected. “Please.”

Halo swallowed, as if the simple name were like broccoli or asparagus to a young foal’s palette. “Yes, Celestia.” Then he lifted his head. “I must beg your mercy, Lord Coil; you have bested me in a fair knight’s duel. What recompense can I offer?”

I glanced up to Gale and winked. “Stop trying to pursue Gale’s hoof.”

“Her Highness…” Halo swallowed. “Very well.” Bowing his head, the forty-something knight turned toward Gale, standing above us in the ballroom. “Your Highness, Your Majesty, as a Knight, I must regretfully yield my suitorship. May you find worthy love with another in Her R—in Celestia’s grace.”

Queen Platinum took a bold step forward. “Count Halo, please wait—”

“Mother,” interrupted Gale, donning her ‘royal’ voice. “We cannot dishonor a knight of our own court by trying to tempt him into breaking his word, can we?”

Queen Platinum fumed, first at her daughter, and then very briefly in my direction. However, despite her irritation, her voice rang out over the room as clear as crystal (and as hard as iron). “Very well. Everypony, as I see this party has gotten… rowdy… I will request that we skip the continued pleasantries and gather in the throne room. The Princess and I have something to discuss with you all as our honored guests.”

1-12

I - XII

The Queen

The ponies of Equestria gave me a wide berth as we moved into the throne room, but their whispers would have been audible even to the deaf, and maybe even the dead. “Coil the Immortal?” some of them asked, remembering my introduction to the court. Was it true? Could the barely adult colt really not be killed? Others spoke in scandal, that I was the Princess’ secret lover—remembering when she had flagrantly pleasured my horn in open court, with dramatic success in her twin goals offending her mother and distracting the court enough to save my life from a false accusation when my logic couldn’t save me. Still others wondered about my relationship to Celestia, and whether I deserved her favor over somepony more deserving—meaning, of course, somepony with pure blood from a well-bred and well-established family.

Queen Platinum I loathed all of it, and she made it known by glaring out of the corner of her eye whenever our gazes met. I found myself standing ever so subtly closer to Celestia’s side in nervousness, though I had no real reason to believe the Queen could do anything to me that Halo had failed to.

That self-confidence, incidentally, would be proven to be a massive lack of imagination on my part, but that’s another Tale.

Queen Platinum had meant for all eyes to stay on Gale that day, and I had ruined her perfect plan. For that, I had become an enemy. But even by literally killing a pony and resurrecting him in front of the entire upper echelon of Equestrian society, I still could not command public attention like the Queen.

She sat in the central of the three Equestrian thrones, a position she had no doubt won by being both Hurricane and Puddinghead’s superior in the great game of politics by just as great a gap as the one separating myself from Count Halo in the art of magical battle. Commander Typhoon sat to her right, comfortably filling the throne built for her father, and on the Queen’s left, Puddinghead, likewise reclined; the earth pony leader was clearly more focused on his plate of snacks than the proceedings.

Queen Platinum’s horn briefly lit, and let off a small spark; the sort of small tell of a failed spell. Truly, if I hadn’t spent so much of my youth struggling with my overgrooved horn, I doubt I would have noticed or recognized it for what it was, and I doubt anypony else in the room could say the same. Regardless, the Queen leaned over to Gale, and after sharing a few whispered words, Gale’s horn ignited; her magical aura briefly wrapped around the Queen’s throat. I wondered what she had said to offend her daughter that flagrantly, before Platinum spoke up, and her magically amplified voice revealed that her daughter was not, in fact, choking her.

“Gentlestallions and Noblemares, honored guests, family, and friends; thank you for joining us on this, the celebration of my daughter’s eighteenth birthday.” A small polite round of applause swept the room. “I understand you’ve been enjoying your meals and some music and dancing and company… amongst other pastimes…” She shot a glance at me, and the room issued a polite chuckle. “But,” the Queen continued, “I wanted to share a few words. Most of you will remember three years ago, when we gathered to recognize Princess Platinum the Third as the rightful heir to this throne.”

The Queen slowly tapped the chair, and over how silent the room grew, that metallic tink of a hoof on literal platinum rang like a bell. “And though like all teenagers, my beloved daughter tests my patience at times, I have no doubt that she has a heart that truly cares for Equestria and for the unicorns.” Queen Platinum shot a small smile to her daughter, although Gale wore a stony expression that gave barely so much as a glance in response.

“Twenty two long years ago I lost my first foal to the Scourge of Kings. Princess Platinum the Second, may her soul rest in the Summer Lands, was taken by the disease that runs in the blood of my family. It was nothing short of a miracle that when my beloved Commander Hurricane returned in the company of the Divine Sisters, we found ourselves fond of one another’s company. I know there has been some controversy around my marrying a pegasus, even one as selfless in his work to sustain our new nation as Hurricane, but he has given me the ultimate gift in my daughter; an heir free of the Scourge, and of my fear in losing another foal.”

Queen Platinum’s voice hitched, and as we all watched, she struggled to swallow. “Knowing another Princess Platinum is turning eighteen now brings hard memories for me; I was my daughter’s age when Cyclone’s rebellion took the life of my father, King Lapis the Fourth. And though I will always be grateful for the lessons he taught me before I took the throne, I sorely wish I had been able to learn more from him before he was gone. I am still in good health, and though I’m sure I’ve offended one or two of you in the past, I don’t think anypony has a wish on my life.” A small chuckle swept the room. “But still,” the Queen continued, “I want my daughter to be able to have that experience that I never had; not only for her own good, but for the good of Equestria, I would not have her find herself suddenly burdened by the crown, struggling to find her footing.

“Which is why, effectively immediately, I am stepping away from the throne and announcing my daughter’s regency.”

Gasps like thunder echoed on palatial stone. Even Gale’s head snapped toward her mother in blatant shock. Queen Platinum merely steepled her hooves, waiting for silence, as the whispers began. And seeing her looking out, obviously waiting, the noise that rose up quickly died again, as ponies looked to their… now former monarch, for some clarification.

“My daughter is, of course, a busy mare; I understand she has seven… six suitors in her consideration, and I have no desire to steal her youth from her completely. So, at her wishes, I will still be filling the throne to allow her time she needs for personal affairs. And on those days when Her Majesty is present, I will be present to offer her my wisdom whenever she seeks it. So please, dear mares and gentlestallions, please understand that this is not intended to be some great shock to Equestria. I assure you, life will proceed much as it has before today.” Then the Queen-Mother, as she had suddenly titled herself even without saying the term, swallowed again, and leaned forward in the throne to command the attention of the room. “Lady Celestia, would you please join us here on the dais?”

As Celestia stepped away from my side, leaving me feeling very much naked and exposed in the crowded throne room, Queen Platinum the First rose from the throne and took her place at its hoof, facing the now empty seat. “Princess Platinum, the throne is yours.”

Gale nervously glanced to her Celestia, and then to her mother; the latter nodded firmly once. It was amazing how different the act of swallowing could be between the two mares; for Platinum, it had been a sign of emotion, of focusing her will. For Gale, it was clearly a display of nervousness, of hesitance. Nevertheless, she stepped in front of her mother, and slowly lowered herself into the throne.

It took a few moments for Celestia to reach mother and daughter, but when she did, she took the surprising position of standing directly behind the throne. Its tall back covered up most of her torso, but her massive height meant that her head and neck rose above the throne. When she spread her wings wide, the display similarly gave the effect of those powerful white limbs emerging from the throne—an endorsement of Gale’s rule by a far more literal divine right than any of the hundreds of monarchs before her in her bloodline had held.

“Princess Platinum, the third of that name, you are already recognized by this court as the rightful heir to the crown of the diamond kingdoms.” The words were obviously rehearsed, not only because they sounded nothing like Celestia’s usual vocabulary but because of how forced she sounded in delivering them. Still, that slightly stilted pronunciation when delivered with forceful enunciation from the head of an immortal alicorn towering over the throne carried a sort of weight that few other ponies could manage. “Now the crown is offered to you as Queen-Regent. Remember your oaths: that you will rule for the good of your subjects above yourself, that you will offer your life in recompense if your rule leads them to ruin, that you will give the throne an heir to continue the line of kings, that you will yield the throne if you lose the favor of…” Celestia hesitated for a moment, before awkwardly concluding “...your gods. And that you will not seek to prolong your rule beyond the years allotted to you. Will you accept this yoke now, until death releases you or you lay it down to another willing?”

Gale swallowed. “I…” The Queen looked up from her place in front of her daughter and silently nodded. “I will.”

Celestia’s golden magic surrounded the crown on Queen Platinum’s brow and lifted it up from the silvery hairs of the elder monarch’s mane. “Then I, and Equestria, now recognize you as Queen-Regent of the unicorns, and co-monarch of the Equestrian ponies.” With just as much delicate care, the crown came to rest on Gale’s head, completing a look the Queen had obviously intended for its placement, judging by Gale’s manecut having a perfect place for the metal crest to rest. For all Gale hated being so dressed up, I had to admit the Queen’s plan had worked; Gale was glorious.

And then to add another heart-stopping shock to the already stunned room, the white wings behind the throne lowered. Celestia walked around to the front of the throne and took her place beside the elder Queen Platinum. Together the two mares slowly lowered themselves, until their horns touched the steps leading up to the thrones. “My Queen,” they said, first Platinum and then Celestia.

For the Queen to make such a demonstration was an obvious vote of confidence in her daughter. But for Celestia, the living breathing goddess of Equestria to lower herself in allegiance to Gale… well, to say that it broke the ponies in the room would be an understatement. Some ponies were so shocked that for a moment, they failed to recognize the prompt to bow, even as the rest of the room lowered themselves in recognition of the new ruler.

I had no such qualms. And when I said “My Queen”, for the first time, I felt I could call myself an Equestrian. In case I have not made the point obvious, I had no great love for Platinum. But for Gale, I had no hesitance in offering my loyalty.

I have made no secret that this collection, these Tales, are not really my story; this is why. I know many history books one can find in modern Equestria remember Queen Platinum III. Rare is the classroom syllabus that lacks a few paragraphs on the Warrior-Queen, founder of the Royal Guard, Equestria’s first true monarch…

But before she was all those things, she was my Gale; a strong-hearted, strong-headed, rebellious, nervous young mare who had just found herself pushed off the edge of a very tall cliff by her mother and told to spread her wings and fly. And though Queen Platinum would be proven right about her daughter’s heart, amongst many other things, it was these first two years that would define the mare who would come to define our nation.

If only I had known just how much those early years for Equestria would cost us.

1-13

I - XIII

The Gift

As much as another orderly greeting queue could be called rampant chaos, the throne room exploded into anarchy. The political whispers were deafening. Backroom dealings swiftly filled up all the palace’s available back rooms and spilled out onto the buffet table, ensnaring the unfortunate palace staff and their trays of drinks in inky deals for half-explained favors and political maneuvering.

The new queen, the ruler of the unicorn third of Equestria, was half pegasus, and from the way the room reacted, you might have been forgiven for thinking she was also half fish or something. For all the effort that it had taken me to avoid Count Halo’s blades in our little duel, it was harder for me to stay standing and untrampled in that chaotic mess than it had been to keep myself un-impaled. So as the great queue formed, I ducked my way between the courtiers and the nobles and found my way to the side of the room and a quiet bench where I wouldn’t cause too much distress.

There I waited and watched as the room’s occupants funneled their way up the stairs for what seemed like interminable hours. And while the process was perhaps boring for me, I at least had the opportunity to sneak over to the buffet tables and devour a dinner or two, making up for both the exertion of a brief magical duel, and the cruel reality that I had once again been forced to skip lunch. I likewise made small talk with whatever guests weren’t either disgusted by my lack of a pure noble bloodline or terrified of the fact that I had literally killed a stallion only a few minutes earlier, but for the most part, I was left to be bored alone while the greeting line ground forward at a sloth’s pace.

Gale had no such small mercies. I watched through the hours as her face lost its expression of shock and grew visibly gaunter and flatter, her eyes growing glassy and staring further and further into the empty space behind the head of whoever was speaking to her. Three hours, four hours, five passed, and the guests began to slowly head back to their homes. I earned only a moment of Celestia’s time when she finally stepped down from the dais, but she shook her head as she passed, and simply uttered “I took care of it,” before fleeing the room entirely. So I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And, finally, when the line was finished, Queen Platinum whispered something into Gale’s ear, and she stood up from the throne. The crown glimmered on her brow as her magic wrapped around her own throat—and though I have no doubt in my mind that she wished she could have strangled herself in that moment, the magic she cast instead projected her voice around the room. “Friends, honored guests… Thank you so much for your time, and for joining me today. Alas, the night grows late, and I think our time together is at its end. If anypony traveled here from outside the city, I invite you to speak to one of the guards, and they can see to providing you with one of the palace’s guest rooms. Otherwise, I bid you a good night and pleasant dreams, and I thank you again.”

Then, without so much as a breath, she whirled with enough force to make the hem of her dress crack like a whip in the air and snuck out through a small doorway concealed behind the three thrones. I knew the opportune moment when I saw it, and rose from my seat to start walking against the tide of the last lingering guests up towards the thrones.

“Sir, I… oh; it’s you.” The speaker was a guardspony stepping into my path near the foot of the stairs, and upon recognizing me, his blocking posture became just a bit more nervous. “The party is over, and—”

“My ears do work,” I interrupted him. “I was waiting for everypony else to go home to go talk to her. So if you would excuse me,”

“Sir… uh, Mr? Archmage Coil…? I can’t let you past.”

I reached up to my temple and rubbed it gently. “Look… Would you let me by if Celestia vouched for me? Because I’d rather be friendly like that than threaten to hurl you through the wall.”

The guard frowned in a bit of concern and more than a bit of visible confusion. “Doesn’t bringing it up at all count as a threat?”

“If it is, are you intimidated enough to get out of my way? Or do I need to go find Celestia now?”

The guard shook his head in disbelief. “It’s a crime to threaten an Equestrian legionary—”

“Let him through, legionary.” The firm voice that spoke up belonged to Commander Hurricane, and the fact that the soldier in my way immediately darted to the side, offering the retired leader a stiff salute, indicated that calling him ‘Commander’ Hurricane despite his ostensible retirement was completely appropriate. “This isn’t the Crystal Union, Morty,” Hurricane told me as I proceeded up toward his place standing near what had once been his own throne. “Throwing your weight around like that in Equestria will come back to bite you.”

“To be honest, if my horn weren’t hurting, I would have just skipped the trouble and teleported straight past him.” I nodded to Hurricane. “But thank you for stepping in. I just need to give Gale her present.”

Hurricane chuckled. “I heard.” When I stopped and turned to the old stallion, surprise written plain on my face, he explained himself. “Celestia told me your idea; I got all the ponies together like you suggested, plus a few you probably haven’t met yet. Are you sure that’s really what you want to spend your ‘royal boon’ on?”

I shrugged. “If that’s what it costs, so be it. Now, I should get going before Gale kills somepony.”

“After your performance tonight, is that the best joke?” Despite the fatigue in his voice, Hurricane gestured with his one remaining wing for me to go on ahead.

The door behind the three thrones led to a small sitting room intended for the three heads of state and their attendants. Though Equestria had a parliament, hundreds if not thousands of bureaucrats and statesponies, and enough paperwork to make one fear for the extinction of papyrus reeds in its territories, it was this one tiny room that played host to nearly every major political decision in the nation’s early history. It was, in short, ‘the room where it happens’, for almost any conceivable value of ‘it’.

On that day, the room held three ponies: both living Queen Platinums, and the younger’s half-sister, Commander Typhoon. It was the elder Platinum who first looked up when I entered the room, and immediately her eyes narrowed. “Typhoon, please find out which one of your guards let him in here, so I can have him imprisoned.”

“It was your husband,” I told her with a slight grin, before stepping past Platinum to properly face Gale. It was before her that I gave the most respectful, sincere bow I knew how to manage. “Your Majesty.”

Gale groaned. “Not you too, Morty!”

“What are you actually doing back here, Coil?” The elder Platinum asked as I stood up. “Haven’t you already done enough with poor Count Halo?”

I glared at the mare, gesturing to my slashed open shoulder. “He started it by literally trying to murder me. And at the end of it I’m the only pony who was really hurt; I don’t know what more you want out of me, but I can’t imagine that having gone better.” Then I nodded toward Gale. “To answer your fairer question, I came to give her my present.”

Commander Typhoon, clad in her sleek black armor, raised her scarred brow. “You got Gale a present?”

Gale scowled at me. “So you’re fucking deaf? I told you not to bother. And I assumed if anything, getting rid of Halo was the best present you could have given.” When Platinum shot her daughter a soured glance, Gale made a rather rude gesture with her foreleg. “He’s closer to your age than mine. It’s completely disgusting!”

“Count Halo is a pinnacle of unicorn nobility, and an esteemed member of your court, Princess—” There came a forced cough from the older mare’s throat. “Queen Platinum; if you don’t favor him, that’s fine, but you cannot afford to burn bridges by openly insulting him or siding with this necromancer.”

I coughed into my hoof. “For somepony who mere hours ago gave an elaborate speech about how much she wishes she could have had more time to learn about ruling from her late father, you’re certainly quick to brush off my magic.” I then slipped my hoof into the breast of my vest and produced a long band of silk, which I offered to Gale.

She raised a brow. “Uh… thanks? Is it enchanted?”

“Either that, or he’s about to do some stage magic for you,” Typhoon noted dryly.

“Oh, sorry; it’s a blindfold. So it can be a surprise.”

Gale’s eyes briefly jumped to her mother before she looked back at me with a sultry grin. “Kinky.”

“Absolutely not. We will not have your image sullied wandering through the streets blindfolded like a... a pet on a lead to this charlatan!” Platinum’s eyes narrowed as she observed Gale’s grin grow suddenly wider. “Daughter, if you say that word to me again, so help me I will end this game with your suitors and just choose one for you.”

I held up my hooves defensively. “Look, I don’t care about the blindfold; I didn’t mean to offend anypony.”

“It’s fine, Platinum,” Typhoon nodded. “Dad told me what he was up to earlier; I didn’t realize that was what you meant by a ‘present’. I promise, he’s not going to cause her any trouble--politically or personally. And Dad will be with them to make sure they stay out of trouble.”

“Fine. But no blindfolds.” Platinum ordered.

Gale made a great effort of making her ensuing “Aww…” sound as disappointed and as grating as possible, but she nevertheless made her way over to my side. It was in a whisper that she addressed me. “Get me out of here, Morty.”

We were nearly to the door, though, when Platinum called to me over our shoulders. “Oh, and Coil; I will be in contact. Soon.”

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

Though I immediately led Gale away from her mother, Hurricane stopped us back in the throne room and pulled us aside to another of the palace’s many rooms, to give Gale some chance to escape the confines of her court-suitable outfit. That left me standing outside in the hallways of the palace, alone with Commander Hurricane.

He raised a brow in my direction. “So, Morty, I have to ask: did you really think of this yourself?”

I shrugged. “Gale told me about eighty times when we were traveling, that she wanted to get away from…” I waved my hoof in the direction of the throne room. “...all of this. I obviously can’t just run away with her again with my horn the way it is.”

Hurricane winced. “I’m not as skeptical of your friendship as my better half, Morty, and I know it wasn’t your fault the last time. But so that we are clear: if you deliberately put my daughter in that kind of danger again, I will kill you.”

Now isn’t the time to describe exactly how that made me feel, but suffice it to say the apple of my throat was suddenly substantially thicker than my esophagus. “O… of course not, sir. I won’t have time; not if I’m going to be spending my time studying with Celestia.” I sighed. “And especially not after today’s surprise, I imagine.”

“You know her better than all her other suitors, then.” Hurricane leaned against the wall, watching me skeptically. When one word in his phrase caught in the clockwork of my mind, he donned a slight grin.

“What do you mean—”

“I was young once too, Morty,” Hurricane non-explained. “As hard as that might be to believe looking at me now.” He gestured down to his braced foreleg, helping to support an arthritic knee that I had to suspect had also been injured in one of the countless battles of the stallion’s long lifetime. And then, seemingly off-hoof, he said something that has quite literally haunted me for more lifetimes than he could possibly have imagined.

“Have you looked closely at her marks?”

The context in which I heard that question: perhaps the most dangerous father in the entire equine species asking me if I had looked closely at his daughter’s flanks, should hopefully explain the resolute shake of my head ‘no’.

Hurricane chuckled. “You should.”

I have rarely had the opportunity to turn quite so red, or to be quite so interested in the pattern of the carpet. Hurricane must have been the tactical genius history remembers him as, given how easily he managed to find everypony else he spoke to flat-hooved. “I beg your pardon?!” I coughed into my hoof. “I mean, not that I don’t think Gale is beautiful, but...”

When Hurricane was sure I wasn’t going to finish that sentence, he shook his own head slowly. “Love is when you understand somepony’s mark—and what it really represents—like it was yours, and you put it ahead of your own.”

“Um…”

“As much as Gale might like to pretend she only has a rapier on her sides, there’s a crown there too,” Hurricane mused on, closing his eyes and leaning heavily against the wall.

“What do you—”

The door beside Hurricane abruptly slammed open with Gale’s magic; she emerged devoid of her entire outfit and all the makeup she could remove without struggling with a rag; only a touch of vibrant purple lining around her eyes remained. “Fucking finally.” She rolled her neck, and I was amused to note that Hurricane winced in just as much discomfort as I felt at the sound of his daughter’s joints popping. She glanced to me, and then to Hurricane. “Did I interrupt something?”

“I was just telling Morty that he’s welcome to one of the guest bedrooms at home,” Hurricane lied. “Since I have a hunch Celestia would like her bed back. And I was thanking him for helping bring Blizzard here.”

Gale rolled her eyes. “You’re such a fucking sap, Dad. Come on, Morty; let’s go.”

“Um… I don’t actually know where we’re going.”

“What?”

I shook my head and then nodded my horn at Hurricane. “I know the name of the place, but I haven’t actually been there…”

“I’ll lead,” Hurricane offered. “You’ll have to forgive me for my pace, though.”

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

As you likely recall, in the heart of Riverward one could find a dance hall named The Sordid Affair. The sign, colored with parasprite fuzz paint, glowed neon pink and blue in the summer night air of Everfree, as classy as a clown’s novelty water-squirting boutonniere at a wake. Even Gale, ever the afficionado of seedy bars and shadowy back-alley hostels, glanced at me skeptically as we approached.

“Morty, if I really wanted to go ballroom dancing, the one at the palace is a hell of a lot nicer.”

Hurricane quirked his brow. “I thought this was your favorite dance hall, Gale.”

“On the weekend, when they play good music. Most of the time it’s all the usual Waltzes and Boulangere and whatever the fuck that dance Mom likes where everypony trots in a circle.” Gale stopped just before the doors, and looked at me out of the corner of her eye, and then suddenly her face went rather sheepish. “I mean… look, I appreciate the thought. After all that bullshit, and what happened, doing something without all the pomp and prestige is a great idea. But honestly, let’s just go back home.”

“Give me a chance, Gale.” I took her hoof, pulled her the rest of the way over to the door, and (utilizing the absolute extent of my balance to support myself on only my hind legs for just a moment), pushing it open.

“Happy Birthday, Gale!”

Gale staggered back at the sound of a mass of voices coming from inside the dance hall, and then her face broke into one of the widest smiles I’ve ever had the pleasure of witnessing on her.

In the center of the cheap lacquered oak dance floor, a huddle of Gale’s friends and family were gathered around a chocolate cake with a mess of dribbly little candles sticking out the top. I recognized most of the faces: Graargh, Blizzard, and Angel, our other three traveling companions from the battle with Wintershimmer. Gale’s big sister, Commander Typhoon, with her adjutant and office romance Frostfall, and Typhoon’s son Tempest, who was amusingly Gale’s nephew despite his being a few years older than her, thanks the titanic age gap separating freshly eighteen-year-old Gale from her forty-five year old elder sister. Then there were the fresher introductions: cyclopic, masculine Iron Rain, wearing a sword by her side that really didn’t seem to fit at a birthday party of all gatherings, and her husband Pathfinder, the only stallion I have ever known to have lost more of his fur and mane to scar tissue than to aging. They had dragged their son Gray along, though I had the sneaking suspicion he was more of baggage, and that the elder Rain was the real ‘friend’. I recognized Somnambula as well, the ‘Pillar of Hope’ from the desert sands to the south, if you believe in that sort of thing, though at the time I had barely spoken to her for thirty seconds in my life. And beside her, a mare in a palace servant’s uniform who I had never met.

“Holy shit, Morty… how… Do you even know half these ponies?”

I shrugged. “Credit where credit is due, it was my idea, but I did hardly any of the legwork. And to be honest, I don’t know if it’s really worth a ‘holy shit’; you’ve seen me raise the dead, and a cheap cake and a rented out dance hall are what impresses you?”

“You really know how to ruin any moment, don’t you?” Gale kissed me full on the lips, slipping in just the slightest hint of tongue, right in front of all the aforementioned ponies.

Iron Rain, in all her sixty-something years of wisdom, wolf-whistled, joined by the mare I didn’t recognize. Apparently, that hadn’t been planned, judging by the way the two mares then turned awkwardly to stare at one another. The most notable voice, however, was a small, high pitched, scratchy one at about my knee height, yelling “Eww, yucky!”

The speaker was Graargh, my ‘little brother’ if you will—an adolescent grizzly bear cub as far as anypony’s eyes were concerned, but actually a very young changeling for anypony in the know. At the time, of course, the word ‘changeling’ meant nothing to me save that if he ‘pretended’ hard enough he could shapeshift, and that unlike a pony using magic to transmute their form, his changed shapes actually worked. I had only heard the word from Celestia and Luna’s mouths; I, and the rest of Equestria, had yet to encounter Chrysalis and her hordes.

Graargh leapt up on me and knocked me back, wrapping his forelegs around my neck and putting quite a lot of dense grizzly bear weight on my shoulders. Still, even if I was a skinny young stallion, I’d carried the little cub on my shoulders across about half of Equestria and back, so the weight wasn’t unbearable.

“What happen to Morty’s neck?” Graargh asked.

I had honestly forgotten about the gaping, apparently open wound, and had to chuckle at the question. “Magic accident; it’s fine, Graargh. I’m just finishing healing up. How are you?”

“I good!” Graargh answered. “I stay with Papa Cane and Blizzard!”

I raised a brow and glanced Blizzard, who had adopted her usual posture around strange new ponies: wings bunched up to her neck, trying to lower her not insubstantial height as much as possible, and attempting to sneak over to the Hurricane’s side as a source of relative stability in the gathering.

“Have you two been having fun, then?” I asked.

The mare in question jumped. “Oh! Morty. Uh, yes. Fun party. I, um… I don’t know anypony here really except Mr. Pathfinder, and Aunt Typhoon, so I was just going to leave—”

“Not a fucking chance, Blizzard,” Gale interrupted, awkwardly hefting a foreleg over the shoulders of her half-niece. “I’ve been trying to get you to leave Dad’s house for, what, three weeks? The least you can do for my birthday is stick around. Besides, like half the ponies in this room are family.”

Blizzard swallowed. “That’s… kind of what I’m worried about.”

For those unfamiliar with the mare from my prior story, Blizzard was the daughter of Hurricane’s eldest foal, Cyclone—or, as more modern history texts may recall him, Tsyklon. At the time, however, Cyclone had yet to become the father of Stalliongrad, but instead had the wonderful title of ‘the Betrayer’. At the time of the events of the first Hearth’s Warming Day, while Hurricane and co. were away from their respective frozen civilizations in the Compact Lands, Cyclone decided that as Hurricane’s heir, he was entitled to lead the pegasi of the Cirran Legions. And in all the infinite wisdom of an eighteen year old with virtually unlimited military power at his hooves and a desire to make a name for himself in the history books, Cyclone decided to declare war on the unicorns and the earth ponies, secure food for the pegasi by force, and return to the ancient homeland of Cirra to win the war with the griffons that Hurricane had famously run away from.

Which really just goes to show that the Queen should have been happy I only killed one pony in self-defense in the middle of Gale’s surprise coronation party.

Cyclone failed, of course, in no small part because Hurricane actually came back alive and well. From that point, as I understand it, simply ordering his forces to stop and telling them he wasn’t mad, but just disappointed, solved most of the problem. Nevertheless, he wasn’t fast enough to stop Cyclone from breaking into the unicorn throne room, killing Gale’s maternal grandfather, King Lapis IV, and making Gale’s mom into Queen Platinum I at a tragically young age…

Namely, as she had alluded in her monologue, almost exactly the same age at which she had now thrust that responsibility on her daughter.

Despite my harshness toward the elder Platinum, she did show a great mercy to Hurricane by sparing his son’s life—punishing him instead with permanent exile from the newly founded Equestria. Cyclone would instead watch over the old unicorn capital of River Rock that he had conquered, forced to defend those he had hoped to rule, through the hardships of eternal winter left over on those old lands from the windigoes’ curse.

Blizzard had only just been born at the time of her father’s attempted conquest, but that didn’t stop her from a (fairly justifiable) fear that she would be hated by ponies who knew her true heritage.

“Blizzard, it ok!” Graargh announced. “I protect!”

Hurricane, walking up behind us, couldn’t help but chuckle. “I’m sure Blizzard is happy to know you’re there for her, Guhrargh.” Then, whispering slightly lower toward Blizzard, the old stallion continued “If you’re not comfortable here, Blizzard, I can take you home; but I promise you are safe with these ponies.”

Before Blizzard could answer her grandfather, Graargh announced “My name” and then let out a deafening guttural roar—some part of his changeling powers, I presumed, was that he could roar with the voice of an adult grizzly—and continued “Or ‘Graargh’ if have to say bad, like Morty. But not Guh-rargh. Not am spit noise.”

Gale rolled her eyes. “When are you going to learn that ponies can’t make that noise, Graargh?”

“Slestia make name right!” Graargh protested.

I patted Graargh on the shoulder. “Celestia is special, Graargh. Normal ponies can’t do that.”

Graargh shrugged in indifference, and then looked up at me with his adorably beady bear cub eyes. “You feel better, Morty? You sleep much. Too much. Not time to hibernate; it summer.”

“Graargh, why don’t you come sit with me over here?” Hurricane proposed. “Gale will want some time to say hello to her other friends, and then we can eat some cake.”

“What ‘cake’?”

Hurricane looked at me quizzically, to which I could only shrug. “I only learned what a ‘birthday party’ was yesterday.”

The old pegasus chuckled. “Today is going to be a good day for you, kid.”

Blizzard smiled at us. “You two go ahead and meet the others; I’ll just—”

Gale actually had the audacity to cut off her niece by grabbing the slightly older mare’s face with her magic. “Nice try, Blizzard. Come on; I’ll get you a drink to take the edge off, but you’re meeting these ponies.”

Like any good dance hall, The Sordid Affair had a well stocked bar, though apparently renting out the building did not include a pony to staff it. Gale obviously did not care, beckoning with a foreleg toward the elderly green grindstone of a pegasus in the corner to assist her. “Get over here, Finder.”

I had met Pathfinder only once in my life before that moment, and at the time our conversation had been somewhat clipped because I was concerned with Wintershimmer attempting to frame me for the murder of about three dozen Equestrian civilians. Thus, when the stallion wandered over to join us for introductions at the bar, accompanied by his wife Iron Rain and his son Gray, it was the first time I had really put together faces and seen the trio as a family, and it was a strange revelation.

Firstly, let me say that I don’t mean to disparage the stallion’s… masculinity. Though I only knew him for the latter portion of his life, I considered Pathfinder a good friend, and more than that an Equestrian hero. That being said, even simply by looking at him next to his wife, it was obvious who wore the figurative pants in that relationship.

For ponies who might not be familiar with that Abyssian phrase, and might be confused by the fact that most ponies don’t wear pants even in formal situations, to ‘wear the pants in a relationship’ means to be the ‘top’. And for those unfamiliar with the phrase ‘top’, you’re not old enough to be reading Gale’s vocabulary in this story, and I highly recommend you take my advice in the foreword and dig up a picture book instead.

Returning to my point about Pathfinder, the first issue in his relationship with Iron Rain is that he was fairly short for a pegasus—already the smallest race of ponies—and Rain was the second largest pegasus I had ever met, only second to the aforementioned Cyclone, whose size made me suspect Hurricane had once had an affair with a polar bear. If Rain wanted to put her wing over her husband’s shoulders, she could do so without the wing actually being parallel to the ground. Most notably, though, Iron Rain carried herself with the perfect military posture one earns either through years of disciplined practice, or medically by taking an I-beam girder as a suppository. Pathfinder, in contrast, carried himself somewhat hunched down. It wasn’t that he had the bad posture of somepony self-confident, so much as it was a sense of suppressed paranoia about his surroundings, but it was hard not to notice just how often his eyes would jump to the doors and windows of a room if you were making eye contact with him for the interest of conversation.

Gale was grinning ear to ear as she plopped down on a bar stool and kicked the legs to turn it around and face the bar. She put far too much strength into the blow, though, and was left spinning around, giggling like a six year old filly. “Thank fuck, I can get a real drink. Finder, if they have Old Cirran back there, get me that. If not, just give me a lick of whatever’s strongest.”

“I didn’t think the cocktails were that bad,” Iron Rain offered. “Now are you going to introduce me to your friend, Gale?”

“Hmm? You already met Morty.” Gale stuck out her leg, and with a rather painful scraping of hoof-on-wood, she finally came to a stop facing the bar. “That’s my cousin Blizzard.” Blizzard winced away at the introduction, to which Gale rolled her eyes. “Blizzard, this is—”

“Blizzard?” Rain’s single eye widened, causing the lanky young mare in front of her to shrivel back further, futilely trying to use me to hide like a corpulent hippopotamus behind a lamp pole. Iron Rain seemed to see me in much the same way, as she had no hesitation in just shoving me aside with a wing to get a look at her. As I staggered to my hooves, Rain cocked her head. “You’re Summer’s daughter?”

“I… y-yes…?” What followed was a shriek of terror-turned-confusion as Rain pounced on the much younger mare, wrapping her in rippling muscled forelegs and huge feathery wings for a tight hug. Judging by the sound that escaped her chest, somepony must have shoved a dog’s chew toy whistle down Blizzard’s throat, and when she was released a moment later, she had to catch her breath.

“Your mom and I were like sisters growing up,” Rain explained, stepping back. “Gods, look at you; so skinny! Well, we’ll fix that. Thank the gods somepony brought you back to Everfree, even if you are twenty years late.” Without even giving Blizzard a chance to breathe, Rain looked up and shot a one-eyed glare at Hurricane. “You finally realize I should have been raising her to start with, you crotchety old bastard?”

Hurricane—Commander Hurricane—made a point of answering by turning his body around fully so that his back was facing the bar, before returning to whatever he had been talking to Graargh about.

“A-actually, it was Morty…” Blizzard blushed fiercely through her icy white coat, her wings pinching up so far they almost covered the sides of her face.

Iron Rain turned to me, raising the brow above her missing eye, before lunging forward and kissing me once on each cheek. I was completely unprepared for this ‘attack’, and froze as the older mare chuckled. “Well, I’ll be damned, kid. You kill a noble right in front of the Queen, you fight Cyclone to steal his daughter…” She turned then to Gale. “He’s still too scrawny, but you picked a fine one, Gale.”

“Oh, you should see him in a real fight; it’s hilarious.” Gale muffled a chuckle with a hoof. “Ask Tempest.” Then Gale leaned back in her barstool and shouted her preferred term of endearment for the stallion: “Hey, slut! Get over here!”

Some readers may not have any siblings, or like me, may not consider the siblings they have any kind of family, and so may be confused that I refer to the word ‘slut’ as a term of endearment. I certainly felt that way in the moment; though on reflection, most of my siblings referred to me as either ‘Half-Brother’ (emphasizing that most-important cultural distancing) or just ‘Coil’, if not my most detested ‘Mortal’ — all of which are fairly formal and proper forms of address.

Tempest and Gale’s relationship must have been much healthier, because the handsomely scruffy sky-blue stallion actually perked up with a grin, cut off his conversation with Somnamnbula, and wandered over our direction. “You rang, psycho bitch? Or is that Your Majesty now?”

“Go fuck yourself, Tempest.”

“Wallflower would be mad I was cheating on her.”

Gale stuck out her tongue at the somewhat older stallion, technically her nephew but to all the world her big brother. Tempest responded, still grinning, with a rather complex rude gesture that required more wing flexibility than could possibly be comfortable. Maybe that was the point.

“Tell Rain about how Morty kicked your ass with a barrel of fish in Lübuck.”

Tempest rolled his eyes, shooting me a glare. “I won that fight, Gale.”

“Really? Cause I seem to remember you let Morty and I walk away when you had us outnumbered with a whole patrol.”

Tempest rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say, Gale. I don’t get paid enough to put up with magic tricks. Finder, you pouring?”

Pathfinder nodded from behind the bar. “That’s the plan. Why?”

“Because after I put away even one of Gale’s drinks, I can’t see straight.”

Pathfinder raised a brow at Gale. “You always drink Old Cirran with me, kid; what are you putting away behind my back?”

“Look, Finder… I can’t always get Old Cirran at mom’s parties; all the nobles are too snooty to just drink beer. But Puddinghead makes these mixed drinks; enough berries and syrup and fancy spices that nopony looks at me funny, but underneath they’re usually mostly vodka or mostly whisky. And then I can talk to my suitors without wanting to hang myself.”

“Well, you want something fun like that, you’re gonna have to tell me how to make it.” Pathfinder worked with his wings as he talked, producing a tankard of frothy beer for his wife first, and then for Tempest, and another for his son who hadn’t even approached the bar. He didn’t even make any mention of asking me either; he slapped a drink down in front of me and paid it no further mind. Then he looked to Blizzard. “Your father at least teach you respect for what’s good in life?”

“Pathfinder,” Iron Rain scolded.

Blizzard shook her head nervously. “I, um… No, he didn’t drink. And I don’t.”

“Are you sure you’re Summer’s daughter?” Pathfinder asked with a chuckle.

Rain seemed to take offense on behalf of my friend. “Finder, you of all ponies know she never got to meet Summer. And you’re hardly one to talk. If you teach her to drink like you did Gale, I’ll break your wings, husband or not..”

“I love you too, sweetheart.” Finder then turned back to Gale. “So, this being your birthday, what can I do for you?”

Gale grinned ear to ear—there was an element of ‘I’m having a good time’ to it, but also more than a little bit of the predatory grin of a large tropical cat. “You know how to mix a lick of Luna’s—”

Gale was cut off when the doors to the bar slammed open to welcome in the last of the party’s guests: the arguably divine mare in question, and her elder sister. Celestia showed no hesitation in immediately turning to join Hurricane—or perhaps she just didn’t like to think of herself as a barfly.

The more nocturnal of the pair had no such inhibitions. “Now the party can truly begin!” Luna bellowed. “Bartender! What are you serving?”

“Whatever Gale’s ordering, Lady Luna,” Pathfinder answered with a shrug. “Old Cirran, mostly.”

“Hmm… That sounds a bit boring from what I know of Gale’s dreams; what is your new queen ordering?”

Gale turned very red and coughed into her hoof more than once. “A, um…”

“It’s no matter,” Luna cut in when Gale hesitated, an uncharacteristic mercy from the mare voted Equestria’s least eligible bachelorette eight hundred and fifty years running. “I did not come to lose my night to inebriation, but to revel with my favorite niece…” Her voice then picked up the ominous edge of a guillotine suffused with about three strides of potential energy. “...and to deliver a summons.” With that, Luna produced a scroll and slapped it into my chest, where I promptly failed to catch it and it fell on the floor.

I frowned as I struggled to lift the parchment with my hooves, trying desperately not to use my horn. “Was the paper some kind of formality, or did you just want me to have to embarrass myself asking somepony else to read it?”

Luna shook her head. “No, Coil; as hilarious as it is to consider a nearly-adult wizard could possibly be illiterate—”

“Nearly adult?”

“—you will find that drawn on that parchment is the ritual circle for a cold iron vow. Your presence is required outside.”

“A cold iron…” I found myself briefly speechless. “Is this what you want for your geas? Because if not, I would really rather enjoy the party; it is my first one.”

“It isn’t from me,” Luna answered. “I only prepared the magic. I want nothing else to do with it. And no, as I understand it, this cannot wait. Queen Platinum was quite specific.”

“Mom? What the fuck, she needs you now?”

I turned to Gale with a shrug. “I thought you were ‘Queen Platinum’ now. Do we still call her ‘Queen’ too?”

The question only earned me a roll of her eyes before Gale clarified “I’m sure there’s some bullshit formal title. What’s a cold iron vow? Is something actually wrong, or more crown crap?”

I shrugged, but stood up. “Something is very serious, but not necessarily very wrong. A cold iron vow is magic, but not unicorn magic. I think it comes from the elk...”

Luna’s brow raised. “I’m impressed; that isn’t something I had expected Wintershimmer to have taught you. But it’s actually fey magic.”

“Ah, delightful,” I noted. “Well, Gale, if I have to give up my firstborn foal, at least it will put the question of suitors to rest.”

“What did he mean about foals?” I heard Blizzard ask over my shoulder as I left the party behind, gritting my teeth as I went. “What’s ‘fey magic’?”

I didn’t catch Luna’s explanation to my timid friend, and my own will have to wait for the next chapter. Instead, as I left the room, I could only stew in frustration at the thought that this was Queen Platinum’s way of pettily denying me the fun of what would have been my first night out with Gale and my other friends without the imminent threat of death hanging over my head. But if the Queen wanted an agreement with such powerful (and dangerous) magic, who was I to say no?

It would not be the last time I gave up an evening in Gale’s company for the sake of Equestria, and looking back on eight hundred years, those are the most painful regrets.

Even if you live forever, you still can’t get time back...

1-14

I - XIV

The Cold Iron Vow

I don’t know when you’re reading this story, or how much the world has changed, but I do know how much a few centuries have reshaped the world we live in between my escapades as a very much mortal young stallion and my current state, arguably alive with half my face missing, having made the horrible decision to try and stall a demigoddess despite knowing it was a fight I could not possibly win. Thus, I can speculate that you probably live in a world where there isn’t much, if any, blank space left on the map.

That isn’t the world we lived in when I was a foal. The lines on the edges of the world map faded away to ‘here be dragons’, and nopony knew if the other worlds of the Breezies and the Gray Woods of the elk and so forth were places one could actually walk to or magical demiplanes; the world was still full of mystery. And one consequence of that mystery was that the fey were far, far more common, slipping into our world through fuzzy edges in the way society understood the world around it.

That last sentence isn’t a metaphor, but you don’t want to read the amount of text it would take to explain it.

Fey are sapient corporeal magical creatures who have a curious relationship with ‘reality’—for a fey, things that we understand as ‘real’ like matter and gravity and unicorn magic, are somewhat subjective and philosophical. In the world they come from, things that are theoretical to us like promises and ideas, take on far more physical forms. Don’t feel bad if this is confusing; even the greatest mages in the world, like me, struggle with it from time to time. The more powerful a fey is, the more unhinged they are from how we understand reality. It’s perfectly reasonable to have a most-comprehensible conversation with a breezie, one of the weakest of the fey, but to speak to an archfey even over tea and make small talk about the weather is to gamble with your sanity and your life.

Consequently, the more rooted in reality something is to us, the easier it is to ignore for them, and vice-versa. Fey literally cannot lie, as one notable example, because the idea of a promise or one’s word for us is very fuzzy, but for them the idea can be likened unto chains. (That being said, most fey are very clever about using the truth to make false implications, so do beware taking this ‘advantage’ too far.)

One interesting quality of this relationship is that things which are really really ‘real’ to us—really ‘firm’ and ‘natural’, induce a sort of allergic reaction in fey creatures. The most notable example is iron ore—actual iron from the ground, mind you; not refined cloud skysteel as is more common in a more modern Equestria. The iron, however, must never be heated in a forge; to melt and reshape the iron is to make it stop being ‘iron’ in our minds and give it a new form, and this haziness of meaning removes the painful reaction the material has for the fey. Hence the idea of ‘cold iron’—iron which has never been heated (at least by equine hooves; most ponies don’t consider that level of plate tectonic thermodynamics, and thus neither do the fey), and is thus more deadly to these creatures and their strange powers.

A cold iron vow, then, is a way for two willing ponies to enforce the idea of a fey being unable to lie between one another. Breaking an iron vow has just the same effect on a pony that cold iron has on a fey: agonizing sores, at first on the skin, but then deeper and deeper until some recompense is made, or until death takes the poor soul due to organ failure.

An iron vow can be written down, but the magic has no interest in ink; it must be spoken aloud by both contractors, and sealed with a drop of their blood. And the words are important; the magic itself interprets them – quite literally, without regard to the intentions of either party. And once agreed to, only a similar agreement by both parties (or their true offspring, who shared some of the same blood) can end it.

It wasn’t something one entered into lightly; even Wintershimmer, who dabbled in magics strange and perverse enough that I dare not describe them here, regarded a cold iron vow as too risky to both parties to be worth the benefits. It also wasn’t the sort of magic that I imagined the Queen would have been familiar with, but her eclectic knowledge of obscure non-unicorn magic was hardly my primary concern, compared to what would bring her such desperation.

Hence, when I left The Sordid Affair and stepped out into the street to find Queen Platinum I’s Royal Carriage waiting with a full dozen guardsponies, I was prepared for nothing short of an apocalyptic suggestion.

“Will you step into my parlour?” said the Queen to the necromancer, as I approached the open door. When I had climbed up the step and found myself a pleasantly upholstered seat, she gestured a hoof to a tea set on a small wooden protrusion from the wall of the carriage. “Tea?”

“I’m afraid if I try, I’ll spill it.” I tapped my horn. “I’m on doctor’s orders not to use it.”

“Yet you made an exception to kill Count Halo?”

I sighed. “Yes, doctors do tend to make exceptions to their rules when the patient’s life is at stake. And as I explained quite fully in the throne room, he attacked me. If that’s what this is about—” I moved toward the door, but the Queen held up a hoof to stop me.

“No. My apologies.” Her horn lit, and I took notice that it seemed to falter and struggle a bit before forming enough of a magical aura to shut the door. Without a spoken word, I felt the carriage—thankfully wheeled and so not sending a lurch through my stomach—start to move. “I’m here about something much more personal.”

“You want a cold iron vow for something personal?”

The Queen let her eyes wander away from mine—and I should emphasize again for those who never had a chance to know her in life, that Platinum I never let such a show of emotion slip accidentally. “This is not about your budding romance with my daughter. Dangerous though I may think it is, I know that when the time comes, she will make the right choice for Equestria, and as I have said before, I have no intention of sabotaging your friendship, so long as you and she do not put it ahead of the crown. This is about the fact that you are a necromancer.”

“The best necromancer,” I clarified, “yes. It is my special talent.”

Platinum nodded with all the haste of an iceberg. “The Crown… that is, I, am prepared to offer you a sum of ten thousand bits, and a home of your own, in exchange for a year of your services.”

I cocked my head. “Is that… that sounds like a lot of money, but how much does that actually buy?”

While at the time of writing, it isn’t much, in those early days, it was a staggering sum to be offering a young colt.

“Sometimes I forget the things you won’t know about Equestria. It would buy you—not rent, but truly buy—a home with rather luxurious space for a bachelor in the better part of the city. Though given I’m also offering a home, I suspect you will be more interested that it will feed you and clothe you in considerable comfort for perhaps ten years.”

“Are homes normally expensive?”

The Queen gave a long sigh and lifted her teacup to her lips for a slow sip. To my astonishment, it was her magic which failed, and stained the beautiful cushions of the carriage. “I apologize, Coil; a slip of the horn. Yes, a house is normally the most expensive thing a pony buys in their life. And regarding my teacup, I would appreciate it if you didn’t make too much of a mockery of me in public.”

“Believe me, Your M… whatever you are now… if I wanted to offend you, a momentary hitch in your magic would be my last choice.”

“I retain ‘Majesty’ as the Queen-Mother, but thank you. And thank you for being civil.”

“Why wouldn’t I be civil? I am a mage.”

Platinum chuckled. “I’ve gotten too used to dealing with my daughter, where every sense of rivalry is answered with cursing and violence.” Then, at my raised brow, she clarified with an unsettlingly matter-of-fact tone to her voice. “I detest your influence on my daughter, Coil, and your outsized impact on the court without any sense of the consequences of your actions. I haven’t yet decided if I hate you personally, but my current leaning is toward loathing. And given that you aren’t practiced whatsoever in controlling your face, I don’t need you to say a word to know the feeling is mutual. This isn’t something that would normally ever be said aloud between two ponies in the orbit of the thrones, but given your lack of experience in politics, I thought it better to be blunt. We are enemies. But that does not mean we cannot be useful to one another. I wish to speak to my late father.”

“King Lapis?” I clarified.

She nodded. “As you heard in my speech, if you did not know before, my father was killed when I was about your age. I wish for his counsel now, but since he is dead, that conversation requires a necromancer. And, because the oaths of the royal line frown on necromancy, I would like to have our conversations discreetly.”

“So the iron vow is to keep me from telling the entire court that you’re doing something completely normal and respectful, because they’ll take offense?”

Platinum chuckled. “That’s half of it, yes. I also know that in order for you to seance my late father, you will have to remain present for the conversation. The other purpose of the vow is to ensure you don’t reveal the subject of our discussions.”

“I see…” I nodded. “We’ll have to discuss the exact words of the vow, of course; if we phrase it poorly, it could kill one or both of us. But first, I’m curious; I may be better than Star Swirl at this one spell in particular, but I’m certain he is capable of casting it, and he is your court mage. And we’ve both seen Luna use the spell. Why not go to one of them, whom you trust more, first?”

Platinum chuckled. “Both of them refused to enter into a vow for this purpose. And while I trust them both… well, suffice it to say I still had to insist on a more formal agreement.”

I lead with this snippet of our exchange before skipping a solid ten minutes because, frankly, you don’t want me to recount the discussion that followed. It was entirely legal-esque negotiations over phrasing of the rules. Platinum approached the terms much as a lawyer or statesmare might, whereas my training with Wintershimmer had taught me to see such phrasings in the same way one might a cautionary story about a wizard making a poor wish of a Tartaran demon, and unerringly selling their soul, or making some seemingly trivial wish aloud and ruining their life for their failure to realize its magical significance. This would be thrilling if my opponent was a fey or a djinn or some other creature actively trying to eat my soul or something, but the truth is that as much as Platinum and I did not see eye-to-eye, she was entirely benevolent in her desires and not planning anything remotely evil or even particularly cruel.

When we were done, I recited aloud the terms we agreed upon, making me the primary subject of the vow.

“I, Mortal Coil, vow to provide to Queen Platinum the First, my services as a necromancer for a period of one year, beginning at the time of my first seance on her behalf. These seances shall be provided at least once per week, for fifty two seances in total. The arrangements of these seances during each week shall be subject to my scheduling and convenience. However, if incapacitation or unavailability of either party prevent a seance during the relevant week, the seance shall be ‘made up’ at the first time both parties are available and able to participate in privacy, regardless of convenience to either party.

Either party may terminate the agreement at any time. If I terminate the agreement, or fail to meet its terms, I shall repay to the Queen a sum of the Queen’s choosing, up to the full total of one hundred thousand bits and ownership of the property originally provided for this service, or equivalent value. This sum shall be provided at the time of cancellation, and until it is provided, the contract shall be considered still in effect. If the Queen cancels the agreement, or if three or more seances are delayed due to her unavailability (so long as that unavailability is not caused by me), I shall be under no further compulsion to provide my services, nor to return any payment for this agreement.

Finally and most importantly, we both agree that any items discussed during these seance sessions shall be kept private between the two parties, and anypony invited by the Queen or the souls of those seanced. I shall be permitted to explain that I am providing magical service to the Queen in order to explain my obligations, but shall not provide details of the service, nor the magnitude of my compensation. If I become aware of any attempts to spy on or otherwise learn the details of these sessions, I shall inform the Queen, but I am under no compunction to provide assistance, magical or mundane, in preventing such active espionage beyond my adherence to this contract. This clause of secrecy is to be considered null and void in the event that disclosure of these details is necessary to prevent serious injury or death, provided there is no other reasonable and reliable way to prevent such a tragedy without revealing our secret.

This contract may be amended, such as to add others to the ‘circle of trust’, by the mutual formal agreement of all parties, to be indicated formally by placing hooves in contact and stating aloud the agreed to modifications. The contract shall be voided upon the death of Queen Platinum, or after one-hundred years time in the event of unexpected longevity or immortality.”

You may be surprised that I memorized that block of text if you yourself are not a classically trained wizard, but the ability to recite long tracts of specific text was my primary way of learning under Wintershimmer, since he had elected not to teach me the literacy necessary to just read such passages myself. When I was finished, I unfurled the parchment Luna had provided, and with a quick prick to the frogs of our respective hooves on a butter knife included in the ‘crumpets’ part of Platinum’s tea set (this took a lot more effort than you’d think; the knife was not especially sharp), the deal was sealed—no horn magic required on our parts. That left me to recline on the bench and explain to the Queen-Mother how it would be probably a week, at least, before the first agreed-upon seance.

“Let me ask now, so you have some time to think: has Star Swirl let you talk to your father since his death? Or was your last communication with him before he passed?”

I thought it was a fairly simple question, but a silver-gray brow rose on the Queen’s stern face. “I haven’t spoken with him since he died. Does that matter to the magic somehow?”

“No; I just want you to be prepared.” I steepled my hooves, careful not to touch my sore, slightly bloodied frog. “Judging by how much effort you put into ensuring my privacy, and how much you’re paying, I’m guessing you have some political questions or secrets you want to talk to him about. Many ponies who request seances have urgent concerns of that sort; inheritances, murders, that sort of thing. Few consider the emotion of the experience. If this is the first time you’ve talked since he passed, he may have heard some of what’s gone on in your life from the other souls who have passed into the Summer Lands since, but he will want to know a proper story first-hoof from you. At least, most family members do. Likewise, you’ll look fairly different to him; you are still a beautiful mare, but you are hardly twenty-one anymore. Souls experience the flow of time more abstractly in the Summer Lands, so he may be shocked. You should be prepared for some initial rejection or discomfort on his part; it usually passes quickly enough.”

“Ah… No, you’re right. I suppose I hadn’t given that any thought. I… thank you, Morty.” Then she closed her eyes and settled back in her seat. “I’m surprised you have such a good bedside manner, given your teacher.”

I shrugged. “We call it ‘graveside manner’, given my magical specialization.” Queen Platinum failed to find that old necromancer’s joke nearly as funny as Meadowbrook had the prior morning. “Wintershimmer could be quite the gentlestallion when he wanted to be. Remember, I did learn to be civil to ponies I detest, as you put it, from him. But more than anything, it’s practical. I don’t want to waste my magic bringing up a seance only for you to run screaming, so to speak. Necromancy isn’t evil, as so many narrow-minded ponies believe; it can even be therapeutic. However, if you haven’t thought the implications through, even I must admit that it can be unsettling at times. Now, can you return me to the party?”

Platinum shook her head. “I’m afraid by this point, your party is over. My apologies.”

“You aren’t sorry about that.”

The Queen-Mother raised a brow. “Perhaps I’m not… I’ll have the guards bring us around to my husband’s villa; I understand he’s offered to house you for the time being.” She rapped a silvery hoof on the wall of the carriage, and our path shifted subtly, though how the guards outside heard the faint noise I still cannot say.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

When I wandered into Hurricane’s villa in the dead of night through the cracked open door, I found Gale waiting for me by lamplight. In the time it took me to register her presence awake, she lunged off of her cushion and pressed her lips tight against mine.

“Thank you, Morty” were the first words I heard when our lips finally parted. “That was… It made today a lot less shitty.”

“Then it was worth it,” I wrapped a leg over her shoulders and hugged her tight. With our chests pressed together, my height put me at just the right angle to whisper my next thought beside her ear. “I hope the rest of the day wasn’t all bad.”

“No, I guess not.” Gale let out just a tiny hint of a laugh, a touch hollow and with a pinch of bitterness. “One down, six to go?”

“I’m not murdering the others,” I scolded. “All joking aside, I didn’t want to go that far.”

“You absolutely did,” Gale pushed me away, and then lifted a hoof to hit me. After a glance at my neck, the offending limb slowly lowered. “You were grinning ear to ear when he thought his shield was going to protect him.”

I sighed. “Well… He insulted my mark.”

“I’m not mad,” Gale replied, shaking her head. “You have no idea how often I’ve imagined bucking that old fuck in his stupid moustache. So it was a nice present. Mom losing her shit made it even better. Speaking of which, did you wind up making a deal with Tirek?”

“What?” I asked with absolute confusion on my face. “The centaur? No, Gale, I would never involve Tartaran magic! The fey contract with your mother was bad enough.”

“That’s who I meant,” she replied, flatly.

“Oh. Then…” I had to cut off my own thoughts with a long yawn. “...yes. Sorry; it’s been a long day. You didn’t have to stay up for me.”

Gale scoffed. “I didn’t. Can’t sleep.”

“Thinking about being Queen now?”

“No shit, detective.” I won myself the bitter sarcasm of one mare’s applause for my guess. “I heated up some milk—” she gestured to a steaming mug sitting on a coaster atop a glass coffee table (not that we called them that at the time; coffee was still quite foreign to Equestria). “—but it’s not going to get my head to shut the fuck up. But you don’t need to stay up with me. We can talk in the morning.”

“Hmm…” I shook my head, grabbed onto Gale’s shoulder with my hoof, and led her over to a long couch in the villa’s living room. “I can’t promise I’ll stay awake, but I can keep you company.” And with that, I pulled her down as I flopped myself onto the couch, pulling her back against my belly.

Our hug lasted at least until I drifted off into what was still, at the time, Luna’s realm of dreams. Even compared to Celestia’s bed, the warmth of Equestria’s new unicorn queen against my chest gave me one of the most comfortable nights I’ve ever had in my life, and even after almost a millennium of life, that night is still one of my most cherished memories. I remember her mane tickling my chin, and the way she squirmed just a bit to center her weight on the cushions and get more comfortable against me. For just that one blissful moment, though the matter of her suitors and our hypothetical marriage and whatever political nightmare the Queen had embroiled me in were all still pending threats to our happiness, they all faded away. We could just enjoy one another’s company and be together. And in that, though I wasn’t wise enough to see it at the time, I had won.

Interlude I - Regarding Somnambula

Interlude I

Regarding Somnambula

On the morning of what would have been Gale’s one thousand eight hundred and thirty first birthday, or if you prefer, a full one thousand and seven years after the prior chapter of this tome was first penned, Celestia watched as another of her students held an earlier copy of this very tome in a magical aura of ‘moderate amaranth’ (that is to say ‘reddish-purple’, if you have never been asked by a court of law to indicate where a color wheel touched you).

Sunset Shimmer will not, I suspect, go down in Equestrian history—except, perhaps, for mages studying the field of portal magic. She had the misfortune of preceding the now overwhelmingly famous Twilight Sparkle in her role as Celestia’s pupil, and took whatever fame she otherwise might have had to the far side of a magical mirror whose creation and original intended purpose I shall discuss later in this book (and, confusingly, chronologically much earlier).

In appearance, she was an amber unicorn of about twenty, maybe twenty-five years, with a vibrant crimson mane split by a similarly sharp yellow stripe. Beyond that, and her talent mark of a blazing sun, (I refuse to refer to them by Dr. Cutie Pie’s name, no matter the significance of her contributions to that field of study) she had no particularly notable features. Though a perfectly capable mage, she never ascended to the level of magic where one might expect to find her having tampered with her own anatomy, as one would note upon meeting myself, or Star Swirl, or the aforementioned Twilight Sparkle. In fact, her only magical ‘side effect’ of note was her age—though she looked to be only in her twenties (which would have made her Twilight’s peer and not her predecessor), on that morning of Gale’s birthday Sunset Shimmer was actually forty three. The mismatch was the result of the unusual flow of time on the other side of her portal compared to its rate passing in Equestria.

I explain all this so that you can understand that when Celestia, by then the monarch of Equestria, nodded down at this tome—and all the secrets it contains—it was a show of incredible trust, but founded on their past relationship.

“You can share what you read in this with your team if you believe it is necessary,” Celestia told her. “But there are some things Morty wrote down that I don’t trust the rest of Equestria with knowing.”

Sunset Shimmer nodded somberly. “Is there anything in particular you want me to keep secret?”

“I think it’s fairly obvious, and I trust your judgement,” Celestia answered, managing to project warmth into her words without losing the seriousness in her tone. “Just… don’t try to cast any of the magic in there unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

Sunset chuckled. “Well, it’s been a few years since I renewed my necromancer’s license. And even if I had, it was never really my field, you know?”

“I recall a certain filly could be quite crafty making golem cores when she wanted her bedroom to clean itself,” Celestia replied, before suddenly glancing to the door of the chamber, seemingly unprompted. “Come in, Somnambula.”

The door cracked open, and then the sandy orange pegasus who’d opened it started. “Oh, I’m sorry—I didn’t realize you were having a private conversation. I had just made some spiced shay, and I remember you used to like it…”

“It’s fine.” Celestia smiled, gesturing the ancient mare into the room with her wing. “Thank you for thinking of us. I’d forgotten how good your shay was.” Then she stepped away from the window overlooking Canterlot’s enormous (and quite fatal—more on that earlier) cliff, taking a seat on a cushion in the center of the room. “Come on, Sunset. Have a seat. I was going to suggest you go get to know the rest of your team today while my staff is preparing your airship; that way, you can leave first thing tomorrow morning.”

Sunset nodded. “Right… Somnambula, what is shay?”

“Oh, uh… I believe you would call it ‘tea’.”

“The more Equiish pronunciation is ‘chai’,” Celestia clarified. “Though Somnambula’s blend of spices is a bit different from what’s become popular in Equestria. Even in Saddle Arabia, nopony makes it quite the same anymore.”

“It has been… a long time,” Somnambula agreed with a nod, gently removing the tray on her back with her wings and setting it on a small coffee table in front of the massive alicorn. Then she took a seat on another cushion in the room, pausing just long enough to adjust her silk headdress. “Things change with time. It is not a thing to cry over. It gives us the hope that the world gets better.”

Sunset Shimmer took a third seat around the coffee table just as Celestia finished pouring a cup of the ancient spiced tea mix. By the time the young unicorn had gotten comfortable, a steaming cup was floating in front of her. “Well, I would say how wonderful it is to share a cup of tea with you after such a long time, Sunset, but compared to how long it’s been since I shared one with Somnambula it really hasn’t been that long at all.”

Somnambula chuckled. “Perhaps for you, Lady Celestia. For me, it has only been six… maybe seven moons?”

Sunset nodded after a sip of her tea. “That’s still so strange… Twilight told me about you and Star Swirl and the other pillars, but… It’s hard to wrap my head around. You really lived back then?” She nodded to her copy (probably this copy, though I can’t guarantee it won’t be duplicated in the future; I’m just skeptical Celestia would ever allow it) of Tales.

“It is hard for me to wrap my head around too, but yes.” Somnambula took a slow sip of tea from the cup cradled between her wings. “It was a… very eventful time.”

“So you helped Star Swirl banish the sirens to the other side of the mirror?” Sunset pressed. “Do you remember them?”

Somnambula nodded again. “That was how I first met Star Swirl. After he and Cyclone drove them away from River Rock, they came to my home, Mahrdina.”

“Where’s that?” Sunset asked.

“I… was surprised to learn that they had renamed it after me,” Somnambula answered. “It is still uncomfortable to be honored that way.”

“It’s on the western coast of Saddle Arabia,” Celestia explained more practically. “Close to the badlands, and the border with Suida.”

“Huh.” Sunset nodded. “I didn’t think Equestrian settlements stretched that far south that long ago.”

“Oh, you misunderstand.” Somnambula chuckled. “I did not grow up in Equestria. My family were not Cirrans. We are… were… called Pharonic pegasi, from the Kingdom of Mahrdina. Until the great winter pushed those ponies west from River Rock, the most we had heard of other kingdoms of ponies like us were stories from long-dead travelers. It was very much a surprise when Star Swirl arrived.”

“Oh?” Sunset raised a brow toward Celestia. “There were other pony nations besides the Three Tribes?”

“A few,” Celestia admitted, closing her eyes as she seemed to slip into a realm of memories. “The Kingdom of Mahrdina, the Crystal Union… Archmage Mistmane wasn’t actually from the Diamond Kingdoms either; she grew up in the Shogunate of… oh, the name escapes me.”

“Uma,” Somnambula noted. “They often fought with the kirin, as Mistmane tells it.”

“That’s right.” Celestia nodded back to Sunset. “The world was much bigger than just the three tribes that founded Equestria. But over time those other nations tended to get absorbed. Morty was not wrong when he predicted that much of our history would be lost after the Twilight War. Those nations that hadn’t yet been absorbed into Equestria couldn’t survive Nightmare Moon’s onslaught alone, and… when it was done, so much was lost. Both lives and histories. But because Hearth’s Warming Eve was such a strong tradition by that time, and because of the outsized influence of the the Low Valleys, the Diamond Kingdoms, and Cirra in creating Equestria in the first place… theirs are the histories that tend to be remembered the most.”

“It is my hope that with time, I can share the stories of our kingdom and begin to bring its history back. I have already helped to correct some embarrassing misunderstandings in your history books.” Then she glanced down to the rather elephantine history book that happened to be in the room at the time. “I am very excited to hear how Gale and Morty finally married.”

“You knew them?” Sunset asked. “Personally?”

“Very personally.” Somnambula chuckled. “I was… am... only a few years older than them. And I was quite familiar with Gale’s family even before Morty came to Equestria. I was almost her aunt… or perhaps her… what are the words, Lady Celestia?”

“Half-sister-in-law,” Celestia clarified. “Though whether she would have called you ‘aunt’ or ‘sister’... you might as well flip a coin.”

“Um… what?” Sunset held up a hoof, tracing an invisible family tree in the air. “Wait… you mean you were going to marry Cyclone?”

“It was a most embarrassing confusion,” Somnambula agreed with a chuckle. “Because Mahrdina and Saddle Arabia were neighbors, we shared a tradition. It was custom that when a prince or princess became pharaoh, they be married to a prince or princess of Saddle Arabia, and vice-versa. If one of our nations had no foal who could fill that role, a priest or priestess would do. So after Equestria was founded, and we first met them, our pharaoh decided to follow that custom to forge an alliance. And since Hurricane was the pegasus leader, and our royal family were pegasi, and I had been made the high priestess after I defeated the sphinx’s challenge, I was sent to secure our alliance.”

“I… wait, what? But wasn’t he already married?”

“As I said, it was embarrassing. The pharaoh could have many concubines of unicorns and earth ponies, but was only to marry one pegasus. And so when we heard that Hurricane was only with the unicorn queen, we… misunderstood. I was enamored by stories of this pony, who had tamed the sun—my apologies, Lady Celestia, I do not mean to imply; it was just what we thought we had been told.”

Celestia only chuckled as she shook her head. “No harm done, Somnambula.”

“So I was sent with an entourage, and when we arrived at Everfree City, as was our custom, they wrapped me in a honeymoon rug, carried me into the throne room, and presented me to create an alliance.”

“Oh… oh no…” Sunset had to press a hoof to her lips to chuckle.

“It was far worse than you fear,” Somnambula added. “I had been told Hurricane was the pegasus leader, but by then he had already retired. So, when I stood up dizzy from being unrolled from a rug, in the middle of the throne room in their palace, I looked up at the throne and I saw their leader. Hurricane was less masculine than I had been led to believe—”

“Oh no…” Sunset repeated.

“But he wore the black armor that we had heard stories of, and he had the scars and the rugged appearance I had imagined. So I did what my pharoah required of me. I bowed, and showed him the full shape of my body and my wings, and I offered to wed him and to carry his foals, so that we could have an alliance. And to show I was serious, I walked up the steps and kissed him.”

“You made out with Typhoon because you thought she was her dad?” Sunset asked through her laughter. “Nopony said anything?”

“Hurricane tapped me on the shoulder; he had been standing beside her the whole time, but I had just assumed he was some advisor since he did not wear a uniform. At least it was some consolation that he was barely able to contain his laughter to explain my mistake, instead of being angry.” Then she sighed. “What caused a real problem was that I had heard Hurricane’s eldest was a son named Cyclone, but not what Cyclone had done to betray his people. So when I realized Hurricane was not the right target for my offer of an alliance, I suggested him instead.”

“Ah…” Sunset’s observation trailed off into the sort of hiss through clenched teeth that only arrives from the most awkward of moments. “I’m sorry.”

“When the court realized that I did not know his story, they were quick to forgive me, and though I did not marry, I did secure an alliance with Equestria. Gale joked that I should have been one of her suitors, and that she would have taken me over the options her mother gave her, but Platinum made it very clear that would not be welcome, and I did not want to risk the progress I had made.”

“Huh… Well, if Typhoon didn’t hold it against you, I guess that worked out in the end.”

“I do not know if she was serious, but Gale later told me Typhoon had wished to take me on a date.”

“What?” Sunset stared down at her book. “But… Morty made a huge deal in the other book about how she was obviously sleeping with her secretary. Was he just completely wrong?”

Celestia swallowed nervously—an expression so rare for the alicorn that it is worth a moment of reflection, dear reader—and glanced down at the book. “Sunset, it is an easy trap when studying history to forget that its heroes and villains are still mortal ponies, in every sense of the word. That includes romantic desire.”

“Ironically except the one whose first name was ‘Mortal’?”

“In the sense I’m referring to, Sunset, no. Very much including him.” Celestia sighed. “I’ll warn you, Sunset, that unlike in Beginner’s Guide, Morty is much more frank here about the fact that most of his subjects—himself included—are teenagers or extremely young adults. That is the only copy of Tales from Everfree City in the world—at least, that I know of—and unlike Beginner’s Guide, I haven’t touched it. It’s completely uncensored, exactly as Morty wrote it, in this room, a thousand years ago.”

“You mean to remove dangerous magic, like the directions for how to cast Wintershimmer’s Razor?”

“That is one definition of the word ‘censorship’, yes.” Celestia nodded. Then, more sternly, she added “And since you bring it up, yes: the only surviving notes on that spell are in that book. I trust you’ll be careful who reads it.” Then, after a sip of tea, she added “Please don’t share it with Twilight.”

“You don’t trust Twilight?”

“It depends on what you mean by ‘trust’,” Celestia replied diplomatically. “I know I can always rely on Twilight to do what she feels is best. But Twilight has always had an… optimistic view of where the appropriate balance lies between academic openness and public safety.” After another slow tip of her tea, she lowered her tiny cup to the table and refilled it. “Shall we speak of something happier? Or at least less… fatalistic?”

“Yes, lets.” Somnambula leaned forward with a smile on her face. “I know we are going to see Morty, but should we expect Gale to be with him?”

Celestia wilted like a timelapse of a flower snipped from its root. “Gale is… no longer with us.”

“Morty did not make her live forever too?” Somnambula asked. “They were such a happy couple when I left, I just assumed…”

“It’s alright,” Celestia agreed. “It’s a fair question, but it’s Morty’s story to tell.”

“Then the others? His little bear cub? Or the flying rock? Or—”

Celestia attempted to let out a passable ursine roar, like she had so proficiently almost two millennia earlier, only to find herself coughing and struggling to compose herself. “Apologies. You mean Graargh?”

Sunset tweaked her brow as she swung her head toward Celesetia. “Wait, it’s pronounced Grarg? Like the front of ‘great’ and ‘argument’? I thought it was supposed to be like ‘gruff’ with another r in the middle. Why would he spell it with an ‘h’?”

Celestia only shrugged and sipped her tea. When her throat was sated, she answered calmly. “There’s never any shame in mispronouncing a word you’ve only seen written down, my student. Unfortunately, your pronunciation isn’t likely to matter.” Then turning to Somnambula, she donned a sympathetic expression. “Graargh, like nearly everypony else you remember, have long since passed away.”

“Aren’t changelings biologically immortal, like lobsters?” Sunset asked. “I thought their shapeshifting magic meant they didn’t naturally age.”

Celestia frowned. “That is correct, Sunset, but there are other ways to die… While Graargh was more fortunate, the life expectancy of a changeling infiltrator in Chrysalis’ hive was only about thirty years, despite their lack of an upper limit.”

“So Graargh is gone too.” Somnambula sighed. “That is very disappointing. He was such a lively spirit. I wonder why Morty did not extend his long life to his friends?”

Celestia sympathetically refilled Somnambula’s teacup. “At the risk of telling you both more than he would like, Morty was not happy to make himself ‘immortal’... or whatever he is now. It is the one piece of magic he has refused to share with me, and my own efforts to understand it have only highlighted my relative lack of skill in the art of necromancy, even when working with fully understood magic.”

“Fully understood? What, like he didn’t finish it?” Sunset asked.

“By design, yes. Hedoesn’t know how to end it. It is a means to an end, not the end itself.”

“That seems much more serious and responsible than the pony I knew,” Somnambula noted.

“Perhaps,” Celestia shrugged her wings. “But I think you’ll find he hasn’t changed much since you last spoke to him.”

“Then it shall be fun to…” Sunset found herself confused when the ancient pegasus glanced her way and let her words hang in the air for a moment before she finished “...catch up.”

“I thought you might like to. And since you were closest to him among the pillars, you seemed like the natural choice.” Celestia smiled over her teacup.

“Not Archmage Star Swirl?” Sunset asked. “Not to say you wouldn’t be friends, Somnambula; I just figured he would get along with another wizard.”

Somnambula shook her head. “They had a grudging respect, but I do not think it is possible for two ponies to like each other less than Morty and Star Swirl. Especially after the lecture.”

Celestia cringed.

“What?” Sunset asked.

“It’s… you’ll read about it later, Sunset,” Celestia sighed. “A word of caution: if you choose to discuss it with Morty, make sure you’ve mastered the defense against the Razor first.” Then the alicorn princess rose to her hooves, completely dropping the (perhaps justified at the time) implication that I would murder a random stranger for bringing up the notorious experience. “That was delicious, Somnambula; thank you for sharing it with us. Now, I’m sorry for departing after such a short chat, but I need to check on the preparations of your airship. Sunset, if you’d like to join me, this is an excellent chance for you to speak with your pilot.”

“My pleasure, Lady Celestia.” Somnambula nodded once, and then again bobbed her head in deference to Sunset. “I am very excited for our journey, Sunset.”

“Me too, Somnambula. It should be fun.” Sunset only paused to pick up this tome before her hooves moved for the door. “I’m sure we’ll talk more later.”

With that parting, Sunset swept out into the halls of Canterlot after Celestia, passing a few gold-armored soldiers before finding the rest of the halls largely abandoned. It was always an interesting balance trying to match Celestia’s gait without awkwardly jogging, and Sunset found that she took the challenge most comfortably with exaggerated strides that produced an almost deafening click on the marble floors of Equestria’s newer royal palace.

Though the halls were never truly empty, what with staff and guards criss-crossing every which way in silent service to the unending grind of the gears of state, the wide halls—built to more than comfortably accommodate Celestia’s height, unlike most of the buildings in Everfree—only passed by another pony for mere moments at a time.

After a few quick turns on the way down from the sitting rooms of the palace toward the massive artificial plateau of the cliffside palace’s gardens, Celestia finally broke the silence of their walk. “I should give you one more word of caution about reading that book.”

“Oh? More dangerous magic?”

Celestia chuckled. “I sincerely wish it were just that.” Then, for just a moment, she hesitated. In the past, for a rawer and more openly mortal Celestia, that would not have been such an unprecedented show of emotion, but one thousand years as the God-Empress (‘Princess’ was always a preposterous show of false humility) ruling Equestria had taught Celestia to keep her emotions—and nearly any sign of weakness—well hidden behind a mask of neutral impartiality.

“Princess?”

“There’s no delicate way to say this, so bear with me.” Then, with a short breath, she added “There are some portions of Tales that I can only assume Morty included for his own satisfaction or enjoyment or… well, honestly, I don’t know why he chose to include them. He never reproduced them in any of the copies he created—”

“I thought you said this is the only copy.”

“Yes, Sunset. I burnt the others.” When Sunset recoiled, Celestia shook her head. “You’ll understand later. Regardless, this copy includes some entries Morty copied from Gale’s diary.”

“And those are especially dangerous because… she swears a lot in writing?”

“They’re not dangerous. Just… very thorough. Morty titled those segments ‘The Pillow Book of Princess Platinum’. I suggest you skip them. Especially if you want to look Somnambula in the eye again.”

“Pillow Book? I don’t know if I've…” Sunset’s voice slowly drained away as her ears and mind caught up with the implication of the last of Celestia’s words. “Gale wrote about she and Morty having—?”

“I would assume so,” Celestia quickly interrupted. “I skipped that chapter as soon as I realized what she was describing.”

“But… He wrote this eight hundred years later?”

“Everypony has their own preferences, Sunset, and in my experience, immortality exacerbates them. I don’t mean to be a prude, but I have personal reasons to want nothing to do with it, so if you do indulge in reading that, I simply ask you pretend you didn’t anytime I am in earshot.”

“You’re not… in it, are you?”

“What? No! I would never!” Celestia shook her head. “Sunset, not only was he my student, but he was eighteen. It would be utterly improper.”

“No, but…” Again, Sunset’s voice drained away as her mind raced faster than her tongue could keep up. “When Somnambula said she knew Morty and Gale personally…”

“No comment,” Celestia replied almost instantly.

“That’s why you picked her instead of any of the other pillars? Because she and Morty—”

“Somnambula is a very responsible adult mare, and I have no interest in speculating on her romantic life, especially as it relates to Gale. I merely wanted to warn you. Now, as Morty once said to me, let’s talk about something more pleasant, like botulism or genocide.”

Sunset chuckled. “That doesn’t sound right coming from you.”

“No. No, I suppose it doesn’t.” Celestia chuckled. “I re-read Beginner’s Guide before I called your team here, and found that even though it can sometimes be quite barbed, after not seeing him for two hundred years, I was missing hearing his voice. Now, let’s see how the airship is coming along.”

Author's Note

The alluded to chapters will be a separate fic when the time comes, in order to fully abide by FiMFiction rules. They will not be required to follow the plot.

2-1 Queen Platinum and the Stable of Nobles

II

Queen Platinum and The Stable of Nobles

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

II - I

A Breakfast of Champions

“Oh gods…”

I briefly considered opening my eyes, but in the groggy hours of the early morning, it was much easier to pretend the young stallion’s voice was coming from somewhere off in the distance. I suspected it might have belonged to Tempest.

“Shh.” That voice was unmistakably Blizzard. “Look how cute they are.”

“Uggh. Morty sleep so much!” With an ursine growl to his squeaky voice, Graargh elected to shatter the silence with an outright shout. “Morty! Gale! Wake up now! No more sleep! No more sleep for ten thousand years!”

I only came to enough consciousness to realize I was sleeping on a couch in Gale’s living room, her back held close to my chest, when her starting awake involved stabbing me in the neck with her horn. I found myself suddenly grateful for my patch of ‘bad zombie’ exposed muscle, when the layer of transparent metal deflected the painful blow from outright impaling my jugular. Instead, I just got a nice bruising for my trouble.

“Ow!” I hissed.

“What the fuck, Graargh?!” Gale collapsed into a flailing mass of limbs on the floor off the couch, where my own starting had tossed her, and struggled to find her hooves.

“Too much asleep!” the little bear insisted.

“Graargh, it would be nice if you didn’t shout so much.” Blizzard, whose sympathy was only rivaled by her constant nervousness, gently laid a wing on Graargh’s back. “It’s very early, and that’s not a very nice way to wake up.” Then, looking up at us, she added, “Grandfather almost has breakfast ready, though.”

Tempest, Gale’s ‘big brother’ (though by blood, her half-nephew) rolled his eyes. “Grandpa would never delay breakfast this late for me. But I guess ‘the Queen’ needs her beauty sleep.”

Gale’s horn lit, and I was shocked when I realized her magic had grabbed her ‘big brother’ by the throat, not so much choking him as yanking him forward to where she could glare into his eyes without herself moving where she was standing. “Keep that shit up, Tempest, and I’ll ask Ty to assign you to courtroom guard duty. Then instead of flying around, you can be just as fucking bored as I am all the time.” Gale rolled her neck. “Morning, Blizzard. Graargh.” Then she turned back to me. “Well, get up, Morty. Let’s eat. Don’t want to keep everypony waiting.”

I have never been a morning pony (the solution, for those magically inclined, is to give up on sleeping altogether), so I was the last to stagger from Hurricane’s sitting room into his villa’s lavish dining room.

I’ll spare you all of the good mornings, because there were several. Seated at the long table I found Commanders Hurricane and Typhoon, Queen Platinums I and III, Blizzard, Tempest, Graargh, and a mare I recognized from the party the prior night whose name I didn’t know. Guardian Angel floated behind the seats before finally taking up his favorite place, hovering just about a leg’s reach up and to the right of my head. And to top it all off, sitting on the floor instead of in a seat at the table in order to get her head at the right height, even Celestia had joined us.

Only one introduction in the whole mess was worth mentioning.

“So… Can I call you Morty, or is that a personal thing?” said the unfamiliar young mare, sitting comfortably at Gale’s side. She was a unicorn of about my age (in fact almost three years older than I thought), but with a friendly chestnut face and a coltish short-cut yellow mane. Her palace servant’s uniform, tight fitting but modest, dyed a muted purple with gold accents, made her occupation obvious. But I think more than anything else, I noticed both the edge of keen intelligence in her brown eyes, and how rapidly they seemed to jump around the table at the slightest movement.

I shrugged. “Help yourself, ma’am.”

“Ma’am?!” The unicorn gasped in shock, her horn shaking her glass of apple juice and nearly splashing it onto Tempest at her other side. “Is he making fun of me, Gale, or—”

Queen Platinum (the one I actually call ‘the Queen’ sincerely, not Gale) harshly rapped a hoof on the wooden table. “You should address Her Majesty with appropriate respect, even in less formal gatherings.”

Gale sighed. “You can ignore that; that is an order from the reigning Queen.” When Queen Platinum donned a small frown, Gale showed incredible regal presence by briefly sticking out her tongue toward her mother, before turning to me. “Morty, this is Lark. She’s my hoofmaiden. Lark, you can call him whatever the fuck you like.”

I raised a brow. “You have a hoofmaiden?”

“She is the Queen-Regent,” Lark answered, in between bites of runny yellow eggs. After a moment to swallow, she added “Not that I’m new; I’ve been with Gale for years.” Then she turned to Queen Platinum, actually winked at the older mare, and smiled. “With apologies, I have to defer to the crown.”

“Quite,” Platinum answered tersely.

“So… what are you going to do, now that you’re Queen?” I asked Gale. “Gonna go declare some laws or something?”

“Parliament passes laws, Morty; not me.” Gale… well, I can really only describe the motion as impaled a sausage on the blade of her butter knife, then took a rather feral bite off the side of it as her magic held it aloft.

“So… what, you judge some criminals?”

“Your case was somewhat exceptional, Morty,” Platinum told me as Gale chewed. “Normally, the thrones defer criminal trials to appointed judges.”

“Like Iron Rain,” Gale added after swallowing. “Being Queen officially means I just appoint nobles to the Stable and assign them to domains, plus I have one vote if something gets decided by just the thrones, instead of parliament—you remember what I explained when we met Aunt Chrysoprase?”

“Sort of.” I shrugged. “It was a lot to take in.”

Gale sighed. “Well, it doesn’t really matter yet anyway. In addition to all the hoof-kissing and brown-nosing bullshit last night, a new monarch has to go get ‘recognized’ by the five Great Houses of the Stable; there’s a whole fucking ceremony where I’ll have to answer some questions and all the nobles have to bow to me or something.”

“You remembered.” Platinum smiled. “Though to be fair, the recognition only takes an hour or so at most. Since the Stable was already meeting today, even before our little surprise, I imagine Grand Duchess Chrysoprase will want to discuss the Stable’s part in the Settlement Bill so that it can move forward.”

Gale genuinely smiled in reply. “Thank fuck; it won’t be a total waste of time then. What’s the debate on, Mom? Is there actually something with two real sides, or am I just cutting through the Stable’s usual tribalist bullshit?”

Hurricane and Typhoon both chuckled at that, sharing a knowing glance, while Platinum frowned. “Gale, the Stable are your subjects; you answer directly to them. And they could vote to depose you—”

“The day Star Swirl and Clover are dead, I’ll be worried about that,” Gale interrupted. Gale glanced down the table to where Blizzard was looking just about as confused as I was, and spoke in both our directions, slowly moving her gaze between us. “There’s five ‘great houses’ in the Stable of Nobles, which is basically just a fancy name for the collection of all the noble families. The great houses get to make rules for the other noble families, and if all five of them are unanimous, they can depose a ‘tyrannical‘ monarch. But since Star Swirl is an actually decent pony, and he’s the Duke of House Zodiac, I don’t have to worry about them pulling some backroom political bullshit to get rid of me.”

Blizzard cocked her head, but it was Graargh who spoke up over the clean plate his grizzly cub maw had utterly devoured. “If they bad ponies, Gale, you and Morty fight?”

“Sweet goddesses, no!” Platinum cried out. “Poor Count Halo was bad enough!”

Gale chuckled. “They’re not like Wintershimmer, Graargh. They’re more like Morty’s ex—you remember her, right? With the metal claw?”

Graargh nodded proudly. “I remember! Bad fuck!”

I narrowly managed not to spray a swallow of juice out of my mouth at the room reacted with similar displays of shock (and more than a few disapproving glances in Gale’s direction. After a hurried swallow, I cut in “Her name is Silhouette, Graargh.”

“That hard to say,” said Graargh, without the remotest hint of self awareness.

“The point is, there’s a difference between saying somepony is bad and needing to arrest them.” Gale shrugged. “Or in Wintershimmer’s case, outright kill him. And unfortunately, unlike Halo those crotchety old bastards are smart enough not to pick a fight with Morty.”

“Gale, I know we’re just family here,” said Hurricane, “but there’s a big difference between not liking other ponies and wishing them dead, even if you aren’t going to act on it.”

“Thank you for that rousing correction, husband of mine…” Platinum sighed, before turning to her daughter. “If you want to succeed as Queen, like them or not, you need their support.”

“Doesn’t mean she has to like them, though,” Typhoon noted.

The glare Platinum gave her step-daughter could have curdled water.

“What’s so bad about them anyway?” I asked Gale directly.

Gale waved a hoof to clear the air. “They aren’t all that bad. Duchess Glass—that’s Spicy’s mom—is kind of an elitist bitch, but I think she’s more worried about keeping her alchemy secrets in her family than she is about ‘unicorn supremacy’ or that sort of shit, so I guess she’s fine. You already met Aunt Chrysoprase, but for Blizzard’s benefit: she’s obsessed with nobles being somehow better than ‘commoners’, as if all the noble families didn’t just start with some king or queen pulling a title out of their ass. Duke House might be the best of the lot besides Star Swirl; at least the read I get on him is he actually cares about all unicorns instead of just the Stable. But he also probably gets off on re-reading the rules of procedure… he’d be a damn good judge, but instead he’s ruining my fucking life along with the rest of them. And then there’s Fire Power.”

“Duchess Power,” Platinum corrected. “No matter your opinion, you ought to refer to the nobles by their proper titles.”

“Ah; sorry Mom. Greedy Little Bitch Fire Power, because she doesn’t deserve a noble title, isn’t even in it for the Stable. She’s just in it for herself; she shuffles around domains with her banners so she’s always raking in the most taxes she can, and she doesn’t even live on her own land.”

I couldn’t help but quirk a brow. “Wait… but don’t those other nobles we visited also live in Everfree?”

“Grand Duchess Chrysoprase’s domain is just past the eastern edge of the city,” Platinum explained. “And as chair of the Stable, it is more important for her to be near the Stable building in any case. And both Duchess Glass and Archmage Star Swirl have elected to forgo domains due to their other duties as head of the alchemist’s guild and court mage, respectively. But Her Majesty is correct; they are in the minority as exceptions. Most of the nobleponies live on their respective domains, and only gather in Everfree once a season for a week as the Stable meets to discuss business.”

“Anyway, they’re all tribalists,” Gale finished. “So if I want anything that isn’t actively screwing over the pegasi or the earth ponies, I’m fighting an uphill battle.”

Platinum took a long slow breath. “Your Majesty, isn’t that a bit reductive? Could you at least call them ‘traditionalists’, and be a bit less aggressive?”

Blizzard glanced between mother and daughter. “What does that mean? Traditionalist and tribalist, I mean?” When Platinum turned toward her, not even particularly aggressively, Blizzard shrunk back. “Um… sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt.”

“Stand up for yourself, Blizzard; it’s fine.” Gale took another mighty bite of the sausage still speared on her knife and shot it down in a single swallow like as much hard liquor. “A tribalist is somepony who thinks we ought to keep the three kinds of ponies—the ‘tribes’—separate. They say all kinds of bullshit like ‘it’s the only way to preserve our cultures and our traditions’; that’s why they like to call themselves ‘traditionalists’. But all the biggest tribalists are ponies in power, in all three tribes; the Stable, half the command structure of the Legion—you fucking know it, Typhoon, don’t even try to deny it—and the whole fucking city of Lubuck where all the bankers are.”

“Can I use this for a learning opportunity?” Platinum cut in. “Your Majesty—”

“It’s Gale, Mom.”

“Seeing as you’re criticizing your pegasus peer for her leadership, Your Majesty, you might find it is an appropriate time to be more formal.”

“She’s my sister!” Gale put a hoof on her forehead, shook her head fully, and turned to Typhoon. “Right, Ty? We’re just having fucking breakfast; this isn’t court.”

“We are,” Typhoon answered slowly, sternly. “But your mother and I had an agreement not to discuss politics unless we both agreed to it, and I would suggest we do the same.” Then, with a gentle sigh, the substantially older sister set her forehooves—both the still-natural one and its supernaturally mist-wreathed steel prosthetic counterpart—onto the table. “Since you brought it up, my first responsibilities as Commander are to keep my soldiers alive, and to keep Equestria safe. I don’t make promotions based on the officer’s politics.”

“Sorry,” Gale muttered. “I’m not trying to accuse you of anything, Ty.” Gale rolled her eyes, and then turned back to Blizzard. “My point is, there’s lots of tribalists who are in it to get rich or make themselves powerful, and don’t actually give a shit about traditions, or about unifying Equestria.”

“And the opposing philosophy is…?” I prompted.

“Dad, you wanna tell him?” Gale asked, turning to her father.

Hurricane cocked his head. “Why me?”

“Uh, because you fucking invented it?” Using what little remained of her breakfast sausage, Gale pointed straight at her father.

“I think you’re giving me too much credit, Gale,” Hurricane muttered. “Besides, I haven’t been a politician for twenty years.”

“Oh, so it’s somepony else’s retirement speech the unitarians quote in Parliament… when they’re getting their asses kicked.” Gale tossed Tempest a wink when he chuckled, then did her best impression of her father’s deep but notably smooth voice. “In every trial I have seen in my lifetime, I have witnessed our kind—pony kind, not pegasi, nor unicorns, nor earth ponies—at our strongest when we unite.”

“You know I had Pan Sea write that, right?”

“I’m sure history will remember how inspirational ‘Private Pansy’ wrote that speech, and not how many grown-ass soldiers were sobbing when you gave it” Gale countered.

“How would you know?” Typhoon asked. “You weren’t even born yet.”

“Ponies like to write books about the founding of Equestria,” Gale answered. “Or biographies of Dad. Which didn’t mention that Pan Sea wrote the speech either. Funny how that works, isn’t it?” Gale took the final, decisive bite of her sausage, and again swallowed it almost whole.

“Well, perhaps they’ll have somepony else to quote, now that the queen of unicorns is among their number,” Hurricane answered dryly.

“Perhaps we should let Her Majesty’s actions speak for her, instead of deciding her political affiliations, and giving her potential opponents reason to dislike her early.” Platinum tapped her hooves together. “Now, this little discussion has been delightful, but I’m afraid we should think of being ready for an extremely important day. One never gets a second chance at a first impression.” She produced from inside the fur collar of her dress a letter and an ornate wrought iron key set with a single ruby, and to my surprise when she set them onto the surface of the table, her hoof flicked them in my direction.

“Per our agreement, that contains a set of Letters of Credit from the treasury. I took the liberty of dividing them up for you into more practical pieces, but the full sum is accounted for. And I understand you’re already familiar with the property, but that key goes to Twenty-Four Ridgeline Road.”

I raised a brow. “That doesn’t mean anything to me…”

Typhoon, thankfully, clarified—though perhaps not by intention. “You’re giving him Solemn Vow’s house?”

“Yes, Commander,” Platinum replied. “It’s an advance payment for his services; a personal matter, not an affair of state. When you… dealt with the prior owner, shall we say, because I had purchased it for the young baron, the property reverted to my name. And because of his history, popular perception is that the home is haunted. But I happen to know that a few intrepid young ponies recently went exploring around its basement—” Platinum shot a knowing glance… well, basically around the whole room; Blizzard, Gale, Graargh, Angel, and I had all been in on the trip. “—and while I don’t know if it is actually haunted, if there are ghosts there, I couldn’t think of anypony more suitable to deal with them.”

I shook my head. “There’s no such thing as ghosts like that, and I doubt there are any spirits. Just rubble now, and a big old block of ice… Once I get those tunnels excavated, Commander Typhoon, could I get your help melting that—”

“You could not pay me to go back into that damn house,” Typhoon cut me off with a scowl. “If you let me burn it down, I’ll pay to build you a new one.” I should perhaps emphasize that there wasn’t anger in the autumn-colored mare’s voice. Like nearly every hint of strong emotion I had seen from Typhoon, the words were icy, businesslike, and above all else, deadly serious.

“Perhaps we shouldn’t encourage arson, Commander,” Platinum muttered. “Especially in the middle of Everfree’s most valuable real estate. Coil, I’m sure Hurricane can assist you with this ice problem when the time comes. But for now, I must have a bit of time to speak with my daughter and the other statesponies here before we meet with the Stable of Nobles. So if you, Tempest, Miss Blizzard, the bear cub, and your flying rock—”

“Guardian Angel, Your Majesty, though just ‘Angel’ is perfectly fine,” Angel chimed in.

Queen Platinum looked more than a bit perturbed for a few long seconds, blinking blankly, before muttering under her breath “Of course it can talk…”

I heard Gale gag on a bite of ham she’d stolen (sans silverware, directly with her magic) before she shook her head and donned her formal voice. “That was quite insensitive, Mother. You should really apologize; you’ve hurt Angel’s feelings.”

“I… very well, yes, Angel, I apologize—”

“I believe Gale is teasing you, Your Majesty,” Angel replied, moving to hover above the table where he was more comfortably in her line of sight. “I assure you, compared to how Master Wintershimmer frequently referred to me to my ‘face’, as it were, a bit of surprise on your part is hardly going to hurt my feelings. I’m well aware my voice puts me in the minority of minerals.”

“You’re no fun, Angel,” Gale muttered.

“Perhaps not,” the golem answered. “I was not created to serve as a toy, but an assistant for Master Coil, and a store for his excess mana. In both those capacities, seeing as Master Coil is still alive, I would say I have performed more than admirably. Shall we compare to that the purpose you were created for?”

You could literally see Angel hit a nerve by the reaction on Gale’s face. “Listen, you little—”

Before she could curse him out (or something worse), I decided the time had come to intervene, which I did by dropping a hoof as hard as I could on the tabletop. “Angel.”

“Master Coil?”

“I didn’t realize you had followed along when Wintershimmer was teaching me verbal conflict. That was an impressive blow, but you shouldn’t talk that way to our friends. Especially when you know you’re going to hit a nerve like that.” I waited for a solid moment, and then nodded my horn toward Gale. “Well?”

“My apologies,” Angel hummed—not because of any particular joy the way you might use the word ‘hummed’ to describe a pony’s voice; I mean more so that his tinny artificial voice sounded more like a hum than usual. Coming from the flying rock, it made him sound more than anything like a foal who’d had a ruler broken over their face by a scolding teacher not paying enough attention to the force they were wielding.

“I… forgive you,” Gale forced out, in a way that would have made ‘yeah, sure’ sound like a moment of compelling redemption, if you believe in that sort of thing.

After a moment’s silence, I nodded to Angel. “Why don’t you head upstairs. I’ll come find you in a moment, when Celestia and I are ready to head out.”

“Ah, I’m afraid not,” said the Queen as Angel hovered toward the door. “Lady Celestia will be otherwise occupied today.”

I dared to raise a brow in Celestia’s direction—remember in my day, she wasn’t the all powerful monarch of Equestria. She was just a widely worshipped demigoddess with a thriving church, so such a show of demanding expectation was really acceptable in a way it isn’t anymore.

“You have my apologies, Morty,” said Celestia. “Today, Gale is being recognized by the Stable of Nobles, and my endorsement of her ‘divine right’ may not be comfortable, but it is… useful.”

“So you’re going to claim you’re a goddess when it’s convenient?” I had thought I came across with a friendly tease, but judging by how Celestia’s brow furrowed, it was obvious I hadn’t hit that jovial note.

“I made a promise to Hurricane and Platinum, when Gale was born and I became her godmother. I didn’t make it lightly, Morty, and I intend to keep it. If one day of delay in your lesson is too much to bear—”

“I’m sorry,” I interrupted, holding up my hooves. “It’s fine. Didn’t realize I was getting to you that bad. Go help Gale. I can keep busy.”

Celestia nodded. “Just because I’m busy doesn’t mean I can’t still teach you something.” And then, lighting her golden magic, Celestia passed me a scroll bound tightly in red ribbon.

“What’s this say?”

“It’s a letter to Mrs. Aspirations. She teaches a class of foals about Graargh’s age in the palace district. I’d like you to take Graargh and go deliver this.”

“And then?”

Celestia nodded to the letter. “She’ll tell you what to do next. Graargh is likely going to be a new experience for her, so I trust you’ll help her if she needs it.”

I raised a brow, but nodded. “As you wish, Master.”

“Do I get to call you ‘Mortal’ now?”

I felt a knot form on my brow, just under my horn. “No, Celestia.”

In the next few minutes, I left Angel with Blizzard, Tempest headed off to whatever his duties were with the Legion, and Graargh and I made our way towards the palace in search of Mrs. Aspirations. But that sordid story of espionage, terror, extortion, and murder most foul will have to wait for another Tale.

For now, our focus remains with Gale, around the only slightly less crowded table of one Commander Emeritus Hurricane.

I will remind you just this once, reader: I am the foremost necromancer in the world, and probably sit comfortably in the top three mages of all time. So while I wasn’t present in the room for these conversations, or for many conversations to follow (I wasn’t even on the same continent as our next Tale), my accounts here are first-hoof testimony.

The aging Platinum looked down at her plate, which she’d barely touched, and then sighed. “Gale, since you feel this situation is suitable for informality, I shall oblige you. But I need you to understand this isn’t a joke. I have no intention of rescinding your regency unless you cause catastrophic harm to this nation. So please, understand that your image matters more now that it ever has.”

Gale nodded, spearing a piece of ham (poor creature; but remember, future reader, that she was half pegasus) with probably more force from her fork than was strictly necessary. “You could have warned me.”

Lark nearly spat out her eggs, though thankfully the threat of spit-take artillery remained merely a threat. “You didn’t tell her?!” After a very brief pause, she added “Apologies, Your Majesty… But seriously?”

“Nopony told me either,” Commander Typhoon noted. “This does kind of change my job a little; the slightest notice would have been nice. I assume you didn’t tell Puddinghead either, Platinum, since there weren’t any balloons for it?”

“Correct, Commander,” Platinum nodded. “Your father and I have been discussing this for some time.” It wasn’t clear whether she was speaking back to Typhoon or had turned her attention again to Gale, but since ‘your father’ was the same pony for both the forty-something leader of Equestria’s armies as well as its new Queen-Regent, the point was moot.

Hurricane paused midway into lifting his glass of milk to his lips, and slowly lowered it back to the table. “So I should be grateful I got any warning at all? Or am I allowed to be disgruntled you didn’t tell me you were actually going forward with it?”

“Wait, seriously, Dad?” Gale’s jaw dropped.

Glancing back to Platinum for a moment, the old graying stallion just raised a brow. “I was under the impression your mother had meant this was happening in a year or two, not right now.”

Gale set both her hooves firmly on the table, rattling her silverware. “Okay, time-the-fuck-out. Raise your hoof if you knew what was going to happen last night.”

Besides Queen Platinum, only Celestia raised a hoof.

Gale set her left foreleg atop the hoof of her right foreleg, and massaged the bridge of her muzzle as she squinted at the table. “Aunt Celestia… and let me guess, that was just so when Mom made the announcement, you could stand behind the throne and raise your wings? What’d she give you, two hours warning?”

Celestia nervously glanced to Queen Platinum, who shrugged. Then, with a resigned sigh, the alicorn shook her head. “Not much more than half an hour. Your mother had just finished telling me before Morty and Count Halo… had their disagreement.”

“Right before Morty kicked Halo’s ass?” Gale let that question hang in the air for a moment, then leaned back in her chair and sighed. “This is one of those things we talk about privately, where you try and give me some dumb fucking metaphor about chess or flower arrangment or something, isn’t it, Mom?”

The Queen frowned. “At least you’ve learned to recognize the situations. Though I would hope by this point you wouldn’t need to ask in front of everypony assembled.”

“The rest of the family? And Lark, I guess?” Gale shrugged.

Queen Platinum closed her eyes and drew a brief breath. “Gale, why don’t we retire to your bedroom and look after your mane?”

Gale sighed. “I guess I’ll be reading about it in the newspaper if I don’t do something fancy… Fine.”

Lark nodded. “I assume this is why you had me visit this morning, Your Majesty? Should I go prepare the brushes and perfume?”

“Ah, no.” Platinum shook her head. “You guess correctly, Lark; that is why I asked you here. However, Gale and I need to speak privately for a few moments. I’m certain my dear husband can keep you entertained, or at least well fed, until we’re ready.” With that note, Platinum and Gale rose, one noticeably more enthusiastically than the other, and headed up to the top floor of the family home.

2-2

II - II

The Lesson of the Cruel Mirror

“So what do I have to wear today?”

Platinum sighed. “Whatever Your Majesty wishes.”

Gale whirled. “What?”

“I can offer my suggestions, if Your Majesty would like them, but I won’t—”

“Can you stop?” Gale shook her head. “I get you want to teach me to do the job… and honestly this is a lot better than just making me sit next to you all day. But everypony knows you’re still the one calling the shots.”

“Is that what you think?” Platinum wandered over to the humble wood-framed mirror Gale had hung on her bedroom wall. In it, she saw what she never allowed anypony else to see. “What would it take to convince you I’m serious? Should I send you to the Stable of Nobles alone? Take a vacation? I hear the new settlements you’re about to be debating over are lovely in summer. A few weeks at the lagoon sounds lovely.”

“Bullshit, mom. You’re not going to just leave me.”

Platinum shook her head. “No. No, I suppose not. But you must be prepared that some day I won’t be here. Suppose I choked on a cherry stone, or—”

“That’s the best you could come up with?”

“Will you stop fighting me for five seconds?” Platinum’s temple throbbed as she rounded on her daughter, and her shoulders rose and fell as the motion seemed to have stolen her breath. Only after a few long lonely moments did she finally find the air to speak again. “I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye, Gale. And I know at times my methods trying to prepare you for rule have driven a wedge between us. But I promise you, and I pray you can trust me: this isn’t some trick. I hope you’ll have an ear for my advice, but if you decide to go your own way, I’m going to let you.”

The extent of faith Gale had in her mother was evident when her brow remained lowered, skepticism overflowing in the resounding flatness of her voice. “Really? So you’re not going to hover over my shoulder the whole fucking time? No ‘royal tea filly’ shit?”

“You were eight. Did you honestly expect me to let you make decisions when lives were on the line?”

Gale huffed when she failed to come up with an answer that matched her distrust.

Platinum, for her part, gently moved a cushion to the front of Gale’s vanity, and gestured with a hoof for the younger mare to take a seat. “I am going to be by your side, yes, but you are the Queen of Equestria now, Gale; not me. You may consider me an advisor… albeit the only one who actually knows the weight of the crown.”

Gale took a long second to stare into the mirror while she was still standing, and slowly a hint of a grin appeared in her cheeks. “Holy shit, you’re serious.”

“I… well, I have on a few occasions been as serious as I am now, my daughter. But never more. The crown is your burden to bear.”

Gale struggled to contain her grin as she took the offered seat, recalling the accessory in question. “With how much everypony goes on about it, I was kind of expecting it to be heavier.”

The Queen lifted a mane brush from the surface of the vanity, gently moving it up to Gale’s head. “It’s a metaphor, dear.”

“I know, Mom,” Gale chuckled as she retorted, pulling away from the brush to face backwards. “I wasn’t born yesterday. Give me a little credit?” Then she turned back to mirror and closed her eyes. “I can finally do something.”

“Oh? And what exactly are you planning on doing with your newfound power?” Platinum shook her head. “Changing the apparel requirements of the Stable? Perhaps having more exciting music at our galas, or—”

“Seriously, Mom? You think I’m that… fuck, I don’t know, petty? Thin-skinned?” Gale rolled her eyes, not wanting to shake her head if only to keep the brush her mother was using from tugging at her scalp. “I want to break down the tribal walls; get Typhoon to let non-pegasi into Legion command positions, break the earth pony lock on the banks in Lübuck, and appoint some non-unicorns to the Stable.” As an afterthought, she smiled and added, “Though you’ll never catch me dead in another one of those fucking high collars. I do need to able to breathe if anypony wants to hear me give a speech.”

“That…” Platinum blinked a few moments in shock as her mind processed her daughter’s abrupt announcement. “That’s a bold strategy, Your Majesty.”

“It’s literally just the two of us, Mom. Just call me Gale. And I know it’s not going to get done overnight; I’m not pretending I’m just going to clap my hooves and have it all done. It’ll probably be like pulling teeth with the whole fucking Stable… well, except Star Swirl.”

“Indeed… as you so succinctly observed over breakfast, they do tend to trend traditionalistic.”

A painfully awkward silence settled between the two as Platinum combed through the tangled mess of Gale’s mane in silence. I cannot say how long it might have gone on, had Platinum’s horn not sparked and dropped the brush. Tangled in Gale’s mane, though it wasn’t an especially heavy thing, it yanked her head to the side, and the young Queen-Regent hissed as she jolted.

“What the fuck, Mom?”

“I… I’m sorry; my grip slipped. Here, I’ll—”

“It’s fine,” Gale snapped. Then, turning fully around, she seemed to make a point of staring into Platinum’s eyes as she yanked out the brush from her own mane. “Lark can get it. Just tell me what was so important that everypony else had to be gone.”

“There are a few things. Firstly, the last time I addressed the Stable, while you were away on your… trip... we were settling the Settlement Bill. The earth pony delegation in parliament is demanding gem mining on domain lands be decreased in exchange for their support of the bill. But since—”

“Mining is part of land rights guaranteed by the Equestrian Constitution, so parliament can’t legislate it away from the Nobles without their consent.” Gale nodded. “So Aunt Chrys and House are for it because they have banners who don’t have domains that aren’t under six feet of permanent snow who’re begging for land, and Fire Power is against it because she’s a greedy bitch who wants her gems?”

Platinum coughed into her hoof nervously. “Again, a blunt description, but an accurate one. Chrysoprase alerted me that the earth ponies delegation in parliament might come to a point like this about a year ago, so we’ve been working through negotiations since.”

“How the hell does Chrysoprase know? She’s not in parliament.”

“No, but the Great House Gullion has the most banners of all the houses in the Stable. And she personally finances campaigns for her banners who want to get into either body of parliament. She controls quite a bit of the unicorn delegation; she’s a very valuable ally.”

“And a pain in the ass enemy, I’m sure.”

“On occasion, when we haven’t seen eye-to-eye, yes. In some ways, she holds much more power than the crown. So I would encourage you to cultivate that friendship as quickly as possible.” Platinum hesitated for a moment, and then added. “If you married High Castle—”

“Mom, I’m not using my cunt as a bargaining chip.”

“Gale!”

“See? You can use my name.” Gale rolled her eyes. “Same goes for Spice Menage and Grayscale. Though I’d be an idiot to pick Grayscale, because Star Swirl couldn’t give two shits about whether or not I marry his great grand nephew, and he votes on our side every damn time anyway.”

“Perhaps…” Platinum mused. “But he is also over one-hundred years old.”

“I might not have talked to Clover much, but everything I hear about her makes her sound like she’s just as good a pony as he is. She’s his noble heir, right? Not just his… ‘wizardly’ heir?”

“That is correct, But don’t make the mistake of conflating somepony being a good pony with them being allied with your cause; just like your assumptions about traditionalists, you’ll find that many ponies who disagree with you really do believe in the things that they say. Try to give them the benefit of the doubt.”

“If you say so.” Gale rolled her eyes. “So why are you telling me all this about the vote? Why not wait until it was settled before abdicating?”

“It is settled; the vote is just a formality. I already made the relevant arrangements. And an easy win like this should set you off on the right hoof for your rule. Much easier than trying to found Equestria a week after you put on the crown, at any rate. You should win three to one. We expect only Duchess Fire Power to vote against us.”

“There are five great houses; who’s abstaining?”

“As the chair, Chrysoprase’s vote isn’t counted at all unless there’s a tie. Sometimes she announces what she would have voted, and the newspapers take it down assuming she actually did, but on the official record, most Stable votes only have four counts.”

“Right… Alright, for the record, why do the earth ponies claim they want to spite the Stable?”

“Mass mining causes inflation, dear.” The dismissive term made Gale frown, but at least this time she held her tongue. “Equestria is still rich with gems and gold, in no small part because years ago the earth ponies were able to enforce a quota on how much any domain could mine across the nation per year. But as we’ve added new domains, the total amount of gems has grown, and it's starting to have a noticeable effect again; even on simple staples like the price of bread.”

“Oh!” Gale frowned. “Huh… so the earth ponies are actually right?”

“It isn’t that simple, Gale,” Platinum insisted again. “Life is rarely so black and white.”

“Seems like it to me; the nobles want to get keep getting rich while they fuck over the rest of the country, and we have to convince them to think of somepony else for once in their shitty lives, and if we don’t we piss off Puddinghead?”

Platinum shook her head, but she wore the grin of a mare too far removed from being able to speak her mind, having finally heard somepony else with the audacity to admit what she’d been thinking for years.

But what she said was, “I doubt Chancellor Puddinghead understands economics enough to be upset. However, I did signal to Secretary Peanut Gallery that he should be optimistic about our negotiations, so he might be irritated if this somehow fell through.”

“So the problem for Equestria doesn’t actually factor into the calculus?” What Gale had asked obviously wasn’t a question.

Platinum’s shiny legs dug at the carpet of her daughter’s bedroom in an uncharacteristic show of hesitance. Finally, though, she found the steel to swallow and face her daughter through the vanity mirror again. “I know you understand swordplay much better than the ‘great game’, Gale. I don’t know much, but I hope this makes sense. Even the greatest warrior, even your father—” When Gale rolled her eyes, Platinum wasted no time correcting “—or Typhoon or Iron Rain, or whomever else you look up to; even they are mortal ponies. They can’t hold their swords aloft forever. Politics may stretch different muscles, but you still cannot win every fight. Wise Queens know that sometimes, letting your opponents tire themselves out on a fight you can afford to lose is the only way to win the fight that matters.”

Gale said nothing, and so I cannot claim to know what went through her mind. But for a rare moment, her eyes were closed, and her face grew smooth and calm indeed. And then, decisively, she gave a single nod. “Alright. What else?”

“Hmm?”

“You said there were a few things, and the Settlement Bill was ‘firstly’; what else?”

“Ah.” Platinum returned to brushing her daughter’s mane. “I wanted to talk to you about trust.”

“Trust?” Gale shifted her weight back onto her hind legs, and her shoulders tensed slightly. “Oh boy, here we go…”

“Who at the table at breakfast are you sure you can trust?”

The question seemed to slap the new queen across the face. “What?!” Then, all at once, she collected her thoughts. “This is about Morty, isn’t it? You don’t like him.”

“No, but he’s the least of my concerns in that room.” Platinum nodded. “You presented yourself as ‘Gale’ instead of ‘Queen Platinum’, and drew attention to the fact that I had kept your regency a secret until the very last possible moment. I want you to think about that: was it responsible to say those things in front of those ponies?”

Gale let her mouth hang open for a moment, and then she shook her head. “So it’s about Typhoon? Because she’s a ‘rival’, even though she’s my sister.”

“In part,” Platinum nodded. “Typhoon is responsible for the pegasi first, and if she is doing her job well that responsibility will come before family ties. You two will be at odds often, even if it is usually over minor matters. It would still be unethical of her not to use any information she gives you for the good of her kind. You could think of it as a matter of respect that you don’t discuss business of state with her, unless you’re being formal in your capacity as the Queen.”

Gale rolled her eyes. “It’s not like putting on the crown turns me into a different pony.”

“Yes, it does,” Platinum chided. “Perhaps not literally, not in any magical sense, but that doesn’t make it any less true. Did your tutors ever have you read Mirror’s Mirror?”

“They did…” Gale answered through gritted teeth. “What, do I owe you a book report now? In the Oxidium dynasty, Queen Apnea was betrayed by Archmage Nefarious because she didn’t realize he was obviously evil. She shouldn’t have even needed Archmage Mirror’s warning.”

“Apnea was the Duchess of Pearl Point from Divine Rights, not Mirror’s Mirror. You’re thinking of Queen Chroma. And yes, that’s a fair summary, but you’re missing the point of the story.”

“There was no point! It’s a made up story about a made up queen who died because she was made up stupid!”

Platinum sighed. “That may be true, but it was written by a real Queen as a real warning of a trap you are dangerously close to falling into, my daughter. Why does the story call Archmage Mirror the Cruel, when Nefarious is the villain of the story?”

Gale waved off the question with a hoof. “Because self-reflection feels shitty.”

Platinum shook her head, and gestured to a box on the vanity. When Gale moved to open it, she discovered the lid was locked. With a chuckle, Platinum’s horn lit to lift the key from within her dress; though her magic stumbled a moment, it did not fail enough to drop the key. With a gentle click the lid popped open and she once more stowed the key.

Gale stared at the crown, and the crown stared back at her, freshly polished from a visit to the royal jewelers.

“This is the cruel mirror, Gale. Because when you look at it, you see somepony you don’t necessarily like. Somepony who at times may make you suffer, may steal from you, may drive away your friends. And you must let her, if you wish to be a good Queen.”

“Bullshit,” Gale muttered. “You don’t suffer all the fucking time. You’re happy.”

“At times,” the Queen replied. “The mare in the cruel mirror isn’t always spiteful, or wicked. But she is always there. Always watching. And while you must always let her win, you also must not become her.”

Gale stared long into the polished metal as her mother spoke. But sitting at an angle on the vanity, when Gale stared into it, she did not see her own reflection, but her Mother’s behind her.

“I thought the whole point was to be Queen?”

“Yes,” Platinum nodded. “I did say it was a metaphor, dear; not magic. You will be the Queen. But you cannot be ‘Gale’ at the same time, running across the world and meeting… I shall gently say ‘renegades’ dear.” Gale rolled her eyes, but she didn’t speak. “Not anymore than I can be Platinum, who loves a good book and a box of chocolates and going to bed early. The Queen takes precedence. She wants nothing more than to devour your entire life. Either you can guard yourself from her, and keep her as a separate pony on the opposite side of the looking glass—a mask, if you prefer that metaphor—or you can give in and let her devour you completely. Both paths will lead to success as Queen, but the latter will destroy you, my daughter.”

“So clearly that’s your preference.”

“Platinum!” the elder mare snapped, before shaking her head. “Gale… you know that isn’t true. I love you, no matter how often we might not see eye to eye. That is why I am trying to teach this lesson... though I can see I am irritating you.” When Gale’s brow furrowed at the accusation, Platinum shook her head. “I know you do not want to hear this from me this way, but there are only two ways to learn that lesson, and discovering why it matters firsthoof is incredibly painful. Trust me. That’s exactly why I made you Queen while I am still alive, here to guide you.”

“So why the fuck didn’t my tutors explain that was what Mirror’s Mirror was about?”

“Likely because they did not know,” Platinum answered. “Anypony can buy a copy of Mirror’s Mirror at a bookbinder’s, of course, but few understand what it means to carry the weight of the crown. When I was your age, my tutors taught me much the same as what you learned from yours. That was one of few lessons I got from my father before… Before he passed.” Platinum swallowed as the painful memory of her father’s murder, by a stallion who was now her step-son no less, hung like the acrid fog in a smoking den. “And even then, I didn’t understand it. I had never worn the crown. As I said, I learned that lesson the hard way.”

Gale nodded, extended a hoof, and flicked closed the lid of the crown’s cushioned box. With a click of finality, it locked shut again. “Fine. Don’t mix court with family with Typhoon. I get it.”

“Good.” Platinum took a moment to collect herself and then nodded. “Who else?”

“Who else?” Gale turned fully on her seat, actually facing her mother instead of the mirror. “What, you mean Blizzard? Because Cyclone is ‘evil’ and it’s in her blood or something? Cause she hasn’t left the fucking house, except that one time to help Morty, since she got to Everfree. She doesn’t meet anypony else to talk even if she wanted to!”

“True. I would advise you not to be too casual with her simply as a matter of discipline, but you are right that she poses little risk.”

Gale scoffed. “Graargh thinks I’m his mom, or at least his big sister. As far as I’m concerned, he and Morty are both completely trustworthy.”

“I cannot speak for the bear… cub… thing.” Platinum sighed, muttering “Life was so much simpler once…” under her breath. “But Coil clearly has an agenda, and even if he is your ally for the moment, he may not always be.”

“Yeah, sure,” Gale muttered.

“But again, no.”

“No?” Gale stopped and actually ticked in the air with her hooves as she thought through who was at breakfast. “Tempest. Of course. Since Ty is his mom and his boss, he’ll tell her anything.”

“True.” Platinum nodded, and Gale dared to sigh. Only a moment later, another word escaped the silver lips of the elder mare. “But—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake; that just leaves Dad, and Lark, and… no. Not Aunt Celestia. I refuse to believe—”

“I wouldn’t besmirch Lady Celestia’s devotion to you,” Platinum interrupted, shaking her head. “She has been a faithful godmother from the day you were born, and loved you almost as dearly as your father and I have. I would not expect her to show you favor as Queen over the other two races, but if ever you need a confidante, I believe she will be there for you.”

Gale huffed. “So I guess the point is Lark.”

Platinum nodded. “Your hoofmaiden has unique access to you, and her loyalty is measured in bits, not blood.”

“Screw you, Mom; it’s not just for the bits! She’s been my best friend for like… my entire life.”

“Three years, dear. Try not to be so dramatic.”

Gale groaned. “So what’s your point with her then? I’m supposed to lie to her? Just not talk to her?”

Platinum shook her head. “Quite the contrary. Some of the most fulfilling parts of my mornings are the times I spend with Marigold. I simply don’t speak on matters of the Crown with her. When I am with Marigold, I am not the Queen, and so I do not speak of what the Queen knows.”

Gale stomped a hoof. “Look, I know you get off on this political bullshit—”

“Gale!”

“—but I need somepony to vent at when I’ve been through a day of putting up with noble bullshit and flower ceremonies and debates. So forgive me if I trust my friends. And while you’re at it, send her in.”

Platinum stood her ground.

“What?”

“Lark was only part of my point.”

“Then what— wait, Dad? Ok, no, now I know you’re full of shit.”

“Your father was the Commander of the Legion and the leader of the pegasi—”

“Was!” Gale slapped a hoof down on the vanity, and the mirror rattled, sending shockwaves over the reflection of the back of her head. “I trust him to give me advice about being a leader a fuck of a lot more than you; he didn’t bend over and let his nobles caravan his asshole—”

“Gale!”

“—and if you think I’m giving that up because he used to be your rival ruler, then you can fuck right off!”

“Queen or not, you will not address me so crassly!” Platinum took a moment, breathing ragged and shoulders clenched, to collect herself. “Remember. your father knows the weight of the cruel mirror too. Why do you think he hates to be called ‘Emperor’?”

“But it’s not his job anymore. And he’s my dad. He’s your fucking husband! Or do you pretend you’re not fucking him when you put on the crown? Is that your ‘great sacrifice’ for ‘the Queen’?”

“That’s quite enough! You have no idea what I’ve sacrificed for Equestria!”

“It can’t be much, or I’d be able to see it! Dad’s missing a fucking wing and he can barely walk for Equestria! So if I have to pick sides, I know where I’m going!”

“Princess Platinum—”

“Get the fuck out of my room!”

2-4

II - IV

The Macculate Reception

When her time getting dressed had passed, and short goodbyes had been offered to Lark, Gale made her way to the royal carriage waiting in the street outside Hurricane’s home. There, an aged silver-clad unicorn knight stood beside the vehicle’s open door, offering a hoof to aid Gale in the rather small step up. She glanced at the steel-shod support, and moved to make her way up on her own.

The knight, it seemed, was determined to be useful. “Your Majesty, it is an honor. I am Sir Gauntlet. May I offer you my assistance?”

As the offering hoof extended forward further, Gale upgraded her glance to a full-on glare. “I’m eighteen, Sir Gauntlet, not eighty.”

“I… didn’t mean any offense, My Queen.” Gauntlet sighed. “In your family, the Scourge of Kings has meant that many queens and kings have needed some physical aid. It is, thus, the tradition of your knights to always offer our aid—”

Gale actively reached up, set her hoof on top of Gauntlet’s, and perhaps with more force than strictly necessary, forced it to the ground. “And I’m sure Mom and Grandpa Lapis appreciated it a lot. But since I’m half-pegasus, not only is my body fine, but I can also do this.”

With a flare of her horn, Gale vanished. Only a ‘pop’ of magic signalled her passing, and then a moment later a similar sound saw her standing on the roof of the royal carriage. “You can offer your help to Mom all you want, but I’ll pass.”

I should mention at this point that the royal carriage was equipped with a sunroof—a fact which was relevant not for the splendid optimism it filled the rolling wooden box with, but because Gale elected to use it in place of a door. With just a momentary flick of her magic, she slipped into the opening, and landed on her hooves on the carpeted floor, directly between Platinum and Celestia. It took her only a moment more wielding her magic to close the carriage’s open door and the sunroof. Then, a slight look of satisfaction on her face, she hopped onto the only remaining seat beside her mother (Celestia understandably taking up one entire side of the carriage’s seating space).

Platinum had steepled her hooves in front of her muzzle and was focusing on her slow, steady breathing. In the silence, one could notice (and Gale, ever the more observant of such things than I am, certainly did) that the newly retitled Queen-Mother was dressed far more subtly than her usual royal attire. It wasn’t just the lack of the crown; Platinum wore far less jewelry, and while the styling and cut of her outfit was no less regal, it utilized fewer colors and patterns than her usual fur shawls and diamond-patterned accents.

Celestia, as was her custom in those days except on the most special of occasions, went naked.

“So… off to deal with the Stable?” Gale asked, already sounding tired as her day began. “Hopefully this doesn’t take forever.”

Queen Platinum’s brow twitched. Well, perhaps it might be more obvious to say it throbbed, as if some vein had only just managed to break up a blood clot at the last possible second before it gave the mare a fatal stroke. Still, she held her eyes closed, and waited a beat to breathe once more before she spoke. “It was deliberately curt for me, Your Majesty. We were in the midst of evacuating River Rock after Cyclone’s rebellion and eternal winter.” Then another beat, another breath. “You should apologize to Sir Gauntlet.”

“For what? He was the one shoving his hoof in my face.” Gale adjusted herself in her seat, struggling to get comfortable. “And I told you not to call me ‘Your Majesty’, Mom.”

“If that is an order, I shall… regretfully obey. But even if it does not matter to you at the breakfast table, amongst family, it will matter before the nobles. The image of royalty is everything.” Another breath, and another, came before she spoke again. “Sir Gauntlet was only doing his job, carrying on with noble tradition. You did not need to be so blunt in turning away his help, and you especially did not need to be a showoff.”

“A showoff?” Gale slapped an irritated hoof against the wall of the carriage, and then jumped for a moment when it started moving. “I don’t need his help. Why is that so wrong?”

“There’s no weakness in accepting help,” Celestia observed. “Nor in needing it from time to time, Gale.”

“What? Yes there is. That’s, like, the definition of weakness. And it would be one thing if I actually needed the help getting up into the cart, but he’s… what, sixty? I ought to be the one helping him. He looks like he’d break if I leaned on him.”

“Gale!” snapped Queen Platinum, opening her eyes. Then, abruptly, all thought on Sir Gauntlet washed off of Platinum’s face; you could even see it happen, just from looking at her. “What are you wearing?!”

“Um… a shirt?” Gale shrugged. “I know somepony at the stable would drop dead if I showed up naked, but I’ve been in dresses constantly since I got back, and I thought this would be a nice change of pace.” She extended a foreleg, showing off the sleeves. “I take it from your tone of voice that I’ve committed some kind of war crime? Is a shirt somehow scandalous on a Queen?”

“It…” Platinum furrowed her brow and wrinkled her muzzle. “You understand, Your Majesty, that your wardrobe as Queen isn’t simply defined by a minimum level of formality?”

“More like a minimum level of discomfort.”

“Your attire is a statement,” said the elder royal. “And just as not all words are appropriate for all audiences—even if they might be true—no outfit is appropriate for every event, no matter how regal it may be.”

“Just get to the fucking point, mom.”

Platinum frowned. “Your ascension took the nobles by surprise.”

“Clearly that was your fucking intention, since you didn’t even tell me.”

“They are looking for signs of stability. That things will continue as they are. That I married a pegasus was already beyond some of their approval—”

“This?” Gale asked, tapping on her shoulder, where a single Cirran pauldron was crested in her family’s feathers. After visibly biting her cheek for a moment in thought, she let herself suck in a deep breath and leaned back on the cushions of the carriage’s seat. “They can bite me. I’m not losing it.”

“I would encourage you to consider at least showing some flexibility—”

“You mean bending over and being their fucking doormat, like you are every time they decide they want more power? More money?” Gale rolled her eyes and let her head hit the wall of the carriage. “Personally, I’m hoping somepony questions my ‘divine right’—that’ll be fucking hilarious, with you standing right there, Aunt Celestia.”

Celestia frowned openly. “I… Gale, I promised I would support you, but I’m not comfortable forcing myself into politics that way. Please do not use me as a prop.”

“It’s a little late for that, isn’t it?” Gale shrugged. “I’ll try not to drag you into the Stable’s bullshit, but standing behind me with your wings up yesterday was blunt enough of a metaphor, I think even Puddinghead understood it.”

“Gale!”

“What? He even admits it himself, he’s as thick as the shit he puts in his hat. Besides, that joke would land great with the nobles; they’re all racist enough.” Gale emulated a stuffy, over-enunciated voice. “Oh, how droll; the earth ponies surely ahh less intelligent than us. They should have stayed in the fields where they belong.”

Again, Platinum refrained from swift words in favor of an obviously forced breath in and out. “So that’s how you think of your subjects? Yet you still believe rubbing your pegasus ancestry in their muzzles is the wisest introduction?”

“I think it’s going to come up anyway. Even if I change my shirt, I can’t change my parents. Because, believe me, if I could, you’d be the first to know.” Though Gale delivered that final thought not with a shout, but with the subtler barbs of a calm joke, it struck Platinum truer than her daughter could possibly have known.

Celestia, too, seemed wounded by the callous words. “Gale, I know you don’t mean—”

But before Celestia could finish her admonishment, the carriage lurched to a stop, and what seemed only a moment later, the door was pulled open.

“Your Majesties. Your Holiness.” Sir Gauntlet gave a perfunctory bow, before extending a foreleg toward a wide scarlet carpeted path, laid out over the cobblestones of the street to bridge the path between the carriage and the front doors of the Stable of the Stable of Nobles.

The Stable House, as ponies often called the building due to the mutual understanding of everypony in Equestria except its members that “the Stable of the Stable” was a naming atrocity almost as bad as mine, was built according to the ‘aspirational’ school of architecture.

For those unfamiliar, that meant the building really wanted to be a castle when it grew up.

Stone walls surrounded a diamond-shaped building (its awful shape guaranteeing it a monopoly on its block near the palace), each point capped with a tower which would prove utterly vital in defending the building in the event of a protracted siege from a threat on the order of a newborn foal, or perhaps some moderate to heavy rainfall. For anything greater, the huge number of elaborate windows on the ground floor made it clear any military aspirations the structure might possess were an architect’s equivalent of a game of ‘dress up’.

Ponies' relationship with royalty has not changed in one thousand years, it should be noted: as Gale hopped out of the carriage (again refusing Sir Gauntlet’s offered hoof), she found her red carpeted path swarmed on both sides with the ‘common rabble’ of the civilization. Two lines of armored unicorn knights kept the masses from rushing up to engulf Gale.

Now, I could (through the practice of necromancy) elaborate in considerable detail about Gale’s reception to her first gathering of the Stable of Nobles; however, given that I have loved her longer than lifespan of most dragons, I know that even in my best efforts I am not the most reliably neutral source of commentary on the subject of her, in general.

This is the first of several cases where, thankfully, I don’t have to be. In my youth, I made a habit of stashing away a few copies of The Everfree Gazette from days of particular interest to me. Newspapers were only a few decades old in those days, one of the most notable cultural contributions the earth ponies brought to Equestria. As the capital of Equine civilization, Everfree had four or five running presses around the time of Gale’s ascension—though one, The Pudding Enquirer, was already recognized as a sordid tabloid full of hearsay and rumor-mongering, financed entirely by the earth pony chancellor’s loins.

It is quite the grim commentary on our species that it outsold the other papers for the entire duration of Puddinghead’s tenure as Chancellor.

Tabloids aside, The Everfree Gazette was my personal favorite paper, for reasons that are a story for another Tale. My personal collection, mercifully moved to Canterlot before Nightmare Moon’s rampage, I shall share with you to let you see just how the city viewed Gale from less biased eyes.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

Surprise Succession: Unicorn Nobility Caught Flat-Hoofed
By Editorial Bored

In the wake of Queen Platinum I’s surprise abdication, Equestria’s unicorns find themselves represented by an unknown and untested leader. Some fear Queen Platinum III’s reputation for small scandals will cost the unicorns influence in parliament; others praise her mixed heritage as an opportunity to weaken the barriers between the tribes.

Platinum III took her first official act today by heading a session of the Stable of Nobles, the gathering of heads of the landed unicorn noble families. Notable members of the Stable include Archmage Star Swirl the Bearded, whose return to public life as the head of House Zodiac caused some stir after his extended absence in the company of the informally named ‘Pillars of Equestria’. Lady Glass Menage, leader of the Equestrian Alchemist’s Guild and the head of the House of Three, also saw some commotion regarding the string of break-ins at Lighten Heights (see Alchemist Crime Spree Baffles Legion, pg. 3). However, Equestria’s eyes were all on the last ponies to arrive at the event, and most especially on the new Queen.

Without a single spoken word, Platinum III’s choice of outfit reinforced both the fears and hopes of the nation. Clad in a slimming shirt, devoid of cape or trail or the ornate jewelry that has come to represent Platinum I as an icon of the unicorns, she wore only two accessories. The first was the Royal Crown; the second, a single Cirran Legion pauldron, decorated with black and brown feathers. The symbolism of her father, Commander emeritus Hurricane, and her half-sister, the sitting Commander Typhoon, was obvious to the crowd immediately.

The first questions to the new Queen were about the day’s session of the Stable, and her expectations. “Besides wasting time on ceremony, we’re dealing with the Settlement Bill,” she said. Asked about the proposed compromise between the Stable and the earth pony delegation in parliament, Platinum III showed none of the hesitation or diplomatic vagueness this paper has usually received from the prior Queen Platinum or her representatives. “I’m going to get the Stable to take the hit [to mining limits]. I’m done with ponies using tribalism as a cover for corruption. If Equestria is really supposed to be somewhere anypony can thrive, regardless of wings or horn, it has to start from the top.”

Her words echo Commander Hurricane’s now famous final address to Equestria at the announcement of his retirement, and suggest the new Universalist Party may have found a sorely-needed ally in the new unicorn sovereign.

At the same time, the comments almost immediately produced some natural ire from traditionalists in the crowd. Upon inquiring about how she intended to balance preserving the distinct cultures of the tribes with her ‘erasurist’ agenda, the Queen replied “If you still want to live in the Diamond Kingdoms, there’s plenty of cheap real estate in River Rock.” Just before disappearing into the private confines of the Stable House, she added “Don’t forget to pack warm.”

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

The Stable House’s interior smelled like the elderly and was one thin coating of dust shy of looking like a particularly haunted sanitarium. The walls were wainscoted in antiqued fir, topped with a green wallpaper that alternated dark and dull pale stripes. Portraits hundreds of years older than the building, carried away by the unicorn nobles as they abandoned their ancient homes in River Rock and its surrounding cities to the last windigo and its eternal winter, glared down at their new monarch with undisguised contempt.

Gale didn’t care about the dead unicorns any more than she seemed to care about her mother, following after her in the moments since she had entered the building but increasingly struggling to keep up. Celestia too lagged behind, though I know with certainty that in her case it was a deliberate choice to support the elder Platinum, rather than a lack of agility on her part.

Though the Stable House had dozens of passageways and sitting rooms, as well as bedchambers for nobles who normally lived outside the walls of Everfree City, the monarch’s path was both straight and short. Even from the entry doors, Gale could see the two knights ahead of her on opposite sides of the doors that led into the Stable’s gathering chamber (also sometimes referred to as the Stable, because of course it was). They bowed and lit their horns in tandem—an obviously practiced motion, and in tandem the doors swung open, revealing the Stable of Nobles (the group of ponies) sitting in the middle of the Stable of Nobles (the gathering chamber), which was itself the central room of the Stable of Nobles (the building).

The room was constructed much like an opera house’s stage chamber: seven rows of shoe-shaped galleries rose up from the carpeted floor, divided into dozens, if not hundreds of what were essentially theatre booths. Each such booth had a few seats; some three, some as many as seven, nearly all filled with the representative nobleponies of the booth’s corresponding family. If you knew anything about heraldic banners and crests, the symbols hanging from the front of each booth and the colored stripes on the cloth awnings covering each booth would tell you exactly what families each booth belonged to. If not, it was still quite a dizzying sight of colors and patterns. At the front of each booth, sticking out from under its awning, was a small podium where a pony who wished to addressed the room could be seen even from those above them, without worry of being blocked from view by copious clothwork.

High overhead, an enormous oval skylight filled the chamber with natural sunlight, though a few dozen chandeliers, set with glass baubles in place of candles, offered magical lighting in the short days of winter and the long nights of the practice of equine kind’s most dangerous game: politics.

As with all opera houses and stages, the ground floor was the most notable setting for the action that took place. Five booths built in the same style, but in far more grandiose size and decoration, lined the curved wall. Each, of course, faced the grandest and most overblown of all the booths, decorated in the silver, gold, and purple of the royal family. It alone had no awning, offering nowhere for Gale to retreat from view for as long as she sat in what was for all intents and purposes another throne. This one, she would often tell me, was at least mercifully not made of metal as the famously platinum ‘Platinum Throne’ was, and so not prone to being entirely frigid on her back and flanks.

As Gale stepped into view, the court herald spoke up in his bellowing, practiced voice. “Mares and stallions of the Stable of Nobles, all rise in honor of Her Royal Majesty, Queen Platinum the Third.”

And then, as was almost inevitable, all Tartarus broke loose.

2-5

II - V

The Five Questions

“Mares and stallions of the Stable of Nobles, all rise in honor of Her Royal Majesty, Queen Platinum the Third.” The herald’s words had only just left his lips, before Gale even had a chance to speak, and already the day was on a path to chaos.

The Stable rose, stepping to the fronts of their booths and bowing their horns, as was tradition. Hundreds—not quite a thousand, but almost—of heads were bent toward Gale in unison. But one, at least, did not.

“I will not serve a half-breed Queen!”

As you can probably imagine, those words were disruptive enough that all the bowed heads snapped upwards, searching for the speaker. Whispers and gasps turned the once pure acoustics of the chamber into chaos.

Grand Duchess Chrysoprase, scowling at the disorder, produced a massive gong from the back of her especially elaborate booth, and slammed a hoof against it. “There will be order in the Stable! Quiet!” Then she waited for a very long moment before nodding to Gale. “My apologies, Your Majesty.”

“Not your fault,” Gale answered with a shrug, before tilting her head back to stare up the voluminous chamber. “Who said that?” she shouted. “Come on, don’t be a bitch! You’ve obviously got a lot to say; let’s hear it!”

“I am not afraid of you,” answered the firm voice of a withered gray old stallion standing at the front of a blue and purple striped booth with a crest picturing a bucket of blueberries.

“Lord Prance, the Stable did not recognize your outburst,” announced Chrysoprase. She, unlike Gale, did not shout; instead, her voice was magnified by some spell she held in the emerald glow of her horn. “You will offer your redress to the Queen.”

“I will be glad to when she arrives,” Prance answered. “But not to this abomination—”

In a testament to how short a few moments it had been between Gale’s entrance and the chaos that swept the Stable, it was only at that moment that Platinum and Celestia finally caught up with the young queen. Gale, however, seemed not to have even noticed them entering behind her. In a burst of violent cerise magic, her horn ignited, and a moment later her whole body disappeared.

Teleportation was advanced enough magic that it took the room by storm. But just as quickly as Gale disappeared from her place on the Stable floor, she appeared in hoof’s reach of Lord Prance. Her hoofing was unsteady on the thin railing of his booth, and for just a moment she stumbled as she found her balance. Then, staring down at the old stallion, she offered him a glare. “That’s better. Now, come on; say it again, to my face.”

“I—” Lord Prance, who looked a bit like a blue Wintershimmer if he hadn’t been quite so exaggerated in his skull-like gauntness, stumbled backward toward the butler and the niece or granddaughter or other relation he had brought to his booth that morning. “Queen Platinum—”

“Oh, no, you made it quite clear that was my mom.” Gale’s horn ignited again, and her voice projected through the chamber at speaking volume, just as Chrysoprase’s had. “Come on. I want to know exactly where I stand with you, Lord Prance. Let’s not mince words. Tell me how you really feel.”

“You…” Prance swallowed as his stuttering and mumbling reverberated through the room—also the work of Gale’s amplifying spell. “Just like a half-pegasus to threaten violence to solve problems.”

“Wow. You actually grew a spine. I’m impressed.” Gale paced forward into the booth, taking a bit of obvious pressure as Prance stepped back. “You’re mad that I’m half-pegasus? That’s it?” When it became obvious Prance wasn’t going to speak up, she stepped up to the exposed point of his booth and looked out at the Stable. “Anypony else feel the same way?”

In the absolute silence that followed, Gale’s horn burst into magic again, and she teleported back to her own intended place on the ground floor of the stable. “I know some of you are thinking it. Even Mom thinks about it.” Still, absolute silence reigned. “Alright, no takers. Well… let’s clear the air then. Because I’ve only been Queen for twelve hours and I’m already tired of talking about this. Nobleponies, you’ve basically got two choices. One of them is you grow up, admit that being ‘pureblooded’ is elitist bullshit, and be glad that me being half-pegasus means I don’t have the Scourge of Kings in my blood. I’m proud of my pegasus heritage.” Gale gestured to the feathers adorning the pauldron on her shoulder, and waited a moment, before she slowly lifted her hoof to her horn. “But I am a unicorn.

“If that isn’t enough for you, though, your other option is bending one of the Royal Vows.” This claim seemed to create some confusion amongst the gathered nobles, who spoke in hushed whispers between themselves. “Since you don’t seem to get it: if blood purity is what the Stable really cares about, more than vows and traditions there is another option I’m prepared to offer you.”

Ponies leaned over the edges of their booths trying to get a better look at this audacious new Queen, wondering if she was perhaps proposing some sort of abdication only a few hours after taking up the throne. Chrysoprase, who was next in line behind Gale to the crown, looked especially intrigued. Surely, her abdication so early would violate her vows, and that was what she was offering…

Judging by how many eyes shot to the leader of the Stable, she was hardly the only noble who had followed that train of thought.

Gale couldn’t resist donning a shit-eating grin before she explained her thoughts. “There is somepony in line to the throne with pure unicorn blood,” she continued.

“Daughter,” Platinum whispered forcefully, “you can’t seriously be considering…”

“It would be unprecedented. But if the majority of you agree with Lord Prance, then I’ll have no choice but to bow to the will of the Stable. I’ll even go get her myself. I’d just need somepony to lend me a shovel.”

“A… shovel?” asked Chrysoprase, who seemed to only just resist adding ‘I’m right here.’

“A shovel,” Gale repeated with a nod. “If we’re more concerned with blood than vows, the easiest vow to bend is ‘I accept my own mortality, and will take no action to preserve my life or my rule beyond my years.’ So if you want my mother’s pureblooded daughter, I’ll have to go dig her up.” Gale concluded that thought by standing up on her hind legs, extending her forelegs in a sweeping motion, and collapsing back onto the cushions of her throne. “Your choice.”

I am not certain I can convey the level of scandal carried in that proposal, except to say that the Stable (the building, the room, and the ponies in it) were far, far louder than they had been at Lord Prance’s words.

To remind those who have forgotten, Gale was Platinum III, and her mother was Platinum I (the ‘Princess Platinum’ from the Hearth’s Warming pageant, as much as one can say it portrays real ponies and not a fairytale). The name ‘Platinum II’ had been given to Platinum’s first daughter—not Hurricane’s foal, but some other noble Platinum had married just after taking the crown. Platinum II died an infant to an unusually rapid case of the Scourge of Kings, the hereditary disease of the royal line. Hurricane’s introduction of pegasus blood into their lineage spared Gale the inherited condition, though it was not without its corresponding costs to her political capital amongst the nobility.

In some sense, Gale’s move was brilliant. The Stable seethed, a pot of pasta on the verge of boiling over, all rage and heat and what nobles call ‘starch’ because pride is only a sin when ‘the rabble’ have it. Platinum stared wide-eyed at her daughter’s audacity. Gale simply steepled her hooves in front of her muzzle and grinned at the chaos. For almost three minutes, she just wallowed in it, letting condemnation from her mother’s whispered words slip in one ear and out the other. Only when the momentum of the scandal started to die down did she again light her horn and speak up, magically amplified so that her voice could cut through the noise.

“You done?” Then she waited a few more moments before nodding to Chrysoprase. The much older unicorn sighed, but rapped her hoof against the gong that served a gavel-like purpose to the Stable. As the reverberating note rang through the booths, Gale sat forward in the throne and firmly placed her forelegs on its arms, heightening her posture and focusing her forward. “Now, we’ve had our racist bullshit debate, and I’ve given you your options. It sounds to me like nopony here is interested in dipping their hooves in necromancy. That means you’re stuck with me. So let me be fucking plain.” Gale made a show of drawing in a breath, letting the air inflate her chest and build up her shoulders in her already tensed posture. “This topic is not going to come up again. You can tell me I’m being a shitty Queen, or that I’ve embarrassed the court because of something I’ve actually done any time you damn well please. That’s your right. But if you’re going to play the ‘blood’ card to me, I invite you to just stay home instead. Because if this topic does ever come up again, for as long as I live, I will tear the banner off your booth. I’ll burn it right here in the middle of this room.”

The implication was, as you might guess, that the seated monarch had the right both to appoint and to remove noble titles from unicorn families; to burn a banner wasn’t merely an act of petty arson. It was an act of tyranny, at least historically speaking, but the room (or at least the part that mattered, namely Grand Duchess Chrysoprase) seemed to be on Gale’s side with the threat.

“If anypony wants to challenge my divine right, well…” Gale gestured briefly toward Celestia at her side. “I’d say you’re an imbecile, but sure. I’ll even invite you to cross swords with me, if you want to test me the old way. Just remember that having pegasus blood means I’ve grown up around Equestria’s greatest swordsponies. So, with the exception of Archmage Star Swirl there,” Gale gave the hairy wizard a short nod, and got a tired huff in return, “if you want to duel me, the blood we’re going to see on the ground is yours.”

Slowly, laboriously, Gale brought her hooves back to that same steepled position in front of her muzzle. Then, just as slowly, she separated them… perhaps an inch or so. And with a dragging motion, she brought them together again.

Once.

It wasn’t a clap; more like the tick of a clock. There was barely any noise at all.

And apart again they went.

Her eyes moved faster than her hooves, though that isn’t to say they were darting or swift. First, she swept the five booths on the ground floor of the Stable, home to the five ‘great houses’ of the Stable. On her far left was the star-studded banner of the House Zodiac, represented by Star Swirl the Bearded. The old wizard was obviously amused by the level of chaos Gale had created in so little a time since her rise. He grinned around the mouthpiece of his pipe, flanked on his left by Mistmane the Beautiful (who wasn’t even half his age, though you couldn’t tell by looking at her) and on his right by Archmage Grayscale, looking far less amused behind his studious glasses.

Next was the House of Three, represented by Spicy’s ‘foremother’, Duchess Glass Menage. Widely held to be the most beautiful mare in Equestria, Glass’s almost distracting appearance and her personality both matched her name, possessing sharp edges that were likely to cut anypony who dared get too close. Her shimmeringly shiny sapphire coat (not literally made of gemstones, though, unlike a crystal pony) matched her piercing eyes, which she had given to all three of her daughters: Sugar, Spice, and Everything Nice. None of the alchemist family’s members seemed nearly as amused as Star Swirl.

Twice. Gale’s hooves tapped together, and parted again.

The center booth, as mentioned, was home to Grand Duchess Chrysoprase and the House of Gullion. Her son High Castle, as well as the couple of servants and Stable staff she kept on hoof to help administer the proceedings of the Stable, were obviously irritated at Gale’s outbursts, but the Grand Duchess herself may as well have been trapped in amber for her forced neutrality amidst the proceedings.

The next of the booths held the House Divided, whose bureaucratic-looking stick of a leader, the frustratingly named Duke House, looked up from above a pair of half-moon pince-nez with mismatched green and blue eyes. They were the only quality of interest on the otherwise brown stallion with his graying, perfunctorily-styled mane. Seeing him by his complete lonesome in his booth, one might not have suspected his house was the largest of all the noble houses, or that his dozens of offspring had given him an unduly massive influence in the chamber.

A third time, Gale’s hooves clicked together and parted.

The last noble of the great houses who met Gale’s gaze as it swept the floor was the cinnamon-candy red Duchess Fire Power who took her first name from her family, the infamous House On Fire. Rather than dressing in an outfit that subdued her naturally vibrant color, the red duchess clad herself in a dress of what was essentially scale or mail armor, if one were to replace the links and plates of metal with rubies and fire opals. Though I didn’t meet her that day, our future interactions always reminded me of my youth spent in the Crystal Union, and the fact that crystal ponies were the first to invent sunglasses for a reason. To somepony less prone to the trap of surface appearances, her exorbitant outfight might just have alluded to her near monopoly on the richest gem mines of the old Compact Lands. Her constant warring with the Equestrian earth ponies over mining quotas could be the subject of a history unto itself—and I suspect, one with a higher body count than the story I am recording now.

After that, Gale swept her slow wandering gaze up the chamber, quickly making eye contact with the ponies at the head of each booth her attention passed in turn. I would have been lost in the colors, both of the unicorn nobility and the brilliant tapestries of their banners and awnings. But to Gale, they were all old hat. No blues and greens and reds and yellow; only Mice and Manes and Cruels and Cauldrons and whatever the other dozens of noble houses were named.

The fourth time her hooves clicked together, they did not part.

“No takers? Good. Just remember, we’re never discussing this subject again. I’m glad the Stable is done wasting my time.” Leaning fully back in her seat again, Gale nodded to the mare directly in front of her. “Aunt Chrysoprase, get started. Let’s actually do something today.”

“Grand Duchess,” corrected Chrysoprase curtly.

“Hmm?”

Platinum sighed to the new Queen’s left. “There are always family ties in the Stable, Your Majesty. As a rule, we do not use them to refer to one another when in session.”

“Fine. Grand Duchess Chrysoprase, I’m not getting any younger, which says a lot for everypony else sitting here. Let’s get a move on.”

There were a few chuckles, but they passed quickly against the superior forces of dozens of wrinkled glares.

“Very well, Your Majesty.” Chrysoprase sighed. “Scribe, do you have the address?” A heavy book, bound in cloth framed by silver, floated up at the horn of another unicorn; Chryosprase took hold of it in her own emerald magic and glared down at it with the withered eyelids of a politician too stubborn to do society the decency of dying. “With the passing of—” Then the Chair of the Stable of Nobles paused, shot a burning glare over her shoulder toward the scribe who had handed her the book. The poor pony could only shrug. “With the resignation of another of our Royal Line into Celeste’s embrace…” She looked up, briefly making eye-contact with Celestia, and sighed. “I suppose that’s still accurate, even if it isn’t how the authors intended it.”

The comment earned a sensible chuckle from the room. Chrysoprase waited the brief second it took to settle before continuing. “With the resignation of another of our Royal Line into Celeste’s embrace, it is once again time for the Stable to recognize a new monarch. Before us, as she has been named by her mother before her passing… or rather, abdication… is a unicorn we know as Platinum, the third to carry that name. As has been the custom of this body, we Dukes of the Diamond Kingdoms…” Chrysoprase scowled at the ancient book, and then abruptly slammed it shut. A moment later, without even turning her head, her magic carried it over her shoulder back into her booth.

“It seems today is a day for the breaking of countless traditions, and the making of just as many new ones. I will not make a mockery of this occasion clinging to a narrative that no longer applies to us. Your Majesty, you are the first for this body in so many ways. When your Stable recognized your grandfather, King Lapis the Fourth, no unicorn of our lands had so much as heard of a pegasus, Lady Celeste was only known in the statues and windows of our churches, and the Stable still gathered in River Rock, as it had for centuries.

“When I led the Stable in recognizing your mother, though the building was freezing, we still gathered in what remained of River Rock, and we knew enough of the pegasi that their recent wounds had taught us to hate them.

“Now, twenty-three years of her rule later, we gather again to recognize your rule in a city that did not exist, on a continent our maps told us was plagued with monsters, beneath the gaze of a goddess in the flesh.” Celestia opened her mouth, only to shut it and wilt back a moment under the glares of both Platinum I and Chrysoprase. “Upon a new throne, wearing a new crown, and ruling over the unicorns of a new nation. And you, by your own admission, carry pegasus blood in your veins, though you are a unicorn. In your lifetime, and in all of ours, the entire world has changed. And now the unicorns look to you, Platinum the Third, as a leader, and as a defender, and a rock to cling to in uncertain times. As our Queen.

“It is by the grace of Celeste that you have been given to us—and I will do our Lady of the Sun the honor of not asking her to confirm that, as in her humility I can see it makes her uncomfortable. But the Stable acknowledges her presence and her support.” Briefly craning her neck to glare upward toward the booth of Lord Prance, she added “In a time of so many changes, I fully intend to keep this one tradition alive, to keep some continuity to our beliefs. Your Majesty, as you have learned in your studies to take the throne, each of the Dukes of the Five Great Houses shall now ask you a single question.

“These questions are not a test; we do not threaten to try and deny you the throne you sit in or the crown you wear, Your Majesty. Your answers are not to be taken as facts, but oaths. They are our way of seeing what kind of Queen you are, and will become. Do not speak rashly. Wise were your forebears who answered slowly and carefully. But remember your history; those kings and queens who answered these questions poorly, or who cast aside their answers, were seen to rule poorly, and more than once the Stable has had to cast them down.” Chrysoprase let that threat hang in the stuffy air for a moment before she raised a hoof to rest on the railing of her booth. “Are you ready, Your Majesty?”

Gale, bless her soul, put even my confidence to shame when she leaned forward in her seat and nodded. “I was born ready.”

“Very well. The floor goes to Duke House of the House Divided.”

Duke House nodded. “I thank the Chair for the right to question our new Queen first.” Despite the words, there was no thankfulness, nor any emotion at all except perhaps an omnipresent hint of annoyance in his voice. “Your Majesty, I am not interested in opening with a clever riddle that forces you into wordplay in reply. I simply want honesty about the most basic of your duties. The Queen-Mother, in tandem with your father and Chancellor Puddinghead, created a new nation. You are the first unicorn to rule it who has never lived without it. So, in plain language that any unicorn can understand, what future do you wish to see for our tribe during your reign?”

Gale leaned back at the frank question, as if she had honestly expected something more complex, or more threatening. “Well… To start with, just worrying about ‘our tribe’ is a mistake. Obviously, I’m not the queen of the pegasi or the earth ponies, and it’s my responsibility to care about the unicorns first, but trying to raise up the unicorns at the expense of the other two tribes is a mistake we can’t afford to make. I might not be old enough to remember River Rock, but I know most of you in this room do, so you understand me when I say that our tribe should care the most about keeping Equestria together. Because if the tribes go our separate ways, we don’t have the strongest army or the biggest food supply.”

Some voice overhead, belonging to a noblemare whose historical significance couldn’t get me bothered enough to look up her name, broke into Gale’s answer. “Are you suggesting unicorns are inferior—”

A violent gong of the onomatopoeous instrumentsignaled Chrysoprase’s irritation. “The Stable will respect Her Majesty, and we will hear her out.”

“Thanks Aunt… Grand Duchess.” Gale huffed once through her nostrils and cast her gaze up, looking for whoever had interrupted her. The speaker wasn’t obvious, having retreated back to her booth, but Gale also didn’t really care. “I’m going to answer that question, and I’m going to be completely blunt doing it, so if you brought any foals cover their ears. Okay? Good.” She took a slow breath, and then raised her voice to a controlled shout. “No, you fucking idiots. The only superior kind of pony is that one—” Gale thrust a hoof in Celestia’s direction. “And if she wants to take this crown, I’ll fucking give it to her, because I damn well couldn’t stop her if I wanted to. But since that’s obviously not happening, I’m in charge now. And I’m not a big fan of long roundabout speeches, so here’s the point. Just two days ago, the Grand Duchess and I were talking about wanting unicorns in officer positions in the Legion, and if anypony has a chance of fixing that, it’s me. I may not have blood ties with the earth ponies who own the banks in Lübuck, but that’s the same trade for them. All three tribes are holding onto our stupid monopolies, and the best thing I can think of to make life better for the average unicorn—for my subjects if that’s what I’m supposed to say now—is getting rid of them. And I know there are ponies in this room who aren’t going to like it, but the cost of that is that we have to give up our monopoly too. That means letting non-unicorns have domain and noble titles.”

The gong rang quite a lot, to very little effect. The Stable boiled over, its burning will cloying together more than any single mortal body could hope to contain. Chrysoprase’s poor gong was out of its league. Even the Bewitching Bell would have had no hope in that room on that sunny summer morning.

In the center of it all, Gale grinned at the storm she had made (an expression which, I am sure, only made the chaos worse). Platinum I shifted closer to her daughter’s side and tried to offer some kind of advice, but the words were lost in the tempest of voices and hooves beating on wood.

It ended, finally, when Chrysoprase turned to Star Swirl. The old wizard, who was decidedly silent as he smoked on his pipe amidst the chaos, answered a silent nod with a silent nod, rose from his chair, and stepped through the gate in his booth and onto the floor of the Stable. There, he walked slowly up in front of Gale as his horn began to glow.

The glow of Star Swirl’s horn quickly became the only thing in the room. ‘It does not take a wise pony to pay close attention to a naked blade, or bared fangs, or the glow of a wizard’s horn.’ Those were words Wintershimmer taught me as a foal, which he learned from his own teacher, Comet the Furious, in his youth. Since Star Swirl was also a student of Archmage Comet, I assume he too knew those words, though his application of their lesson was infinitely different. Where Wintershimmer would gladly have cast his infamous Razor and threatened death by an icy feeling in the spine for the crime of wasting his time (or actually killed somepony he deemed least important as a way of sending a message), Star Swirl cast no harmful spell; in fact, he cast nothing at all. He was merely filling his horn with magic for the sake of the visual effect of the glow.

For the Stable of Nobles, that was enough. As the sheer power of Star Swirl channeling even a fraction of his full might created a light wind that tousled his age-whitened beard, the storm of voices collapsed to a mere murmur, and then like ripples on a lake, faded completely.

“For ponies who call yourselves nobles, I’m disappointed by your lack of composure,” the old wizard announced. “Most of your parents, or grandparents, had the decency to scheme quietly in their booths when the Queen, or the King before her, or the Queen before him, said something they didn’t like.” The infamous curmudgeon concluded by letting his horn’s glow fade. “So, if I may be so blunt, shut your traps! You might learn something...” he glanced back briefly to Gale. “Even if it’s only how to make a sailor blush.”

Platinum whispered something in her daughter’s ear, this time apparently more audibly, as Gale nodded and leaned forward. “The Crown thanks the Court Mage for his assistance.” Then she glanced to the Duke whose question had started the whole chaos. “That a complete enough answer for you?”

“I believe so,” he answered tersely, adding “and I hesitate to imagine what would happen in this room if I asked you to elaborate further.” Then he turned to Chrysoprase. “The House Divided is satisfied.”

“Very well. Duke Swirl, since you are already on the Stable’s mind, would you care to go next?”

Chrysoprase was perhaps the only pony who ever bothered to refer to Star Swirl as ‘Duke Swirl’, and even the stallion himself answered it with a dry chuckle. “May as well.”

“The floor goes to Duke Swirl of the House of Zodiac.”

“Well… I really ought to have been thinking of something while Duke House was talking, shouldn’t I?” A few of the less stiff nobles chuckled at the old wizard’s admission, though knowing the question he was about to ask, I suspect the joke was a lie entirely. “Since Everfree City has been full of hearsay for the better part of a month over what happened to the roof at my grand-apprentice’s school, I suppose I should set the record straight before I ask my question. A pony who used to be my best friend, Wintershimmer, attempted to kill Celestia.”

A few shocked gasps echoed in the room. I might like to pretend all were from shock at new information, but I am disappointingly certain that at least a few must have been from the fact that Star Swirl addressed Celestia by her given name, without a title or honorific.

“He might very well have succeeded too, if it weren’t for our then-Crown Princess, who I understand ultimately landed the decisive blow. I don’t want to praise Wintershimmer; he was a wicked stallion, but he was also an incredibly powerful mage. Facing him would have been dangerous for even another trained archmage, and it certainly was for Celestia, to say nothing of a young mare like yourself. So my question is this, Queen Platinum: if it happened today, would you do it again?”

“Of course,” Gale answered, failing I think to even comprehend the implication of the question.

Star Swirl waited a moment for some further elaboration, but Gale had nothing else to add. It was the truth, perhaps more than any other words she would say that day. At times, I wish it weren’t… but then, if it weren’t, she wouldn’t have been Gale.

Star Swirl stood stoically for a few more moments, and then turned to Chrysoprase. “The House Zodiac is satisfied.” Then, with legs both burlier than a hundred-year-old pony ought to have had, but just as slow moving as that age suggests, he returned to his booth.

“Then the floor goes to Duchess Glass Menage of the House of Three.”

Duchess Glass moved with a defined, perhaps practiced efficiency, and she spoke in the same way, refraining from long oratorical pauses in favor of a swift clip that conveyed a sense of (perhaps false, but compelling) urgency to the room. “Queen Platinum, you have conveyed to us a desire for unification over the culturally distinct co-existence that what you must be aware most members of this stable prefer. You must be aware, however, that there are some forms of unification that are practically impossible. There will never be an earth pony wizard not due to racism or exclusion, but as a matter of biological fact. Other aspects of our culture are not restricted by horns, but I suspect blood ties are no less a restriction for your purposes. I suspect you will find that few here are willing to marry outside our tribe purely in support of your objective. I for one have no intention of sharing the secrets of alchemy that my family has guarded for generations to use as a bargaining chip with the other tribes.”

Glass swept an upward-turned hoof symbolically toward the booths above her in the Stable, filled with nobles who were still her lessers. “I confess I fail to see how on a practical level your dreams of unification, of bringing non-unicorns into landed domain and titles, can be seen as anything but a political nonstarter—no matter how benevolent the idea might sound in speeches.”

As the nobles’ eyes shifted to Gale, she donned a slight frown, and a little bump appeared on her cheek—her usual sign, rather than a knot in her brow or steepled hooves, of being deep in thought. She didn’t close her eyes, though; she kept her eyes locked on whoever had brought about that depth of thought. In the numerous occasions I sat in front of Gale’s thinking gaze, I found it to be more than a bit intimidating; though as a young, newly crowned queen I suspect the stare carried less weight against Duchess Glass.

“I… Look, I don’t know. Duke House asked for what kind of future I wanted, not a step-by-step plan. I’m not stupid enough to think I’m going to sit down with Ty—” When Platinum tapped Gale on the side, she sighed. “With Commander Typhoon and Chancellor Puddinghead—and just make this all happen overnight. I know there’s some ponies in the room clutching their pearls and shaking in their shoes that I’m going to launch off on some kind of… ‘tyrannical escapade’, or whatever you’d like to call that, and I get the sense that’s what you’re really asking about. So to those ponies: calm down. Even if T—Commander Typhoon and Chancellor Puddinghead were on board tomorrow, I wouldn’t do everything I just said overnight. The point is to make life better for…” Gale rolled her eyes, and pantomimed quotes with her hooves. “‘...my subjects’. There’s a big difference between breaking a few eggs for an omelette and killing the chicken.”

The twisted idiom got another sensible chuckle out of the gathered nobleponies, though they quickly grew quiet as Gale made herself more comfortable.

“But since that’s a total cop out answer, I’ll tell you step one. Typhoon’s building a series of forts to try and secure the land we’re claiming over to the west coast. That much new land creates all kinds of new postings in the Legion, and I can think of a few knights who I think would fit in well in those posts. And in exchange, instead of assigning the land around those forts to new domains for the lesser banners here whose only land is still around River Rock, I’m planning on setting one—just one, before you all shit yourselves—aside and establishing a noble title and banner for some pegasi. I’m thinking the House of Rain would be a great start…”

Gale’s words trailed off when boos and stomping hooves filled the Stable. With a tired shake of her head, she turned briefly to her mother. “How do you say ‘shut the fuck up’ politely?”

“Your Majesty, perhaps you should consider how this proposal looks from one of the nobleponies’ shoes.”

“I’m not an idiot, Mom; I know how it looks. I don’t care; I’m not backing down, especially not the first day. They’ll walk all over me my entire rule, just like you.”

Platinum gritted her teeth. “Then clearly you don’t need my advice, daughter.”

Gale closed her eyes and bit down on her own cheek to keep from cursing. Then, resting her cheek on a hoof and bracing the attached leg on her chair, she waited for the noise to stop.

In retrospect, drawing a little ‘get on with it’ circle in the air with her hoof probably did not help the noise.

Chrysoprase let the noise go on far longer than she had any prior interruptions before she sounded her gong. “Mares and Gentlestallions of the Stable, I repeat, we will have order!” The elder emerald mare allowed a few moments to pass as she refilled her lungs and caught her breath before continuing in a calmer pace—the time also providing a chance for the last murmurs of the audience to settle. “I am certain Her Majesty now fully understands that the Stable objects; I would encourage anypony with more to say to seek out a more subtle audience. Duchess Glass, are you satisfied?”

Glass Menage scoffed, keeping her icy eyes on Gale even as she answered Chrysoprase. “Hardly. But in the interest of tradition, the House of Three is satisfied. Your Majesty will have to do me the honor of allowing me to host you for dinner.”

“You give up so easily?” The voice that spoke up out of line belonged to the fourth as-yet-unrecognized leader of a great house. Duchess Fire Power glistened like a crystal mare as she stepped forward from her booth, refusing to match Gale eye-to-eye and instead keeping her head on a calm swivel between the other four of her peers on the ground floor as she began to speak. “I find that I cannot agree more with the sentiment the Grand Duchess voiced when we began; most of the ponies present here today, and certainly the chairs of all our houses, were born in the Diamond Kingdoms, swearing our fealty to King Lapis. And in our lifetimes, we have watched as his descendants have bled away the inheritance, the lifeblood, of unicorn kind in service to some ideal of the unification of three cultures, three tribes, that could not be more culturally disparate. And we, the nobility of the unicorns, lent our aid to that cause as a matter of survival. Nopony would be fool enough to deny that Equestria was necessary, but a necessary evil is still an evil.”

Tiredly, Chrysoprase shook her head. “Though it seems that it no longer matters, the floor goes to Duchess Power of the House On Fire.”

A few ponies called out in muffled displeasure, and at least one clear voice announced approval with “Here, here!” Gale leaned forward harshly, only to have her shoulder caught by her mother’s hoof. “You’ll have your chance to speak,” the older mare whispered. “Don’t undercut your position by disrespecting her before she has her chance to finish.”

“She wasn’t even recognized; how would I be the one in the wrong?”

“Because the room is already against you, and you’d be giving them an excuse,” Platinum whispered back. “Be the bigger mare.”

The whisper truly was inaudible to the rest of the room, and Fire Power continued on with her words. “My blood tells me that to let unicorns be ruled by any other kind of pony—save, as the Court Mage rightly pointed out, a divine alicorn—is a travesty we should not suffer. But because we sought to preserve the lives of our subjects, we bowed our heads—just as the first Queen Platinum did—to the necessity of destiny.

“But now, my fellow nobles, I hear this mare, barely more than a filly—”

“Her Majesty will be shown respect,” interrupted Chrysoprase, and though her face remained as neutral as one could possibly expect from a patient mare, no amount of discipline could hide the slight throbbing of a vein in her temple.

Fire Power barely paused; her sentence didn’t even lose its cadance. “—Queen Platinum the Third, a mare who has never known a world without the mistake of a united Equestria, tells us openly, unashamedly, that she intends to drive this unwanted, unwarranted unification further—and this time without the greater evil of a windigo, the threat of the slaughter of our nation at the claws of monsters and the spiked hooves of the crystal barbarians; no, she announces this is her intention because she thinks it is somehow right. Right that we should be beholden to those who are not like us, those who will never understand us. Right that we should bow our heads and pollute our blood.”

“Careful…” Gale whispered, brow furrowed not in thought but fury.

Fire Power whirled on Gale; her dress glittered as it moved in the magical lighting of the Stable chambers with such force that she appeared to live up to her name by spontaneously combusting (though tragically only in a metaphorical sense). “Your Majesty, my question to you may be very blunt, but I suggest you give it more than a second’s thought. Why should the Stable support you in this fool’s endeavor? Why should we support, even permit you to further blur together our history, our culture, our very ways of life with the pegasi and the earth ponies? What compensation will this madness offer for the expense of our families’ histories, our wealth, and the future we’re building for our foals?”

Gale did not rush to answer. Leaning forward, tapping her hoof on the arm of her seat, she had listened quietly, but anypony looking could see that just behind her eyes was a building firestorm. And when the final question was asked, it took only a moment to burst forward, feeding on what little oxygen dared to linger in the room.

“Are you stupid, Duchess?”

A hiss of gasps suggested the last of the oxygen had been sucked out of the chamber. The pot itself had melted. The silence that followed defied the words of petty silvered tongues.

“You think if I put a couple pegasi in a booth, suddenly your foals are going to be out on their asses begging? Freezing to death on the streets? Maybe you think they’ll die of cooties? Or are you afraid I’m going to take away titles from the other nobles to give them to my pegasus friends? Does anypony actually think that?” Gale tilted her head back, looking up and sweeping her gaze over the booths. “Anypony?”

Gale did give more than a chance for the room to answer that question, but nopony did.

Then her focus returned to the Duchess On Fire. “Now, I’m probably not as good at debate as my mother, but if you aren’t stupid enough to think that, but you said it anyway, it seems like you’d have to have a reason. And, honestly, I’m tired of pretending it isn’t obvious, so instead of asking the room, I’m just going to say it. You’re stoking bullshit fears because you don’t want to admit the real reason you don’t want non-unicorns in the Stable is you’re afraid they’ll get in the way of your power games.”

“How dare you—”

“I dare because I’m the Queen, bitch.” Gale chuckled as the room somehow managed to suck in its collective breath again. “Apologies,” she clarified, entirely insincerely. “But I waited my turn, Duchess, so now you’re going to shut your mouth and wait yours.”

Gale pushed herself forward from the arms of her seat and rose fully to her hooves. A mere stride took her took the edge of the throne’s little podium, and when she reached it, she turned to pace along the precipice as she spoke—her magically amplified voice filled with unyielding sharpened steel in lieu of soft, precious silver and gold.

“I hate playing these games. I hate dancing around what we actually mean instead of just getting to the point. I might not give great speeches or dress with the kind of money most ponies would spend buying a house. I’m not interested in tea and flowers, and I won’t remember all your kids’ names. I know I’m not polished and… primrose or whatever, the way Mom is.”

When she had reached House Zodiac’s side of the horseshoe shaped room, Gale rounded and lowered her head in the same motion. It left her glaring directly into Fire Power’s eyes, and I suspect one might have found the space between their gazes as sharp as razor wire.

“But don’t think that means I’m going to be some figurehead queen. I know what’s going on; I’m sure it’s some kind of scandal, but I’ll say it too. I know some of you genuinely do care about our traditions, our culture, our history. I also know some of you are honest-to-Celestia unicorn supremacists, and even if you’re holding your tongues, you’re disgusted my half-pegasus marks are sitting in this chair. And I know some of you couldn’t even give two shits about blood and heritage, and that’s just your excuse because you don’t want to admit you’re only interested in money and power, screwing over whoever you possibly can to build up your family name.”

When Fire Power’s muzzle twitched at the blatant accusation, Gale smiled just enough to bare the back of her teeth, thirsty for blood.

“I don’t really care, to be honest. I’m more than willing to give you the benefit of the doubt, if you bring your issues up in good faith, like Duke Divided or Duchess Glass did. But don’t let yourself think I’m going to ‘play the game’ when you try and sell me a steaming load about how you’re worried your family’s going to be out on the streets overnight. Don’t waste my time.”

Gale finished her speech with her shoulders rising and shrinking with each subdued breath. Nopony spoke. Nopony even moved. Most faces were frozen, waiting for somepony else to make the first, tiniest move.

The new queen turned back to her throne, and was halfway through leaning back to relax when a flash of focus danced over her face. “Ah, crap. I guess I didn’t actually answer your question.”

“I think you rather effectively did, Your Majesty…” Chrysoprase noted drly.

Gale waved off the comment. “‘Why should the Stable support what I’m trying to do?’ is a good question, Aunt.”

“Grand—” Platinum tried to interrupt.

“Grand Duchess, right, sorry.” Again, Gale obviously wasn’t. “Well, the obvious answer for some of you is that it’s the right thing to do. But like I said, I know not everypony agrees with me on that. And some of you even mean it in good faith. But at the end of the day… I don’t care. I don’t need the Stable to support me.”

Platinum I staggered at that announcement. When the room began to stir, Chrysoprase sounded her gong preemptively. It didn’t silence the grumbling, but it did keep it far below a volume that Gale’s amplified voice could easily speak over.

Gale nodded when the ringing faded. “Thanks, Grand Duchess. Nobles, I’ll get to the point. I have the power to grant titles and domains; that power isn’t beholden to the Stable. My negotiations with the Triumvirate aren’t subject to anypony in this room. So when I say I don’t need the Stable’s support, what I mean is: if you want to stop me, you’re shit out of luck. If you want me not to have those powers, the only thing the Stable gets to do is try to force me to abdicate. Unfortunately for anypony thinking that, I’ve been watching Star Swirl nod along out of the corner of my eye here for the past couple minutes, and unless my memory of history is wrong, it’s only legal to force an abdication if the five great houses are unanimous.” Then she sat back with a full smile. “Plus the usual wording is that the Great Houses feel the monarch has lost their divine right, and it would be awfully embarrassing to have to tell Aunt Celestia what her opinion of me is supposed to be.”

Platinum drew in a short breath. “Lady—”

Gale briefly dropped her voice amplification charm to cut off the correction. “Mom, believe it or not, I did that one on purpose.” Her horn quickly snapped back to life, and her voice rose with it. “Is the House On Fire satisfied, Duchess Power? Or should I keep going?”

Fire Power sat down in her booth in fuming silence, which Gale chose to interpret as a victory.

Chrysoprase glanced with a hint of sympathy towards the other mare, and after a moment of their eyes locking, the green statesmare nodded. “Then at this time, as Chair of the Stable and Grand Duchess of the unicorns of Equestria, I find myself asking the final question. Before I begin, however, given the events of the very beginning of this session, I must warn you, Your Majesty: I ask this question in good faith, but I feel I must voice it in order to lay to rest a fear not only of the Stable, but of our entire race.”

“Alright,” Gale nodded. “Hit me.”

Chrysoprase kept her gaze locked on the young Queen, but she braced her forelegs “What will you do if your firstborn foal is not a unicorn?”

Gale winced. “Well, I guess I’ll have another kid?”

Though the room chuckled, Chrysoprase’s posture remained deadly serious.

“And if they aren’t a unicorn?”

“Point taken.” Gale sighed. “Look, I’ll give you my word: I’m not going to put a non-unicorn on the throne, since that’s obviously what you’re getting at.”

Chrysoprase pressed onward with the same calm, steady pressure to her voice. “Yet you would put them in the Stable, whose members vie for the throne when succession grows… less clear? Who, in the event of ill rule, remove the crown from an unworthy head?”

“I’m not going to supplant one of the Great Houses!” Gale protested. “I was just thinking a barony or something—”

“Perhaps your Majesty is too young to remember how close a baron can come to claiming the throne. Queen-Mother Platinum, can you remind me… was Her Majesty already born when you elevated the House of Cards?”

“He died before her birth,” the elder Platinum answered firmly.

“Who?” Gale asked, her voice ringing out in the room.

“I’ll tell you later.” Platinum placed a calm hoof on Gale’s shoulder. “It’s a long story, and not one we need dragged out in front of the stable.”

Chrysoprase waited for Platinum’s whispers to obviously end, and chose not to try to answer Gale’s direction, instead pressing her again. “As you put it, I wish to speak in good faith, Your Majesty. As the Chair of this Stable that has already seen so much change in my lifetime, it is my legacy that will be thought of when both of us are long dead, if some future king or queen is asked who will wear the crown and sit in the throne, and whether our tribe will be brought to kneel before somepony who is not one of ours. Given how you answered at first, I must suspect you see the massive difference between accepting non-unicorn nobles and accepting a non-unicorn ruler. But as you answered Duke Star Swirl, you have no hesitation to put yourself into danger when there is a need. What happens when the House of the Rising Sun is headed by a pegasus? Even if you yield their claim as your firstborn to the throne and I, or whoever else is next in line, takes the throne, what then? If the House of Gullion becomes the Royal Family, does the House of the Rising Sun become a Great House, headed by a pegasus?”

“What do you want me to say?” Gale snapped back. “Yes, it’s possible I’ll have pegasus foals. I can’t change my blood any more than I can change being a unicorn. If you want my word I won’t name a non-unicorn as my heir, you’ve got it. Happy Hearth’s Warming! What else can I do?”

Chrysoprase nodded, and with all the same calm pressure that had guided her words to that moment, she calmly pressed her dagger straight into Gale’s heart. “You could give the Stable your word you will marry a true-blooded unicorn.”

Though the Stable breathed easy, all the air was sucked out of Gale. Without making a show of it, she found herself leaning heavily on the arm of her seat, as her father might his cane-braced foreleg.

Platinum took a bold step forward. “Grand-Duchess, you know the matter of Her Majesty’s suitors is still an open question—”

“This is not your recognition, Queen-Mother,” Chrysoprase cut the former Queen off. “Her Majesty is under no obligation to forswear her suitors of other races. She must only tell me the truth, as is my right as Grand Duchess.” Chrysoprase nodded to Gale. “I would hope that, like Duke Swirl’s question, mine is one which does not require much thought. But hesitance is its own answer to the Stable.”

Gale gritted her teeth as Chrysoprase’s words ended and the silence settled in. Her hoof dug into the arm of her seat, pressuring her frog on the polished wood. Her brow furrowed, and she held her eyes closed for a few long seconds.

And then, with the Stable watching, all those tells faded away. It took effort; that much was obvious if only from how slowly the changes spread on the coat across her face. But her jaw evened, losing all expression. The knot in her brow vanished. The little pinch in her cheek from her habit of thinking popped back out. And when her eyes opened, her expression was a practiced neutrality. All save her eyes; though they locked on to Chrysoprase, they danced up and down the Grand Duchess’ outfit, distracted by each tiny motion in the other mare’s booth, struggling to meet the other mare’s willful gaze directly. “I will give the Stable my word that I will not give the crown to a non-unicorn. I don’t owe you anything more than that.”

“Very well.” Chrysoprase slowly lowered her hooves from the railing at the front of her booth, and she neither smiled nor frowned. “Then you have answered my question with honesty, and the House of Gullion is satisfied.” Chrysoprase opened her mouth, then hesitated. “Duchess Power, for the record, could you state your stance?”

Fire Power scowled. “The House On Fire is satisfied. If nothing else, Her Majesty’s answer was obviously honest.”

Chrysoprase nodded. “Thank you. Now… with all five Great Houses satisfied, and with the rights of our questioning of the new monarch fulfilled, we recognize Queen Platinum the Third, Heir of Platinum the First, Head of the House of the Rising Sun, Scion of the Royal Line of Electrum the All-Seer, as our rightful monarch in the light of Celestia. Long may you reign, and may it bring your subjects peace and prosperity.” The green mare concluded her words by bringing her hooves together in a gentle, formal applause. The room seemed to echo the sentiment, as seated ponies clapped and standing ponies stomped, but with an utter lack of fervor or feeling to the performance.

It only took a few moments to die down, and when it did Chrysoprase wasted no time in gathering the attention of the Stable. “And now, as Her Majesty has requested, let us move on to more tangible business.”

2-6

II - VI

Politics, As Usual

“With the recognition of our new queen concluded, we now return to business as usual. Queen Platinum, since you were not present with your mother at the last gathering, owing to your appointment as ambassador to the Crystal Union—”

“It was a cover to hunt down Wintershimmer,” Gale interrupted. “We told Jade to her face, so there’s no point pretending here. And I guess it’s obvious I’m not going back to that job now.”

“Yes,” Chrysoprase replied calmly. “Owing to that, please feel free to stop us if there is any matter of discussion you don’t follow.” The Grand Duchess briefly cleared her throat, and then glanced back to her scribes, one of whom passed her a scroll. After a moment to apply her glasses, she continued “Nobleponies of the Stable, our first item of business is Queen Platinum… the First’s request that we agree to a lowering of the limit on gems mined per annum on domain land to no more than…” the old mare squinted through her lenses as she focused on the text. “…three tenths of one tonne per square league. This amounts to a reduction of twenty percent in the mining output of the lands assigned to noble families, and was requested by the now Queen-Mother on behalf of the earth pony delegation to parliament, as a mechanism to reduce the accrual of inflation. In exchange, the earth pony delegation agrees to their support for… The Statute of Equestrian Claim to, and Division of, Western Lands from Everfree Unto Typhoon Lagoon. Or for a shorter name, the new Bill of Settlement.” Raising her head from the parchment, Chrysoprase fluidly removed her spectacles and—though it was already amplified—lifted her voice. “Since our agreement in helping with the founding of Equestria gave our families absolute rights both to the land granted to us as domain, it is up to the Stable to agree or disagree to this restriction, as it was with prior limits. Hence, the matter will be put to vote. At this time, let anypony who wishes to take the floor step forward and make their voice heard.”

As Chrysoprase craned her neck to get a better look up the tall chamber for anypony wishing to be recognized, Gale leaned over toward her mother, ensuring her voice-raising spell was off before she whispered. “What were you planning on giving them to get this to work?”

“It’s not that simple,” Platinum answered bluntly. “Listen and see if you can figure it out while they debate, or just ask if you feel you need to. There’s no shame in admitting ignorance on your first day.”

Gale scoffed, re-enabled her voice amplification, and leaned back into her seat just as Chrysoprase spoke up. “The floor goes to Marquise Seal of House Club.”

Seal was a particularly sleek mare, naturally a sort of blue-gray color who obviously put considerable effort into maintaining the sheen of her coat. She wore her mane back, sweeping over her neck, and so seemed to always appear as though she had just taken a dive into water. “Fellow nobleponies, I ask once again for your ear in consideration. This is the third time in my tenure as the head of the House Club that the stable has considered bowing our heads to the earth ponies’ coin counters as they ask us to reduce our wealth. Why must we, the unicorns, always bear the yoke of lessening our rights? There are other means to address concerns of inflation, and yet I never seem to hear news of Lübuck having a bad year in the interest of the greater nation. And for what? So their delegation can hold another of our bills hostage? I say we put our hooves down and let them bear the discomfort. I, for one, find that my domain barely sustains my household and my family on the gems that my mines are allowed under our current limit. And I will not stand to see the principles of our nobility trod on by forcing noble-born, true blooded unicorns to take common work in the interest of keeping food on the table. I will not stand for it!”

As the room muttered out a chorus of “Here, here!”s and clip-clopped a round of applause, Gale leaned toward her mother. “Won’t the earth ponies get land out of this too? Not that much of each territory becomes noble land, right? So why are they using this bill for leverage?”

What Gale hadn’t realized is that her voice-amplification spell was still glowing, and so while the whisper didn’t pierce the whole room, it was quite audible.

Chrysoprase sighed, superseding the moment Platinum was taking to formulate an answer. “I would be hesitant to speak for the earth pony delegation to Parliament as a whole. And if Your Majesty is willing to accept a word of advice…” Chrysoprase let the offer sit for just a moment, and it clearly took Gale a few solid seconds to realize she was being asked a question before she shrugged and gave a single curt nod. The Grand Duchess smiled. “It is considered a matter of good manners to be careful not to lump the entirety of the earth pony tribe into the decisions of their elected representatives.”

“Alright…” Gale muttered, letting her spell drop and raising her voice mundanely at Chrysoprase, her tone saying ‘whatever’ even if her spoken words didn’t. “So the earth pony delegation wants you all to mine less on domain land, or they’ll… just sit on the bill, even though it’s to their advantage?”

“Yes, that seems an effective summary,” Chrysoprase agreed. “I would suggest either that they have calculated it to hurt us more than it hurts them, or they simply have no better way to exert leverage on the Stable. We rarely answer to their wishes, after all.”

Platinum took a step over to her daughter. “While strictly speaking, nopony can settle the land until it is divided into domains and opened, the Legion is still permitted to build any fortifications or improvements they need to control the land while it’s still unincorporated. That means Legion-employed craftsponies settle the land permanently before anypony else gets a chance. So the longer the bill sits, the more those territories wind up in pegasus hooves, which makes the pegasi stronger in the senate.”

“Which still hurts the earth ponies?” Gale pressed. “I mean, they’re the ones with the plurality to lose…”

Platinum nodded. “Between giving up some votes in the senate to the pegasi, or suffering increased inflation from our gem mining, it seems they prefer the former. Your suitor, Secretary Gallery, is quite calculating that way.”

“Wait, this is Peanut’s idea?” Gale shook her head as she tried to adjust her opinion of the young stallion, her attention pulled away from her mother as Chrysoprase gestured up to another noble seated high in the room.

“The Stable recognizes Baron Zin of House Red.”

Baron Zinfandel, whose nickname was so prevalent that even the normally stiff Grand Duchess used its short form in address, failed to live up to his house name; he was sort of a rose pony, though his pencil moustache and his incredibly short cut mane were both at least red enough to suggest he belonged in his own house.

“Your Majesty, fellow members of the Stable… Has anything of note changed since we last debated this subject? What I heard from Marquise Seal was the same argument that opponents shared when last we spoke. And I for one know that my argument in favor has not changed. In the interest of honoring our new Queen’s wishes that things be handled more…” Zin drew three circles in the air with his hoof before settling on the word “...efficiently, I move that unless anypony believes they have something new to add, we cease with our debates and let the Dukes vote.”

Gale let out a little chuckle, and gave the stallion a small clap.

“You approve, Your Majesty?” asked Chrysoprase.

“Hell yes,” Gale answered. “If you already fought about this, you don’t need to go over it again just for me.”

“Very well. Do my fellows object? Has anything new changed your minds that you feel is worth debating?”

“She’s new,” Duchess Fire Power observed, pointing a hoof at Gale. “If the wealth cost doesn’t persuade you lot, maybe pegasus nobles will?”

“Would the House On Fire like the floor? Or must I remind the Stable that there are rules to recognition?” Under Chrysoprase’s blistering glare, the much younger noblemare wilted, but she nevertheless nodded. “Very well. The Stable now recognizes Duchess Fire Power of the House On Fire.”

Fire Power took a moment to draw in a deep breath, and in settling her shoulders she caused the light from her gem-crusted outfit to glitter like a chandelier (if not a disco ball) around her booth. “I already had my issues with this trade of ours with the earth ponies under the former Queen, but now from where I’m sitting, there is no debate to be had! Her Majesty told us not ten minutes ago what she intended to do if we put domains before her to assign! And I will have no part in it! And none of you should either!”

Chrysoprase calmly waited, her eyes watching Gale’s reaction rather than the nearly shouted words of the fiery spirited duchess. And though Gale said nothing, I think the Grand Duchess of the unicorns saw what she was looking for in my dearest friend. A hint of frustration, a wrinkle on her brow, a slight twitch in the hoof she rested on the arm of the throne. And then Gale’s eyes swung left along the row of nobles, and though she didn’t see it, Chrysoprase smiled.

Gale’s gaze came to rest on Star Swirl, who puffed his pipe and raised a brow. “Something you’re hoping for, little one?”

Chrysoprase frowned. “The Stable reminds Duke Swirl—”

“You’ll have to forgive me, ponies of the Stable, if I find that along with my sense of taste and some of my hearing, my sense of caring is beginning to fade.” Though the joke could have come across quite mean spirited, Star Swirl was a master of turning harsh words into good humor at his own expense. And, indeed, the Stable chuckled at the joke. “I delivered Her Majesty into this world, I personally guaranteed she was free of the Scourge of Kings, and I taught her… well, maybe not everything she knows about magic anymore,” Star Swirl winked. “But would you say most of it, Your Majesty?”

Gale chuckled. “Yeah, geezer. So, you got anything to say?”

“Ah, that’s what you want.” Star Swirl sighed, leaning back. “No.”

“What?”

“Was I unclear? No, Queen Platinum the Third, I do not. Being a grouchy old stallion isn’t an act. For somepony who makes such a big deal about not liking speeches, you’re a lot better at addressing the Stable than I am. I’ll gladly talk if it’s about magic, and I think the Stable knows you have my vote, but I’m not going to fight this battle for you.”

A look of visible relief passed over Lady Fire Power.

Quickly, though, that comfort seemed to vanish when another figure in Star Swirl’s booth spoke up. “If I may, Honorable Nobleponies.”

Archmage Mistmane the Beautiful, then Mother of Illusions, may have been a noblemare, but as her sharply curved horn and slight accent suggested, she was not a noble of the Diamond Kingdoms—and thus at least yet, not a noblemare of Equestria. Hailing from the island of Neighpon, the relatively young archmage (though, having already given up her beauty for her empress in yet another not-quite-true story you might already think you know, she looked more like Star Swirl’s peer than a mare sixty years his younger) of the Shogunate of Uma was not a member of the Stable, but merely Star Swirl’s guest.

“Hmm…” Chrysoprase nodded. “I see no reason to object. The Stable recognizes the guest of Duke Swirl of the House of Zodiac. Though I suspect we all know you, for the record, please introduce yourself.”

“My name is Mistmane… Oh, if I should be formal, my native name is Tategami Kiri, and I suppose my Clan Daikiri is similar to one of your Banner Houses.”

After Chrysoprase’s glance backward revealed a very nervous scribe, she nodded. “Archmage Mistmane will be fine, but the Stable appreciates your sharing.”

“It is my pleasure.” Mistmane nodded. “Unicorns, I have heard a great deal of worry today about whether or not it is right to raise up non-unicorns to a place of honor in your gathering. I know I do not come from your background, and so perhaps my comparison is flawed somehow, I thought that I might share a lesson from my life, if you will allow me.”

After a moment of awkward silence, when it became clear Mistmane actually was asking for permission, Chrysoprase nodded. “When we say ‘you have the floor’, it means you no longer need permission to speak, as long as you show the Stable and Her Majesty proper respect.”

“I see.” Mistmane nodded. “Some years ago, before Master Star Swirl came to Neighpon, I had an apprentice who was not a unicorn. And in our clan’s custom, because we have long been wizards, to take on another as an apprentice involves a ceremony to welcome them into the clan.

“Now, because my apprentice was not a unicorn, I could not teach her magic. Many of my clan felt that she should not have been welcomed into the clan. But I persisted. And surely enough, when we found ourselves arguing with other clans, as we seemed to always be doing, or worrying about the future of our magic, my fellows would often be mad at me because I was said to be our most skilled wizard, and I was not training a unicorn successor.”

Mistmane sighed. “But then we came to war with the kirin.”

Duchess Glass cocked her head and raised a hoof. When Mistmane nodded, the elegant mare cocked her head. “What is a ‘kirin’?”

“They are… the term ‘dragon-unicorns’ is not entirely accurate, but it is also the best explanation I can think to give. They were often at war with the Shogunate, and our clans land bordered on theirs.” Mistmane sighed. “My clan were not warriors; our magic has never been as violent as much of yours…” Mistmane hesitated. “I apologize; I mean no offense.”

“It’s fine,” Star Swirl comforted his guest. “In our history, studying magic was for killing monsters first and building up ponykind second. You aren’t wrong. Especially with Wintershimmer still on everypony’s minds.”

Mistmane nodded. “Well… My point, honorable nobleponies, is that we were sent to negotiate a peace with the kirin. But though we tried and tried, our talks did not get anywhere; the kirin were enraged and were not interested in peace, no matter what wonders of magic we produced to entertain or satisfy them. But my student, who did not know magic and all, but instead followed a warrior’s path, spoke to their leader in a language that she could understand: they fought, not to kill, but to earn each others’ respect. And in the end, it was that work that earned us our peace.”

Fire Power scoffed. “So you’re saying— ah, I’m sorry, Grand Duchess. May I have the floor, Archmage?”

“Go ahead,” Mistmane answered with a nod, making a bit of a show of pulling her hooves away from the edge of Star Swirl’s booth, as if ‘having the floor’ would somehow literally turn it to lava for those not intended to speak.

“We already have legions to pegasi to protect us without giving them noble titles,” Fire Power noted. “And even if I were to hire an earth pony bodyguard like Archmage Mistmane here, I wouldn’t give them a noble title for it.”

“My apprentice was not a pony,” Mistmane corrected, then frowned. “Oh, I’m sorry; may I have the floor?”

“Speak freely,” Chrysoprase muttered, waving her hoof. “What kind of creature was your apprentice?”

“Tsume was a griffon.”

“Holy shit, what?!” Gale leaned forward in her seat, and the entire Stable turned to her shock at the outburst. “You knew about the griffons?” At that point, Gale outright stood up. “Did you know Cirra? Did Emperor Magnus know about you? Why didn’t he attack you like the pegasi?”

Star Swirl sighed. “Mistmane, I tried to warn you: griffons are a sensitive subject. Remember how Flash reacted when you told him?”

“Yes, but these are unicorns, not pegasi.” Then Mistmane’s wrinkled eyes widened. “Ah, yes, your father is the Emperor of the pegasi, Queen Platinum. I should have remembered.” Mistmane shook her head. “The shogunate knew of Cirra at a great distance, but I believe I was two or three when they fled across the sea.” (Given Archmage Mistmane’s appearance of old age was the result of, essentially, a magical curse, this comment caught no small amount of the room off-guard.) “There was never much travel between us regardless. We were separated by the griffons, and the broken kingdoms of the great cats, and some part of the kirin lands. When Master Star Swirl and I traveled here, we did so across the great expanse of the dragon lands; to come more directly would be a very dangerous path for two ponies. So we did not speak to the Cirran pegasi, or rarely even the griffons. Tsume was an orphan of one of the griffon wars with the cats—they detest each other. And I have never met the griffon Emperor.”

“Probably for the best,” Fire Power noted. “Or he might be offered a noble title too.”

Gale actually got through to opening her mouth for a snappy retort, but it was the elder Platinum who claimed the initiative. “Duchess Fire, may I offer you a word of caution?” Despite the question, she did not wait for an answer. “The next time you consider making a joke about Emperor Magnus, and how his griffons slaughtered the pegasi, perhaps consider how you might feel if somepony were to make the same joke about what Warlord Corundum and the crystals did to your grandfather, and the thousands of other unicorns who died at Sapphire Pass.”

The Stable was struck mute as the Queen Mother seemed to loom over the assembly. “No pegasus knows exactly how many died; their census was lost with the rest of the Cirran lands. But my husband tells me it could not be less than half a million lives. So on behalf of our race, I will caution the entire Stable not to make light of these events, or propose diplomacy with the griffons, unless we wish to make enemies of the pegasi.” After a solid silent count to ‘five’, Platinum concluded by nodding to Chrysoprase. “Grand Duchess, my apologies for the interruption.”

“On the contrary, Your Majesty; on behalf of the Stable, thank you for reminding us all of the somber burden of our discussions.” Chrysoprase then nodded to Mistmane. “Archmage, we thank you for your lesson. Now, Your Majesty, while I had intended to call for a vote today, I believe the Stable may need another day before we are ready to vote. I move we postpone settling this issue until tomorrow morning.”

A few of the other nobles on the ground floor nodded, but Gale’s focus was quickly stolen by a slight glow on Chrysoprase’s horn. Though the older mare’s lips barely moved, her whispering voice magically reached Gale’s ears. “Your Majesty, we should speak privately, if you will make the time. Will you join me in my office?”

Then, her voice rising again to its magically amplified level, she again addressed Gale. “Does Your Majesty agree?”

Gale blinked briefly in shock at the double question, but then nodded.

“Then the Stable is adjourned until tomorrow morning.”

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

Grand Duchess Chrysoprase’s office in the Stable (building) could easily have belonged to a barrister, or in more modern parlance, a lawyer. Her sizeable C-shaped desk, with its ornate corners and magical lamps, was lightly decorated with well-organized paperwork in both scrolls and loose leaves, accentuated by a heavy copy of some ancient text on unicorn monarchic history. Rather than a set of two or three chairs, the other side of the desk had a small space for some unfortunate target of the Grand Duchess’ focus to stand, and then behind that a pair of sizeable couches flanking an oval coffee table (though it was called a ‘tea table’ in those days; coffee had just reached Equestria). A massive circular window behind Chrysoprase’s seat gave her a beautiful view of the streets of Everfree three stories below, flanked by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with thick records of the Stable’s goings on, nearly every one filled during the seated Grand Duchess’ extended rule. Most of the other walls were likewise filled, though a few gaps gave spaces for elaborate portraits of Chrysoprase’s family and an enormous hearth that kept the chamber warm in Everfree’s harsh winters.

If I didn’t know the mare as well as I learned to, I might have thought that its slight oppressive weight was an unintentional byproduct of its sheer dedication to purpose. But Chrysoprase was not a mare who left such things unconsidered.

The Chair of the Stable of Nobles led a small team of servants into the quarters, and promptly ignored them as they placed a pair of pitchers—ice water and a bottle’s worth of precious vintage 352 Bon Sang, decanted in an open-topped pitcher because nopony had invented the hoof-blender yet.

“Nice office,” Gale noted, walking inside as the servants began to exit. “You’re going to spoil me with all this good wine. First you try to give me Romorantin, and now Bon Sang?”

“I forget you have not been here with me to discuss the Stable business before,” Chrysoprase replied, gesturing for Gale to take a seat on one of the two couches, before letting herself gracefully fall onto the other. “Your mother won’t be joining us?”

“I can rule without her over my shoulder,” Gale answered; the feathers of her pauldron fluttering as she cleared the air symbolically with a hoof.

“Perhaps that’s for the best,” Chrysoprase nodded. “I imagine we will be meeting here often, so I welcome you to make yourself comfortable. I know your mother prefers to separate her private writing space from meeting rooms, but I’ve found I can get more done in a day if I keep my work here.”

“So the books are all, what, records?” Gale nodded to the numerous bookshelves as she poured two glasses of wine and slid one toward her great aunt.

“Oh, no; our records go to the archives below… at least, the ones we rescued from River Rock. Most of the minutiae of our history are probably frozen shut now in the old Stable. These are histories of the noble families. Peerages and genealogies, stretching back to the Wise Five Kings—supposedly back to Lady Celestia’s youth. Do you think she would be offended if I asked her about whether or not they’re true?”

Gale leaned back into the couch and chuckled, enjoying the first sip of her wine; just slightly sour, the Bon Sang’s refined, distinguished set of flavors was interesting enough to the new queen that she almost missed the question. “Hmm? I don’t think she’ll care, but she’s not gonna answer the question either. Mom tried.”

“I should have guessed as much,” Chrysoprase nodded. “I was surprised to see her in attendance today.”

“I don’t know what Mom did to twist her ear and get her to keep standing behind me. But I doubt she’ll keep coming; she’s supposed to be teaching Morty magic.”

“Morty? Meaning your friend Coil? I had thought he was already trained.”

Gale shrugged. “I don’t get it either. And every time I ask, I wind up more confused, so I think I’m going to give up trying. I’ll just ask Star Swirl if it ever matters.”

“A wise use of delegation,” Chrysoprase noted. “I think I’m in much the same position.” Red stained Chrysoprase’s lips. “As a foal, I was a terrible magic student. I preferred arguing with my teacher over listening to him… I suppose in some way the practice paid off.”

Gale answered with a sip of her own, and then lowered the glass. “I don’t mean to be an ass, but I know you didn’t ask to talk to me so you could tell me stories of ‘the good old days’.”

“Ah, no. You’re correct. I wanted to offer you my assistance.” Chrysoprase waited for Gale’s response, and when the younger mare’s eyes narrowed skeptically, she continued. “I take it you don’t trust me?”

“You don’t want me to name pegasi to the Stable,” Gale explained dryly.

Chrysoprase sighed. “You’re correct. I don’t.”

“So you don’t actually want to help,” Gale continued. “Are you proposing a trade?:

Green wrinkles tugged back into a scoffing chuckle. “So transactional… Platinum—may I call you Platinum?”

“If you want to use my name, it’s Gale.”

Chrysoprase nodded. “Truly your father’s daughter.”

“Is that a problem?”

“It could be,” Chrysoprase warned. Then, lifting her wine toward her lips again, she spoke over the lip of the glass. “It isn’t to me; not here, at least. Not yet.” And then she took the pending sip.

“Not yet? It will be?” Gale asked.

“I do not want to be your enemy, Gale. We will be on opposite sides of issues at times… we may be on opposite sides of the one you’ve set before us. But to no small extent, what remains to be written of my legacy is in your hooves. And what remains of my ambition certainly is as well. I want you to succeed. I want you to raise up the Stable, and the unicorns, and if necessary, the rest of Equestria with them. I am willing to accept that you believe unifying the tribes further is what is good for Equestria. Because I don’t think it will destroy us, if you are willing to temper your efforts, and listen to my advice, I don’t need a trade. I am willing to support you. I tell you now, I will not move as fast it seems you would like. But you’ll find treading over me is far harder than moving with me.”

“You’ve got to want something.”

Chrysoprase nodded. “I want you to marry my son.” Then, when Gale’s face flashed with rage, she spoke quickly. “But that does not mean I am asking you to make that the terms of a trade. I am telling you because you are a smart enough young mare to know that if I told you I won’t want anything except to see you succeed, that I would be lying. From my perspective, I hope that if we work together as allies, over time you will see High Castle as a favorable suitor.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then one of my grandfoals will be Chair of the Stable, instead of King or Queen. But the strength I have built for the House of Gullion will persist, and my legacy will be secure regardless.” Chrysoprase offered a nearly grandmotherly smile—though unlike so many of the older mares of Equestria, it was more evocative of words like ‘hag’ and ‘witch’ and ‘cauldron’ than ‘chocolate-chip cookies’ or ‘those weird little strawberry candies with the gum inside’.

“Alright.” Gale nodded slowly. “So you don’t want anything from me right now. What are you proposing?”

“If I had held our vote today, you would have lost three to one, with only Star Swirl’s vote in favor, and the negotiations your mother and I have been perfecting for the last two years would go to waste. You would lose face for no benefit, and the pegasi will continue to deepen their hoofhold on the new territories without any unicorn influence. We need this bill to go through, and l have a solution, but I need your assistance to make it work.”

“Go on.”

Chrysoprase nodded. “While your mother hadn’t publicly guaranteed which noble families the new domains’ lands would be given to, there was a certain unspoken understanding that those lands would be divided up among the great houses, to be given to our banners instead of the banners of your house, or to the unaffiliated lesser nobles. At the end of the day, however, we both know that Star Swirl is a lock regardless and Duchess Fire Power is a lost cause. We have to win Duke House and Duchess Glass.”

“Not or?” Gale asked. “With just one of them, and Star Swirl, the vote will tie two for and two against. Then you cast the deciding vote in favor—”

“Gale, it is one thing for me to support you in private, and quite another for me to vote for you that way on the record in front of the whole Stable.” Chrysoprase sighed. “You made yourself represent incredible change with your speech today. That comes with bold new opportunities, but it also comes with a threat to those in power. In some ways, I have to represent the opposite, as a way to maintain my support and my influence.”

“What good is your ‘alliance’ if you aren’t going to vote when it counts?”

“While I cannot stand on your side, there will be times when I can allow myself to ‘lose’. Just as there will be times when you must do the same. Consider, for example: Duke House and Duchess Glass likely believe that they cannot vote in favor if you are going to assign even one domain and title to a pegasus family. Therefore, if we hope for their votes, we must give the appearance of promising away all our votes. But what if I tell you that you do not need to buy my vote with the promise of domains for my banners?”

Gale frowned for a moment in deep thought, and then cocked her head. “Won’t that hurt your reputation worse? If they catch on that you’re going behind their backs?”

“Oh, you misunderstand me. I intend to tell them both bluntly that I’m willing to forgo domains for my banners to make this pass.”

“Then what’s stopping them from demanding all the domains, and blocking me completely?”

Chrysoprase sighed. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“Then why—”

“Because that is simply not how business is done,” Chrysoprase interrupted tersely. She and Gale stared at each other for a rather long moment, the younger mare only barely suppressing a glare. “I will not lie to them, Your Majesty. That would be damage I would never recover from. And the same is true for you. Your words today made you a good number of enemies in the Stable, but that is damage that can be healed with time. But if you promise them these domains and then you do not follow through, there will be nothing you can do in your entire life to earn that trust back fully. Some scars are forever.”

Chrysoprase finished her glass then, and set it down on the table. With a final, punctuated swallow, she once more collected her expression. “Do you agree?”

Gale took her glass—still far more full than Chrysoprase’s had been—and threw it back in a single gulp, before likewise setting the empty vessel on the table. “It’s not that complicated. You’re powerful enough that you can afford to pass on a round of domains for your banners. You’re going to go argue on my behalf with House and Glass so that they’ll let one banner go for my plan with the pegasi. But ultimately, we’re hoping they’re both going to play along with my plan, even though they both obviously don’t like it.”

“It isn’t just hope. I do have some political capital with my fellow Dukes and Duchesses. It isn’t a guarantee, but our odds are better than you fear.”

“And I’m assuming you want me to take whatever deal they offer, regardless?”

Chrysoprase nodded grimly. “You understand that whether you like it or not, the success or failure of this bill will carry your reputation with it? Your mother all-but promised the earth pony delegation she would see it passed, in exchange for lightening their demands about how much we would reduce mining, And since you now wear the crown, the onus of that obligation passes to you.”

“I’m not my mom,” Gale answered coldly.

Chrysoprase was quiet for a moment at that, then nodded. “Certainly not. I imagine you are more concerned with the impact of your actions on Equestria than your own personal reputation? Very well. This bill is vitally important to the unicorns. To Equestria, even. Your mother and I have been fighting for this compromise for years. It is… I don’t mean to make light of your goals, but to the ponies we pass on the streets, opening those lands to settlement will have a far bigger impact than any ideological debate about our tribal divisions.”

Gale sighed. “It’s not just some ideological debate. Believe me; somewhere out there, there’s some earth pony colt wishing he could make some change to the domains, or a pegasus whose mark is for banking or economics… or a unicorn filly who wants to lead the Legion.”

Chrysoprase cocked her head, completely able to see through every one of Gale’s political thoughts and yet utterly blind when the younger mare all but screamed at her. After the momentary display of confusion, she gave a slow nod. “You may be right, but I think we can both agree those dreams aren’t as practical a concern—at least, they won’t be for another few decades. This bill is now.”

Gale nodded, pushing herself up off the couch. “Those dreams aren’t as far away for those ponies as you think. I’m not making any promises, Grand Duchess; you can tell them that too. Let them decide if they want to do what’s best for Equestria, or if they want to be stubborn just to spite me.”

2-7

II - VII

The Sordid Tale of the House of Cards

No more than ten minutes after Gale had left, Grand Duchess Chrysoprase delicately guided Duchess Glass Menage and Duke House Divided, as well as Glass’ daughter Spice and her own son High Castle, to the couches around her coffee table. A new decanter of wine, far cheaper but also frankly more gentle in taste, had been brought in, as well as new glasses; all else remained unchanged.

Nopony seemed quite certain who was going to speak first, and for a long moment as the servants flitted out of the room and clouds rolled slowly by outside the room’s huge window, nopony spoke.

Finally, Spice Menage took up the decanter of blood red wine, poured herself a glass in one of the number of empty glasses resting on the table, and brought it to hover near her lips without actually taking a sip. “Since we are obviously all thinking roughly the same thing, should we just say it?” She took a quick sip of wine, swallowing it back like as much distasteful medicine, and swept her eyes over the assembled nobles. “I was expecting a disaster, and she still managed to surprise me.”

“She is certainly… blunt,” Duke House concurred. “Not much like her mother at all.”

“She may be a unicorn, but she is her father’s daughter,” Chrysoprase agreed, pouring herself a glass of wine, then nodding around the couches. “Anypony else care for a glass?”

As hooves were waved and heads nodded, Duchess Glass steepled her hooves. “Since you obviously have some sort of enlightenment the rest of us are missing, Grand Duchess, would you care to share? I’ve never known Hurricane to behave like that.”

Chrysoprase chuckled. “No, perhaps not.” As the glow of her horn passed out drinks around the table, the elder statesmare leaned back into her couch, somehow managing to make herself comfortable and yet still appear entirely too stiff to not be suffering a severe case of rigor mortis. “The storm and the fury are all her, because she is young and she feels she has something to prove.”

“Mother, with respect—”

“You may be young, Castle, but you have nothing to prove,” Chrysoprase interrupted. “Not like she does. Look at the legacies she has inherited. If you’ll forgive me for perhaps being a bit blunt myself, friends: in the history of the unicorn monarchs, Platinum’s only noteworthy achievement was Equestria. If she is even remembered in a century, it will only be because of the founding. And even in that Hurricane overshadows her. That’s to say nothing of what he is to the pegasi. He might as well be their King Electrum or Tourmaline. And make no mistake: behind all the yelling and cursing, he was the one speaking to the Stable this morning. The young queen shares his erasurist beliefs beyond a fault. If you wish to understand her, you need to understand the young stallion King Lapis humiliated in court forty years ago.”

“That seems to be a very poignant interpretation,” Duke House noted. “But I do not follow how it is useful. Unpleasant though she may be, her interpretation of the state of affairs is right, if perhaps short-sighted. If she is willing to spite the benefits of our support, then there is nothing we can reasonably do to control her. Star Swirl clearly won’t turn against her if we pushed to depose her.”

“Nor will I,” Chrysoprase replied. “And nor should either of you. Having an erasurist… rather, a universalist queen will yield some considerable dividends. We will simply have to adapt. Remember, for all the fallout we suffered after the fact, our position in parliament was never stronger than at Baron Card’s height.”

Duke House winced, and even Duchess Glass’ sharp-edged face frowned at the reference. Most notably, however, High Castle and Spice Menage exchanged a confused glance.

“Mother, you mentioned the House of Cards earlier as well, but I don’t recognize that banner for anything notable in our histories. Who was Baron Card?”

Chrysoprase nodded. “Duchess Glass, do you object if I tell them?”

“Go ahead; you are the greater historian,” the younger unicorn replied with a nod.

Chrysoprase took a long sip of her wine, then set the glass down on the table. “I suppose I should preface with this: Spice, Castle: though it is still occasionally relevant to our duties, this isn’t a story one talks about in polite company. As for why you haven’t read about it in our history texts, Castle, I suspect it is because the story is still too new. I imagine both of you have heard the name ‘Solemn Vow’ before?”

Spice Menage’s eyes widened, though it was High Castle who spoke first. “The traitor?”

“The very same.” Chrysoprase chuckled, and her horn ignited emerald green. “But this was before anypony knew that. You must have been barely a year old, I think.” Amidst the wine glasses and decanters on the Grand Duchess’ coffee table, three tiny illusions of equine figures met and shook hooves. Though they lacked much by way of details, the black furred pegasus stallion, silvery metallic unicorn mare, and chocolate brown earth pony stallion figures could not have been mistaken by anypony present—even without their respective jet black armor, glimmering platinum crown, and hat full of pudding. “The three tribes had agreed on the basic terms of Equestria, but the finer details were still being ironed out. Queen Platinum was pregnant with her first foal, married to a Count Creme… Duchess Fire Power’s cousin, I believe.” The illusion of Platinum, visibly pregnant, stepped away from Hurricane and Puddinghead to stand beside a cream-colored stallion whose stylized figure was most notable for his blunt muzzle.

“His line outranked Duchess Fire Power’s at the time,” Duke House noted, nodding in agreement. “Her parents were merely a baron and baroness.”

Chrysoprase turned to Spicy as she continued. “In addition to all of the chaos here, it hadn’t been long since the Battle of Onyx Ridge, where Queen Jade’s army defeated the last crystal warlord, Halite. And as you likely know from your studies of history, in addition to conquerors and thieves, the crystals were historically slavers. So when Jade created the Crystal Union out of the ashes of Halite’s ‘empire’, a huge number of former slaves came to the new lands of Equestria and founded Everfree City. That’s where the name comes from, by the way.”

The ponies disappeared from the table, and in their place a great curved wall of black stone crested with rime-lined battlements dominated the table. Onyx Ridge burned as the crystal alicorn Jade stood over the broken body of her predecessor, the Warlord Halite, at the top of its walls. (In fact, Chancellor Puddinghead actually killed the crystal warlord, but that’s a story for Typhoon’s journals, or perhaps a later Tale.) Through the gate, a swarm of faceless ponies ran past Jade, though one body stood out.

A muted orange coat and a fiery red mane would have stood out dull muddy bodies even without his black jacket—its inch-wide red ribbon hem a perfect match for my own. For want of a better description, Chrysoprase’s illusion ‘zoomed in’ on Vow, letting the surroundings of Onyx Ridge and the escaped ponies fade to focus on him. Unlike all the other figures, Chrysoprase put in the effort to ‘draw’ his real features: a slender muzzle, a striking jawline, a pronounced widow’s peak just below the base of his horn, a confident smile.

“So Solemn Vow was a crystal slave?” Spicy asked over her wine.

“No. But he led us to believe he had been. In fact, he was the apprentice to Wintershimmer the Complacent, and he left over some disagreement with his former master.”

Chrysoprase’s recollection of Wintershimmer was rather less detailed and quite a lot younger than I had ever known the stallion, but his gaunt, almost skull-like visage and sickly gray-yellow coat could not have been mistaken for anypony else, silently yelling at Vow as the pair pointed hooves at each others faces.

“The same ‘Wintershimmer’ that ‘Coil’ colt killed?” Castle asked.

“Yes indeed. Hence why all three wear that same black jacket you mistook for a servant’s coat when Coil and Her Majesty came to visit us the other day. But where the current rendition appears to share all Her Majesty’s lack of tact and propriety, Vow was a master of diplomacy. He made a name for himself arguing rather the same point Her Majesty is raising, too—though a one-sided variant. He wanted unicorns in the command of the Legion, but without granting them titles in the Stable in exchange. And after enough speeches and enough opinions in the newspaper, he came to visit then-Queen Platinum and I, presenting himself as the last scion of the lost House of Cards.”

Wintershimmer vanished from the illusion, and a banner with the coat of arms of a noble house—dominated, as its name suggested, by a four-tiered house of cards—unfurled behind the once-more smiling figure of Solemn Vow.

“So he wasn’t?”

Chrysoprase shrugged. “He likely took the truth to his grave. The House of Cards were thought lost to the crystals, from back before the pegasi arrived and turned the tide of Halite’s conquests, so it was certainly plausible Wintershimmer saved one of them. It was just as plausible he’d read about them in the footnote of some book. Either way, he was a polite enough stallion, and the Cards were a banner to the Royal Line with only a barony for their title, so we thought there wasn’t any harm in granting him the title—at first, the Queen didn’t even bother to assign him a domain, so we both thought there was no conceivable harm he could do. It wouldn’t be enough power for him to upset the balance of the Stable.”

A younger (and less defined) Chrysoprase and Queen Platinum approached Vow, and Vow dipped his head as the illusion of Platinum’s magic tapped each of his shoulders with a ceremonial sword.

Another slow sip of wine paused the Grand Duchess’ story, and only the chirping of summer songbirds outside broke the silence of her moment’s respite.

And then all three nobleponies disappeared, and in their place Chrysoprase’s illusionary storytelling depicted the unmoving body of a unicorn in a dark alley, her neck twisted at an obviously fatal angle. A much younger (and two-winged) Commander Hurricane and a trio of generic pegasus soldiers looked over the body and the space around the alley, and from their cocked heads, all were obviously lost.

“It’s obvious in retrospect, but it wasn’t long after that the murders started. Commoners and nobles alike were being torn apart in the streets. Earth ponies, unicorns… but no pegasi. Most ponies assumed it was common thugs, or ponies opposed to a united Equestria, or perhaps loyalists to Cyclone’s rebellion who hadn’t been caught after River Rock fell. Regardless, Hurricane and the Legion seemed completely incapable of stopping them. Vow was all too happy to use their failure for his speeches, building his cause and his following.” Chrysoprase sighed. “And then Platinum the second passed.”

“Vow killed Queen Platinum’s daughter?” Castle asked in shock.

Chrysoprase’s illusion showed her figure of Platinum clad in a black lace veil, her head hanging over a coffin.

“No, no; not unless he somehow made it look like the Scourge of Kings had claimed her well enough to fool Star Swirl. The filly’s passing is a tragedy, but it wasn’t a conspiracy.” Chrysoprase sighed, and a second coffin appeared before Platinum’s illusory figure. “But killing Count Creme just after was, in a sick sort of way, inspired. Her Majesty was, understandably, inconsolable. And, again quite understandably, Vow’s condemnation of Hurricane and the Legion suddenly earned him a favorable place at her side.”

And the figure of Vow stepped out of the edge of the illusion, placing a comforting foreleg over Platinum’s shoulders.

“How did Vow get away with killing the Crown Prince?” Spicy asked. “Surely Star Swirl must have been able to tell magic was involved. Did he use the same spell Coil cast on Count Halo?”

“Hmm? Oh; no. Vow was… the wizards have a word for this, but I can’t place it. He used his magic to control a group of monsters, and they were what was actually behind the murders.”

To remind the reader, the word the Grand Duchess was searching for is ‘Warlock’.

To Chrysoprase’s credit, she was quite gifted with her illusory storytelling; as Vow still held Platinum, his head tilted to look backward over their shoulders, and his horn lit. The shadows cast by the two illusory figures shifted with his magic, before taking the shape of a scowling monstrous face with two triangular eyes and a mouth full of sharp teeth.

“So while Star Swirl and his company suspected a monster was behind the attacks, that hardly gave any link to Vow. I’m certain Star Swirl could tell you more if you cared to know, though perhaps it isn’t a curiosity one should indulge.”

As if the details of powerful magic were some passing fad to be waved off, Chrysoprase flicked her hoof in the air. “The point is that Vow knew Her Majesty would be in mourning and unlikely to take action for herself, and that the unicorn populace of Equestria would be horrified by what had happened—the murder not just of a unicorn, but the Crown Prince! And so he took it upon himself to be the public face of outrage at the failure of the Legion.” Vow stepped away from Platinum, stepping up onto one of the coffins which transformed into a sort of wooden platform. Though he made no noise, from the way he pointed his foreleg and the movements of his mouth, it was obvious his speeches were incensed, powerful. And a crowd of faceless ponies quickly appeared before him, forelegs lifted and mouths shouting in silent assent. “As Hurricane continued to fail to catch Vow’s pet monsters, every speech made the young baron more and more popular. Not just with the unicorn public, but with the earth ponies as well—he was sure to kill a few of their favored sons and daughters too. And because the issue was one close to the Queen’s heart after the loss of her husband, he soon earned the favor of Her Majesty.”

Platinum’s figure stepped up beside Vow’s on the stage, and this time it was she who put a hoof on his shoulder in gentle support.

“But he was still just a baron…?” Castle noted. “Unless he started murdering other nobles to climb the ranks, what did he stand to gain?”

Chrysoprase looked disappointedly at her son. “Though you’re being more polite about it, you’re making exactly the same mistake as our new queen. A title recognizes power, it does not grant it. Vow understood that idea perfectly; despite being a ‘lowly’ baron, he had the Queen’s ear and enough popularity with the general public that he could sway the earth pony delegation in parliament. And shortly, we will have to teach Her Majesty the flip side of that coin: that though there are some powers that come with the crown, as Duke House pointed out, they are not the same thing as real influence.”

Chrysoprase cast her gaze out the window as memories of two decades past returned with her story. “I will say, though: ‘what did he stand to gain’ is an excellent question. Nopony really knows where it would have ended, but I suspect his plan would have seen him as the leader of whatever he envisioned would replace the Legion.” Vow held up the black-coated helmet now famous as Hurricane’s costume in the pageant, and slowly lowered it onto his head. The emerald mare shrugged. “Possibly he hoped for Queen Platinum’s hoof in marriage, to become the new Crown Prince. Or perhaps the more vague power he wielded, or the wealth and comfort that came with it, were his real goals.” Around the now helmeted orange stallion, golden bit coins fell from the sky like rain, and he let himself collapse back onto a muted pink chaise lounge. “He certainly accrued more than a bit of wealth and influence in the process. The abandoned home down the street from ours, next door to the Drawbridge estate used to belong to him.”

Spicy frowned over her wine. “With respect, Grand Duchess… while I appreciate the lesson, we ought to discuss what we are going to do about Her Majesty. What ultimately happened?”

“Ah, you’re right, Lady Spice. My apologies.” Chrysoprase’s magic fizzled from her horn, and in an instant the illusion of Vow was gone. “My point… pretend for a moment that you were as ignorant of his plot as we were at the time. For what we knew, Vow was a charismatic populist—more refined in his speech than Her Majesty, but just as fiery in the strength of his opinions. And his opinions won him favor amongst the other races. Favor which turned into votes in Parliament. Favor which let us break the earth pony establishment’s plurality, when it came to it, or dictate terms to the pegasi about how exactly we would permit the Legion to operate on our granted lands.”

Spice Menage glanced briefly around the room in the ensuing silence, and then nodded as her mind followed through on the story. “So Baron Vow—”

“Baron Card,” corrected her mother. “If you must refer to the stallion, to use his supposed house’s title is considered more correct.”

“Very well. I assume your point, Grand Duchess, is that you envision that instead of changing Her Majesty, we let her carry on the way she is inclined, and hope that turns into unicorn popularity in Parliament? Even if that popularity is for her policies?”

“Precisely,” Chrysoprase replied, accompanying the word with a firm nod. “In fact, it’s amusing how close Her Majesty and Castle and I were to having this exact discussion a few days ago when she came to visit, and yet she misses the point.”

“Hmm?” Duchess Glass pressed.

“She was explaining to Coil how the lack of non-pegasi in the Legion’s command had caused problems in the compromises each tribe made in order to create Equestria—I believe I mentioned it had nearly been causing riots in the streets before she was born, though I didn’t bring up Baron Card by name. I do wonder if she genuinely thinks the Queen-Mother simply rolled over and gave the nobility all the rights she seems to resent, or if she understands how many of those rights we won thanks to his influence?”

“If I may cut in,” said Duke House, “while I follow your illustration about the traitorous baron, I fail to see how his example is applicable to the young queen. Though his methods may have been barbaric, his personal desired ends were to the benefit of the Stable. He wanted to increase the power of the unicorns at the expense of the pegasi. If anything, it seems that any popularity Her Majesty garners with this bold, black-and-white perspective would be used against our goals; that she would be a Solemn Vow for the pegasi, against us.”

“If we consider that bringing some token representatives of the other tribes into the Stable is against us, yes. That’s also a battle we’ve already lost. We can delay Her Majesty if we refuse to compromise on the Settlement Bill and deny her domains to assign, for instance. But sooner or later there will be new domains, and once there are we have no check on Her Majesty’s authority. With Star Swirl voting in her favor, we cannot force her to abdicate. An assassination—” A few ponies in the room gasped, but Chrysoprase carried on, business-like, regardless. “—Oh, don’t be foals; we wouldn’t even be the hundredth Stable to consider it, nor the tenth to ‘take a stab at it,’ as it were.”

“That’s treason,” Duke House observed with only the slightest emphasis on the latter word, leaning forward.

“Yes, and it was treason when the Stable killed the tyrant Obdurium and Queen Beryl too; that doesn’t mean it wasn’t right.” Her emphatic point concluded, Chrysoprase let out a breath that seemed to let cooler air into the room. “I am not advocating we do anything of the sort. I was merely listing options so that we could honestly say we evaluated every possibility. However inept she may prove be, we have no way to remove her from the throne.”

High Castle made something of a face as he swallowed the last of his wine. “Mother, it sounds rather like you’re suggesting that despite being about as blunt as a boulder, she actually has outmaneuvered the Stable, and there’s nothing we can do.”

“Only if you mistake the battle and the war, my son,” Chrysoprase replied. Then she turned from High Castle to slowly sweep over the room, eyes narrowed as she did so. “My son and Her Majesty are both right; we cannot stop her indefinitely. If we try to face her with equal bluntness to our tactics, simply saying ‘no’ to whatever she asks us for, in the long run she will win. I propose three new goals: firstly, we train Her Majesty to understand the value of the Stable and our counsel. Secondly, we work to actively cultivate her popularity in the public sphere. And finally, instead of wasting our energy hoping to outright thwart her agenda, we delay it where we can and accept controlled losses where we must. Ultimately, our goal shall be not that the unicorns continue to stand alone as nobles, but that we come out ahead of the other tribes in entering this new world. It’s a Tartaran bargain, to be sure, but together we can survive it.”

“You’re certain there’s nothing we can do to remove her, Grand Duchess?” Spice Menage asked. “Some way to put you on the throne?”

Chrysoprase chuckled. “Beyond her death or a unanimous vote to force her from the throne, our only legitimate options are proving she is not of legitimate regal birth, or challenging her favor in the eyes of Lady Celestia. I hope I don’t need to say aloud why both are ridiculous.”

“To be Tirek’s advocate,” Duke House noted, “suppose we ignored the alicorn in the room, and challenged her divine right in the old way, by noble’s duel? Do we have a champion who could win?”

“You’re joking, right Duke House?” High Castle asked. “Remember, the crown gets three champions to the challenger’s one. The best case scenario is that our champion has to best Sir Chiseled Gem, the Queen herself, who I hear is none too shabby with a blade, and Hurricane. And in the worst case, Commander Typhoon fights on her half-sister’s behalf in lieu of the old stallion.”

“It’s worse than that, in the likely case,” Chrysoprase noted. “Since it seems some of you think that Lady Celestia’s presence today was a favor the former Queen bought somehow, I want you all to know that Celestia went with Her Majesty on her most recent trip to the Crystal Union hunting Wintershimmer. Celestia risked not only her own life, but open war with the crystals, to protect Platinum the Third.” The Grand Duchess let those words hang in the air for a moment before finally settling her gaze back on Duke House. “If you have a champion in mind who can best Hurricane, Typhoon, and Lady Celestia, I invite you to name them. If not, I propose we cease playing mind games of petty violence like commoner colts and discuss real tangible rule.”

Duke House wrinkled his muzzle like a colt a tenth of his age might have if it were struck with a switch. “As you wish, Grand Duchess. I will follow your lead; how do we turn this situation to the Stable’s advantage?”

“A much better question,” Chrysoprase replied with a nod, her horn igniting again. On the table, Vow and Gale appeared, standing side by side. He was probably a good decade older than her, but I had to admit even in the way they stood seemed to have more than coincidental similarity. “By way of comparison, Duke, Her Majesty is young, energetic, and bold—and most importantly, like Vow, she has appeal outside our tribe. So when I say that we should advise our banners not to press her on the matter of being half-pegasus, I mean it with deadly sincerity.” Chrysoprase leaned forward, perched on the very edge of the couch like a gargoyle glaring down at the other nobles. “In my mind, the removal of the Scourge of Kings from the royal lineage is already a boon worth its cost, so long as she bears a unicorn heir. That, more than anything else, is why I am resolute that she will marry one of our lines.” Chrysoprase nodded to her son and to Spice. “I request that the two of you form an ‘alliance’, as it were. You are already both heirs to Great Houses of the Stable, so rising to be Prince… or I suppose Princess-Consort is only a small step up. But I think we can agree that the cost of the Royal Line falling to a non-unicorn would be an enormous blow to the Stable.”

Duchess Glass nodded, placing a hoof on her daughter’s shoulders. “You propose we concern ourselves more with ensuring one of them wins over the others than competing with one another?”

Chrysoprase nodded. “Star Swirl’s scion Grayscale is also acceptable, though with the wizard’s preference for Hurricane’s idea of Equestria, I assume you understand why I did not invite him here.”

The room nodded as one.

“Good,” Chrysoprase replied. “Then Castle, Lady Spice, I’ll ask the two of you to leave us.”

“Hmm? Why, Mother? We’re perfectly capable of playing the great game.” Though he likely meant to come across firmly, High Castle instead sounded a bit whiny at the order to leave.

“At times, selective ignorance is a useful weapon,” Chrysoprase replied, refraining from acknowledging her son’s tone. “As the heads of the Great Houses, you can no doubt guess that we are going to have to take action that isn’t in the best interest of Her Majesty’s agenda. And if you intend to win her horn in marriage, you are best off not being involved in such discussions.”

Spice nodded, closing her eyes as she recited from memory “Far easier is it to truly be ignorant than to feign it, when one knows that ignorance will not bite them.”

“You know your Seventeen Days on the Mountaintop better than Her Majesty,” Chrysoprase noted. “Well put, Lady Spice.”

“Thank you, Grand Duchess.” Spice rose, and offered a formal bow, before turning to her counterpart in the room. “Come, Lord Castle; we should see if we can arrange an amusement for Her Majesty that she will actually enjoy.”

Nopony spoke until the two young nobles had left the room, yet there was hardly a pause from the click of the door against its frame before Chrysoprase again spoke up.

“Now, if I may be brief, let me summarize where I think we stand. Her Majesty is obviously naive, in two ways. Firstly, she fails to understand the nature of her power as Queen, and its limits, and the value of the Stable’s support. Secondly, she unapologetically believes in Hurricane’s doctrine of unification even if it means the erasure of our traditions and our establishments. However, her common speech and her passion, as well as her half-pegasus nature are likely to win over the populace.”

“You’ve made that point compellingly,” Duke House noted with a nod.

“Yes,” said Duchess Glass. “I think my concern is that you cast her gaining popularity as a boon.”

“I think more accurately, I would say that it is the least of several evils,” Chrysoprase corrected. “Her Majesty is a river at the top of a cliff. As you observed, Duke House, she is correct about her powers as Queen. And try as we might, we cannot invert gravity; instead, our only choice is to try and direct the flow of her actions. Without allies in the Stable and in parliament, she is still largely impotent. What she proposed in our gathering is the limit of the harm she can do unilaterally. Therefore, since we cannot stop her plan forever, we should instead be aspiring to direct it in a way that is most beneficial to us, and to the stable, and to the unicorn public… even if the idea of that public suffers a little damage from including non-unicorns in our membership.”

“As though that is only a little damage…” Glass muttered. “I see it as the first step to the complete destruction of the Stable; once the other tribes are in the walls, what mechanism do we have to keep them from climbing?”

“Accepting them as our banners. Managing arranged marriages selectively, the same way we do our current unicorn banners.” Chrysoprase donned the slightest hint of a grin. “Or is a pegasus mare more offensive to you than a unicorn stallion?”

Glass’ muzzle wrinkled at the stab, and Duke House had to suppress letting himself chuckle aloud with a hoof at his own lips.

“When the time comes, I fully intend to support Her Majesty on the condition that her precious House of Rain… or whatever the pegasi call their families—"

“Genses?” Glass suggested, correctly.

Chrysoprase waved a hoof dismissively. “Regardless, I intend to demand they become my banner. In the immediate short term, that allows me to remove the Rain colt as a suitor to Her Majesty by arranging to marry him off to another family. In the longer term, we gain a hoof in the pegasus delegation to Parliament and the Senate. I simply have to… trim the ivy as it climbs. Just as our houses have done for generations.”

“Interesting…” Duke House noted, managing to sound entirely bored despite his word. “So we honor our deal with the Queen… er, the Queen-Mother now? And one of us yields one promised domain so Her Majesty can assign it to these pegasi?”

“Not yet,” Chrysoprase replied, shaking her head.

“Would you be plain?” Duchess Glass demanded, leaning forward. “Which is it, Chrysoprase? Do we yield seats to the other tribes or don’t we? Do we sink the settlement bill we’ve worked on for years or let it pass? You can’t possibly be suggesting we take the worse of both choices; that doesn’t even make sense!”

Grand Duchess Chrysoprase sighed heavily and shook her head. Then, lighting her horn, she wrapped not just the stem of her wine glass but the entire vessel in magic. Before the eyes of the other two dukes, the glass fragmented with spiderweb cracks, though no piece of glass fell. Chrysoprase slowly lowered the vessel to the table and released her magic. Perhaps from some enchantment or perhaps from simple tension, the vessel stayed together, and out of the debris her magic surgically lifted a single slender sliver of silvery transparent glass. With incredible care, it floated to the frog of her hoof, and there drew a single tiny slit. Before the three nobles, a single drop of the mare’s blood ran along the edge of the blade, and dropped down into the glass. That single tap, weaker even than a raindrop, shattered the broken glass onto the table in dozens of tiny splinters and fragments.

“Sayeth Tourmaline, the Wise King First, ‘With noble blood cometh comprehension of powers soft and subtle; of influence and honor owed and soil and blood and mettle. But common mares and simpler minds do value only these; to blood and gold their hearts are owed, and their tempers can appease.” With her horn, Chrysoprase swept up the broken glass into a small pile, and then turned her attention back to the other two Dukes. “Do you follow?”

House and Glass glanced to one another, and then the latter answered Chrysoprase. “I don’t think we do.”

“What is that quote even from?” Duke House prompted.

“Annals of the Divided Kingdoms, Volume II, if memory serves.” Chrysoprase shrugged. “I heard it first from King Lapis, though, Celestia rest his soul…” The thought, framed by the arrival of the mare in question, made Chrysoprase chuckle gently. “You will both recall I took the reins of the Stable just before Hurricane and his masses first arrived in the Diamond Kingdoms, and though I was well acquainted with dealing with other nobles—as you two both clearly are—when the King first tasked me to represent the Kingdom in negotiations with some of the pegasi, I confess I was just as lost as it seems that you two are in how to approach our new monarch. That quote was the first thing he taught me, and even though its language is so archaic, I remember it by heart. But for your benefit, let me restate it more plainly: we, as nobleponies, value a certain set of currencies that are utterly irrelevant to a more common unicorn, let alone a pegasus or an earth pony. As veterans of the Stable, we are all familiar with the idea of trading in favors and titles and honor and so forth.”

House nodded along; Duchess Glass raised a brow. “Why did King Tourmaline list ‘blood’ for both commoners and nobles, then? I have never known commoners to use bloodlines as… currency, as you put it.”

“He means a very different kind of blood,” said the grand duchess, lifting her wounded hoof. “And that is exactly my point.” After watching the other two dukes for a moment, Chrysoprase added “I’ll give you a hint: in this currency, Hurricane is the wealthiest pony in Equestria, and it is the entire basis of his power.”

“The Legion?” Duchess Glass asked. “Soldier’s blood?”

Chrysoprase shook her head. “I would have said Commander Typhoon if that were the case. No; the blood we speak of still sits with Hurricane despite his retirement. And if we play our cards right, our new queen will be the one to inherit it, and not Typhoon.”

Glass and House again looked at each other in confusion, before Glass again offered a suggestion. “The fact that his offspring hold two thirds of Equestria’s thrones?”

“No, that’s the noble understanding of bloodlines again,” Chrysoprase replied with a sternly set mouth.

“Then what?” Duke House asked. “I hope you aren’t suggesting his missing wing is somehow a currency.”

“In fact, that is exactly what I’m telling you,” Chrysoprase replied, steepling her hooves, and then briefly wincing at the pain of her slit frog touching its opposite. “A commoner’s understanding of blood is suffering. Or in perhaps a better word, pain. But not just any senseless pain; pain on behalf of others. Because while as nobleponies, we might respect a friend making a sacrifice on our behalf, our expectation is that we shall provide and care for ourselves. It would be foolish to expect suffering on behalf of one another. But when a commoner looks at a leader, there are really only two things that leader can offer them: wealth—the ‘gold’ Tourmaline mentioned—and the leader’s sacrifice on their behalf. And it is in that latter currency that Hurricane is an unconquerable icon of the pegasi, even despite his retirement: he gave up his wife, his body, his precious flight for his subjects. And I emphasize Hurricane and call Her Majesty his daughter because that is the currency she understands, and the currency she respects. She doesn’t understand our currencies—at least, not enough to place value in them—but I sense that most of the Stable also doesn’t value that of the common pony. After all, they so rarely have anything we want. But for a monarch to succeed, they must understand, and deal in, both.

“Given that Platinum the First failed to teach Her Majesty the value of our currencies, the duty falls on us as the Dukes of the Stable to instruct her, and that instruction, like the instruction of any petulant foal, will result in tension and, ultimately, pain for both parties. And while pain is largely meaningless to us, it is useful to Her Majesty, provided we cultivate the public image of our conflicts to frame her as standing up for the common pony. In that regard, causing Her Majesty selective pain achieves all our goals.”

“I think I see…” Duchess Glass leaned forward. “If we cause pain for her objectives, she learns to value the Stable. At the same time, the public sees her suffering for something they want… at least, the ones who advocate ‘universalism’.”

“Ah.” Duke House chuckled.

Chrysoprase nodded with a smile on her own muzzle. “I see you are beginning to understand, Duke House?”

Glass scowled. “That makes one of us. Care to explain?”

“At the moment, the public probably cares more about the Settlement Bill than they do about Her Majesty’s higher plan. If we let Her Majesty have even one domain now, she wouldn’t gain any… ‘pain-currency’ for achieving that goal. But if we block her now, if the Settlement Bill we’ve fought for falls through, it’ll be all the news. And Her Majesty will have to defend her new ideas.”

Glass frowned. “It still seems a high cost to give up the Settlement Bill.”

“We will get the Settlement Bill passed, eventually,” Chrysoprase observed. “The bill will still be on the table in a month or two. The earth ponies want to play a hard game, but waiting for the bill hurts them almost as much as it hurts us. Sure, our delegation loses some face for failing to deliver what they promised… but the hoof ends up pointing at Her Majesty, just the way we want it to.”

“You’re confident you can salvage the bill?” Glass pressed.

“We may have to accept a harsher penalty to the mining quota, though if all goes as planned, it will be Her Majesty and not the Stable that has to make recompense to Secretary Gallery.” Chrysoprase stood up and placed both her forehooves on the table, looming forward as much as it was possible for the wiry older mare’s body. “We’ve discussed a lot; shall I summarize?”

“Please do,” Duke House replied.

Chrysoprase’s explanation was calm and steady, but there was an obvious energy in her body, an almost foalish sense of excitement, albeit tempered by experience, that seemed to leak through the way her shoulders slid forward as she spoke. “We cannot stop Her Majesty’s plan to introduce non-unicorns to the Stable, no matter how badly we might wish to. We can neither remove her from power, nor can we prevent new domains from being introduced to Equestria eventually. Instead our goal is to slow down that change, and to make it as painful as possible for Her Majesty. This achieves several goals, hopefully: firstly, it teaches Her Majesty that she does need to work with us instead of spiting us, or at least that she can achieve far more with us than without us. Secondly, the delay and the public conflict over her plan will raise public awareness of her cause, and as the foremost power advocating the universalist position, she will become the de facto champion of the cause. Once the public is aware of her cause and believes in it, any pain we cause her in our conflicts becomes currency for her use in dealing with the masses—not just our masses, but the pegasi and earth ponies too. And in time, once Her Majesty’s more… radical humors have cooled, that favor will be to our massive benefit in influencing Parliament. Therefore, with the matter of the Settlement Bill in front of us, we have no choice but to let our negotiations crumble for the time being and block Her Majesty. And in the longer term, there will be more small defeats we will have to endure in the interest of denying Her Majesty; this will not be the only pain. But to let her run completely free is no option at all.”

Chrysoprase took a long breath, and re-steepled her hooves. “Make no mistake, friends: I am more than comfortable being the villain of this tale, and if anything I fully intend to bear that burden to the extent I am able. But I cannot guarantee it will not slip onto you as well. Being cast as an elitist, even a regressive tribalist may hurt our memories in history books, but I doubt any of us will live long enough to suffer that reputation if we play well in life. But if we fail, it may be that the last vestiges of the Diamond Kingdoms we once knew will die with us. Are you prepared to accept that?”

“So long as you are serious about bearing the front role,” Duke House answered.

“I am. That is why I took the liberty proposing our compromise to Her Majesty a few hours ago.”

“You went behind our backs?” Glass set a hoof down on Chrysoprase’s coffee table, hard. “We are allies, Chrysoprase!”

“We are,” Chrysoprase replied, and leaned forward. “I could not afford to let her leave and take some unforeseen action without leading her to believe a compromise was at least possible, Duchess Glass. I told Her Majesty that I would be willing to give up all of the domains for my banners in our prior compromise with her mother, and use them to barter with the two of you, and that I would try to convince you to take her deal on those terms. Behind closed doors, as I alluded to before, I encourage something of the sort: between the two of you, we should demand all the available domains, so that none are left for her pet pegasi.”

“A deal she’ll certainly reject,” Glass nodded.

“Perhaps,” Duke House leaned back. “But we should not predicate our plans on what action anypony outside our number will make; even somepony as apparently predictable as Her Majesty.”

“If she takes the deal, she’s more reasonable than we thought, and we win exactly the way we intended. Your two Houses gain a bit at what is theoretically my loss, but it’s hardly heartbreaking. Life goes on as if her mother were still on the throne.” Chrysoprase shrugged. “If Her Majesty rejects the deal, as we expect, then we wait and let the pressure grow. She grows more ornery, her public support grows. And as she waits, we take every opportunity to remind her of her choice to spite us as we make other issues painful as well—though in the end, we do still work with her. We stifle her without thwarting her outright. When she compromises, even slightly, we reward her. When she remains stubborn, we bring her pain. And then, finally, when the pressure is on the verge of boiling, I bring forward our exact same compromise, with one tweak: I get the House of Rain. That will let Her Majesty ‘win’ without her worst impulses running amok. After all, if there is anything I know, it is how to manage a banner.”

“That is certainly true.” Glass chuckled. “Chrysoprase, your powers of oratory are terrifying. Every bone in my body warns me that you’re proposing we cut off our own muzzles to spite our faces with this deal, and yet I can’t help but see the logic in it.”

“Were that it could be simpler…” Duke House noted. “But I likewise concur with your plan.”

“If it were simpler, my dear House, it would not be the Great Game.” Chrysoprase glanced down to her broken glass, and then lifted an empty hoof symbolically. “To Her Majesty. Long may she reign.”

Perhaps with a bit of bitter sarcasm, House raised his glass of water, and Glass her glass of wine. “Long may she reign.”

2-8

II - VIII

The First Lesson

“Your Majesty,” said Platinum, “I sympathize that you might not care about Lord Bond the Elder’s hoof fungus, but perhaps you could have exited that conversation with slightly more tact.”

“Mom, if I stayed in that room any longer, those ass...sinine conversations would still be going on.”

Gale’s awkward save was heralded by the doors to the Stable opening to reveal that the masses of public ponies and reporters alike were still present from her entry hours earlier. Though she may have found her way out of Chrysoprase’s office while the sun hadn’t yet even reached its apex, she had then found a throng of well-wishing (and brown-nosing) nobles separating her from the chamber’s doors. When she finally burst into free air, it wasn’t until almost four in the afternoon.

“Your Majesty, was the settlement bill passed?” somepony shouted.

“What promises did you make to the nobles?”

“Is it true you want to appoint non-unicorns to the Stable?”

Gale sighed, actively striding into the crowd. “Everypony, please shut up!” The magically amplified command caused the masses not just to grow silent, but to freeze. “Thanks. Look, I haven’t eaten in almost ten hours, so I’m gonna answer the questions I just heard, and then I’m not taking anymore or I might bite somepony’s head off. Got it? Good. We talked a lot about the settlement bill, we’re passing it tomorrow. Yes, I’m going to get some non-unicorns into the Stable as soon as the bill is passed fully. The promises I’m not going to stand here and recite; that’d take too long. You can get the full speech from the Stable records. Good? Thanks! Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

As Gale strode forward, parting the red carpet in a way that some powerful mage might have been said to part a sea, Platinum and Celestia followed closely behind. Nopony spoke, at least until the new queen reached the carriage.

“Heading back to the Palace, Your Majesty?” asked Sir Gauntlet. “Or to Commander Hurricane’s home?”

“Neither,” Gale told the stallion. “Well, Mom and Celestia can go wherever they want. But drop me off on the Ridge. Twenty-four Ridgeline Road.”

“Of course, I…” A slight murmur rippled through the crowd, who had heard the address, just at about the same time as Sir Gauntlet’s mental map of the city matched up with the address in question. “That home, Your Majesty?”

“A much better pony lives there now,” Gale answered, actively turning to make sure the response was heard by the crowd. “Come on.” Then, without even giving the stallion a chance to offer, she opened the door of the carriage by magic and leapt inside with a swift kick of her hind legs.

“My husband’s villa afterwards,” Platinum said much more quietly a moment later, accepting Gauntlet’s offered hoof to help her somewhat shakier step into the carriage. Then, as Celestia followed a moment later, the elder Platinum leaned toward her daughter. “I understand today may have been tiring for you, and that you want the company of your friend, but for the future, I suggest you wait until you’re inside the carriage to give surprise directions.” The former queen nodded her horn toward the sliding window on the wall of the carriage that would let its occupants talk to the knights attached to its harnesses.

Gale nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind next time.”

A moment of almost total silence passed, broken only by Celestia closing the door behind her and choosing the seat(s) beside Gale. Platinum and Gale stared at each other. Finally, the elder mare muttered “No objection?”

“Why? It’s good advice. Someday I’ll probably actually have something that it’s important to keep secret.” Gale shrugged, stretched out her forelegs, and braced them beside her head. “So what are you gonna do now that you’re retired? Gonna go have a romantic night with Dad?”

Platinum chuckled. “Not on such short notice, but now that you mention it, that isn’t a bad idea, Your Majesty.”

“Just Gale here,” Gale corrected tersely.

A sigh escaped the elder queen’s lips. “Sorry, Gale. So, what did the Grand Duchess have to say in private?”

“She thought House and Glass might not vote for the deal because I want to give a domain to Rain—or I guess any pegasus or earth pony in general. Anyway, she’s going to give up all the domains you promised her and use those as leverage to get House and Glass on board, but hopefully keeping one back.”

“And if they don’t let her keep one back?” Platinum asked. “If they force you to account for every single domain for their existing banners?”

“Then I refuse to make their promises, and it can be on their heads the bill failed.”

Platinum gritted her teeth. “The public won’t see it that way! And parliament certainly won’t! Why on earth did you promise the press you would pass the bill if that were still up in the air?”

“Because they don’t want to throw away two years of work and extra domains. Glass might not be as bad as Fire Power, but she’s still greedy as fuck for power, and House is enough of a pushover that Chrysoprase leaning on him should be enough.”

“Have I taught you nothing?” Platinum asked with a sigh.

“What? It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

“Never, ever make a plan assuming you know how an opponent will act. Never.” Platinum emphasized both ‘nevers’ by pointing a hoof at her daughter.

“So it blows up in their faces, and—”

“It blows up in your face, Gale!” Platinum insisted. “They don’t have to answer to Parliament, because their parents weren’t the ones who made those promises in the first place!”

Gale rocked forward as the clicking of the carriage’s wheels came to a stop, and with a flash of her horn, she opened the door to reveal the elaborate homes of Everfree’s wealthy ‘Ridge’. After a quick hop out—again spurning Sir Gauntlet’s help—she turned back to address a final though. “Maybe this wouldn’t be such a disaster if nopony expected me to live up to your promises, Mom.” Then, after a moment’s hesitation, she added “Bye Aunt Celestia,” and shut the carriage door with a firm swing not of magic but her own hoof.

As the team of knights pulling the carriage offered Gale a synchronized bow (at least, as much as their harnesses would allow) and then rattled off down the road, Gale turned her attention to my door.

My new home, Twenty-four Ridgeline Road, was from its facade not all that different from any of the other houses on the Ridge. Its porch had a few worn benches and a small wooden table for two—all in rather good shape given that only the porch’s awning had protected them from the weather for something like twenty years since Solemn Vow’s death. Two pairs of bay windows were set equidistant from a pair of doors that offered entrance to the home, painted a bold red that stood out against the gentle forest green and limited stonework of the building’s facade.

Until somepony walked up and witnessed the doors opening on their own, they might have been forgiven for thinking the house wasn’t as haunted as every foal in Everfree quietly believed.

Though the home opened into a small entry hall with marble floors, three sets of Cirran pillars, and some assorted furniture, the double doors separating that room from the real main chamber were wide open. There, Gale could see a room with a towering almost twenty foot ceiling, where a pair of grand curving staircases connected an upper hallway to a lower main floor. The elaborate grand piano that sat between the two staircases might have been more of a beautiful sight, had I not been hunched on its bench, eating an assortment of take-out food from a canvas bag with my hooves as she entered.

“Morty!”

“Gmmph!” I forced myself to swallow, wiped my bean-stained muzzle on my sleeve (which, thanks to Star Swirl’s enchantments, protected its fabric from not only swords and arrows but also condiments), and smiled. “Gale! Welcome to my humble home!”

“You’re eating on a grand piano?”

I shrugged. “So? I don’t play piano.”

“You don’t…” Gale shook her head, letting out a chuckle. “Of course not.”

“You expected me to?”

“No. Just, for a second there, I forgot it was you, and I was going to point out that even ponies who don’t play the piano usually know not to eat off of one.” She nodded to the meal, spilled rather haphazardly across the polished wood, just as one might expect a pony used to his horn but forced to eat with his hooves to make. “But I’m guessing Wintershit didn’t value music highly?”

“No; actually, he was quite the harpist. Harper? Harp-player?” I shrugged. “Anyway, he taught me a bit as a way to learn math, but I never took to it.” I glanced at my food, and then back to Gale. “You want some?”

“Fuck yes!” Gale answered, bounding over toward me, before hesitating about halfway to the piano bench. As she removed her hoof-crafted tunic and its associated pauldron, the doors to the house magically swung shut behind her. Fortunately, the room was lit by a chandelier of enchanted glass orbs that glittered with what looked to be tiny undersea stars trapped in their inky blue liquid contents. “What is it?”

Again, I shrugged. “Graargh and I just wandered down the street until we found a restaurant that had a way for us to take the food home. I didn’t really pay attention to the name. It’s beans and some weird flat bread and salad.”

“Graargh’s here?”

“He and Angel are sleeping upstairs somewhere. Graargh eats a lot faster than I do. Especially without my horn.” I awkwardly pinched a piece of flat bread beneath my hooves, lifted it to my mouth, and took a probably unpleasantly large bite, if only to spare myself the need to pick it up again. “Ows er deh?”

“What?”

I made Gale wait a few solid seconds, in which time she managed to down two far more rational bites, before I could answer. “Sorry. How was your day?”

“Oh; good I guess. I’m working on getting the Stable of Nobles to include non-unicorns, and I gave some speeches. And I shook so many fucking hooves…” She shook her head, then gathered beans and assorted veggies onto her flatbread before folding it like a wrapped gift.

“Oh, that’s neat!” I noted. “You make a little package?”

“You… weren’t?” Gale asked.

“No, I was just eating… was I supposed to?”

Gale’s response was to fold me my own little pseudo-sandwich—I’d call it a ‘proto-burrito’ if it weren’t so squared off and so lacking in rich spices—and to kindly hold it aloft in her magic so I could take a bite. “You’re fucking hopeless, Morty.”

“Oh, sure; I’m like the second strongest unicorn in the world, but I’m hopeless because I don’t know how to fold a… bread box?”

That earned a chuckle from Gale. “No, Morty; a bread box is wood or metal or something you use to keep bugs out of bread and try to keep it fresh. It’s not a box made out of bread.” She took a bite of her own meal, and then let out a small sigh as she chewed. A quick swallow later, and she raised a brow. “Your day?”

“Don’t get me started,” I muttered. “Wintershimmer was right?”

“About what?”

“Killing Celestia.”

Gale, as one might rightfully expect, reacted by letting her eyes grow massively wide. “Uh… didn’t you just take Graargh to school?”

“Yeah, that’s what she wanted me to think was in the scroll, too,” I answered. “Not that I could have read it. It didn’t say ‘the cat ran’, or something trivial like that.”

“Uh… okay?”

I sighed. “Can we talk about literally anything else even slightly more pleasant? Hoof disease? Foal trafficking? Your suitors?”

Gale chuckled. “Okay, I get the point. What are you gonna do with the house?”

“I dunno,” I answered. “I probably need to figure out somewhere to buy furniture, since pretty much everything fabric in here is ruined.” I gestured around the room, where a few sizeable bookshelves and paintings were covered in white sheets.

“Yeah, probably want to go through Vow’s stuff, get rid of anything you don’t want,” Gale agreed, glancing up to a massive portrait on the wall of the upper floor, just beyond and centered between where the twin staircases opened onto the upper floor. Mostly covered by a sheet, the huge oil painting’s upper right third was all that could be seen, and it showed Solemn Vow proudly staring down at the room. “He’s, uh… not exactly the most beloved pony.”

“I need to go through Wintershimmer’s stuff too,” I nodded. “But all that can wait. Tomorrow morning I’m meeting with Star Swirl and Meadowbrook about my horn, and then I’m probably going to have to go back to the Union and go through our old laboratory and that vault we fought his candlecorn in, since I’m the only one left who knows how not to set off his traps. I think Jade just wants the good guest bedrooms back.”

“Well, you wanna explore this place tonight?” Gale asked. “I mean, we already went down in the weird ‘lair’ when we fought Wintershimmer and Silhouette, but I bet Vow had other weird secret rooms and stuff in here.”

I nodded. “Probably a good idea. And it could be fun, now that we’re not expecting Wintershimmer to jump out and kill us.”

Soon, the rest of our meal was finished. We turned to a small bathroom to clean up, a space I had found just before her arrival when I had to insist Graargh try to get the chalk dust out of his claws. As I washed my hooves from the stains of dinner, Gale gasped in shock. “Holy shit; I didn’t realize Vow was loaded.”

“Hmm?”

“You have hot water?!”

I glanced down at the spigot pouring pleasant water onto my hooves, releasing a slight steam, and shrugged. “I suppose so? Is that unusual?”

“It’s expensive! You have to get skysteel pipes that can hold the right kind of clouds, and then run water through them… usually you only see that kind of stuff in big public buildings like the baths in Cloudsdale.”

“And you think he couldn’t have just heated them with his own enchantments?”

“Well, I dunno if you know how to heat up water with your horn, but for those of us who aren’t wizards, that’s kind of a pegasus magic ‘thing’. I know with our magic you can get a place to have running water, but it’s usually well water, so it’s still cold as shit, right?”

I shrugged. “I guess you’re right. In the Crystal Union we had hot water, but I know Wintershimmer and I had to enchant a boiler for that… and that took a lot of wood just for the two of us.”

Gale chuckled. “Yeah, there’s no way this isn’t pegasus work. Mom gave you a crazy nice house, Morty.”

“Well, the sun is still coming up in the morning,” I replied. When Gale shot me a flat glare, I shook my head. “You’re welcome any time, Gale.”

“Thanks. I might just take you up on that. Tempest always hogs the hot water at home.”

“Your dad’s house has… wait, of course it does. He’s Commander Hurricane.” I glanced to the towel rack, realized that after decades of emptiness, there was no way I wanted to wipe my hooves on whatever excuse for fabric was hanging from the silvery rail, and proceeded to shake my hooves dry as best I could over the basin. “Well, let’s see what else is here. I’m mostly worried about magic for the moment; I don’t want to stumble into anything trapped or enchanted that could be dangerous.”

“Fair enough.” Gale nodded. “I’ll keep my hooves to myself."

We proceeded from the bathroom back into the main foyer of the house, and from there, into its right-side wing—the path whose dusty floor lacked hoofprints from our prior hunt for Wintershimmer. Much like its left counterpart, what we found was a hallway lined with something like a dozen matching doors.

“Holy shit,” Gale muttered. “What are you gonna do with all this space?”

I shrugged. “Ignore it?” Then I paced over to the first door on our left, pushing it open with my hoof when it failed to open magically of its own accord. “Did Vow have kids or something?”

Gale shook her head. “I’ve never heard of them, anyway. Not that they’d admit it if he did. But I don’t think he was married.” Then the Queen of the Unicorns leaned over my shoulder to stare into the room I had opened. “Huh; looks like a billiards room.”

“Billiards?” I asked.

“It’s what the felt table is for. Well, there’s probably felt under all that dust; anyway, it’s a game.”

“He has a whole room dedicated to a table game?” I asked, stepping back as I shook my head.

“Lots of nobles do,” Gale replied with a nod. “Darts, card tables… It’s sort of the same idea with having a tea party or a ball; most real diplomacy doesn’t happen in a big room; that’s just where you tally up the score. So a room like that is an excuse to invite somepony else over and negotiate with them.”

I shrugged. “Seems like a waste of space to me.”

“It’s not the worst game in the world. I’ll teach you.”

“If you say so; I wouldn’t mind trying, but it seems like a waste of space for a wizard.” I picked the next door down the hall on the same side and heard its handle creak as it turned under my hoof. “Now we’re getting somewhere!”

“A library? Says the pony who can’t read?”

“We’re working on that,” I replied through gritted teeth, stepping into the chamber. “It looks more like a reading room than what I’d call a library, but it’ll do for a start. Do you mind reading off some of the titles for me?”

“What’s the difference? Between a reading room and a library?”

“Books with magic in them tend to accumulate enchantment and magical energy, even if you don’t enchant them directly yourself. They aren’t the safest things in the world. A library is designed to keep the magic in powerful tomes from interacting.”

“Huh,” Gale shrugged. “And here I thought a library was just a bunch of shelves.” Then her hoof raised to the first row of books. “Let’s see, under all this dust—” Her thought was punctuated by a heavy sneeze, and the young Queen took a step back before swiping over all the books with her magic aura, wildly flapping the dust away as a pegasus might with a wing. “Blegh! There! Okay, let’s see… A History of the Emeraldine Dynasty. Erstwhile’s Annotated Commentary on ‘Seventeen Days on the Mountaintop’ Vol. I… Morty, I don’t think these are spellbooks. I’ve read some of these; they’re all political theory and history and crap like that.”

“I’m not surprised; if I were a warlock, I wouldn’t leave my research out in the open.” I nodded. “Do you remember what I taught you last time we were here, about how to detect enchantments?”

“You think he has another secret door? I’m pretty sure we know what’s on the other side of those two walls.” Gale gestured back towards the side of the chamber where the billiards room lay, and then to the opposite wall whose room, while unexplored, was surely only a door away.

“It isn’t that uncommon to use an illusion and disguise a book as another book. Where do you think the idiom ‘don’t judge a book by its cover’ came from?”

Gale looked at me like I’d had far too much to drink… or perhaps like she had, and by miscounting assumed I had sprouted a third nostril. “That makes sense even if you don’t use magic.”

“If you say so.” As Gale ran her magical aura over the spines of each of the books, I wandered over to the fireplace on the opposite wall, its back to the only side of the room that didn’t have an obvious space on the other side. The marble-grade cloudstone (complete with actual marbling) of the mantle supported a number of my predecessor’s nicknacks. On my far left, a very dusty ship in a bottle crested and plummeted down the slopes of magical waves. Beside it rested a small portrait concealed by dust, in a frame barely large enough to prevent it from being worn as a locket. When I blew on its surface, after the gray cloud settled, I found myself staring at a younger Wintershimmer.

“Huh… I thought he and Wintershimmer hated each other.”

“Hmm?” Gale asked. “Wait, is that a painting of the old asshole?”

“The one and only,” I nodded. As Gale paced over to take a look, I lifted my hoof to pull the picture from the mantle.

Only a moment later, there was a pop, and with a lurch of vertigo, everything went dark.

“What the fuck?!” wasn’t the most elegant way for Gale to inform me I was still conscious, but the noise in my ears was still more comforting than the words would normally be. “Morty?”

“I’m here, Gale.”

“Did you fucking teleport us? Where are we?” A slight light appeared as Gale lit her horn, though the natural borderline red glow of her magic didn’t exactly offer a pleasant light. At first, the shine only revealed the two of us and a rather blank stone floor. But after a moment of focusing, Gale increased the light to show us in another, rather larger room.

“Now this is a library,” I told her as my eyes swept the three rows of walkways divided by four rows of glass-fronted book cases. Rather than stacking them cover to cover, spines-out, the angled contents of the bookcases kept the tomes a solid few inches out of direct contact, as well as angling their covers at a pleasant reading angle for somepony perusing.

“Okay, shit; are we actually in danger, Morty?”

“Hard to say,” I answered. “I don’t know what we did, but If something jumps out at us, I’ll use my horn. For now, just keep your horn lit; I’ll see if I can turn on the lamps.”

As if by magic—and who am I kidding, it obviously was—the room immediately lit up with a faint yellow light, issuing from a number of candles set into the wall, each capped with a tiny glass orb.

“Okay, seriously, what the hell is going on?” Gale asked. “This house was not magic when I used to break in here as a kid.”

“How should I know? Maybe Vow taught it to recognize who owns it?”

“You think the house understands that Mom gave it to you?”

I shrugged. “I do have the key now. Maybe that’s it?” I pulled the key out of the sash at my waist and offered it Gale. “Here, take it; see if you can turn off the lights.”

Gale raised a brow, took the key and shrugged. “Uh… lamps off?”

Abruptly, nothing happened.

“Maybe try ‘lamps out?’” I suggested, and in that single set of words promptly disproved my hypothesis, as we were once more plunged into darkness. “Oh. Lamps?” Though my follow-up was less than confident, behold, there was light.

“So the key doesn’t mean shit,” Gale noted. “It’s you.”

“I’ll figure it out once I have my horn back,” I told her. “For now… well, let’s try something crazy. House, how do we get back to the reading room?”

After a few moments of silence, Gale muttered “Wow.”

“Gale, even I can’t just close my eyes and guess exactly how an enchantment works. It takes work. And ideally a workshop.” I shook my head. “Well, I guess we’ve got two good options: I keep trying to figure out how the house enchantment works, and you try to figure out how to get us back out of this place, or we walk to the other side of the library looking for a door, and hope Vow didn’t enchant this place with something that will kill you, since it only thinks I’m him.”

“Or I could just teleport us out?”

“What? Are you insane? Gale, that would kill us!”

“No it won’t; Diadem taught me the safe version of teleportation. If I try to teleport us into something solid, the spell will just fail. I can just keep trying until I guess somewhere safe.”

“Yes, but if you try to teleport us through something magically insulated—like, for example, the walls of a properly protected magical library—we’ll show up on the other side looking like scrambled eggs.”

“That’s… you couldn’t have just said it would kill us?”

“That’s how a wizard makes scrambled eggs,” I explained. “When I was learning to teleport, after we got past the lesson with the wine glasses that you didn’t like, Wintershimmer made me make our breakfast for three weeks to practice. I had to get the whisked yolks into the pan without cracking the shells.” I winked. “But I learned to make a mean omelette without breaking a few eggs.”

“Right…” Gale nodded. “I keep forgetting that your entire childhood was completely fucked up. I’d rather you work on the house than risk getting my soul ripped out or something. I’ll look at the wall over here and… I guess see if there’s a lever or something?”

I’ll spare you, dear reader, a recounting of my time spent shouting random phrases at the ceiling as Gale rapped her hoof against a blank stone wall, accompanied by some tugging at the few candlestick holders that were easily in reach. After maybe three minutes of tedium and frustration on both our parts, she leaned her head against the smoothed off wall and let it drag down in a show of defeat. “Okay… I guess we just take a risk and go poking around in the magic books? Have you asked Vow’s house if it wants to kill me, or if it just isn’t listening to me?”

“House, flicker your lights once if…” The fading of my words came as a grin spread over my muzzle.

“What?” Gale asked. “Morty, why are you looking like that?”

“I have an idea. You want to learn a spell?” I asked.

“Um… no? Remember, it was a complete fucking disaster when you tried to teach me to teleport?”

I put a hoof on Gale’s shoulder. “This will work better, I promise. I’m the best pony in the world at this spell.”

“You want to rip my soul out?” Gale asked, staggering back.

“I—No! Of course not!” I chuckled. “I suppose I’m the best at that too, but no. No.” I flipped back the trail of my jacket to reveal the mark on my flank: the seven-pointed star of a seven-school mage. “I’m going to teach you how to talk to the dead.”

“Who are… oh.” Gale’s eyes widened. “Oh shit, Vow?”

I sighed, recalling the last (and only) time I had called up the soul of my predecessor from the depths of Tartarus. “I know he was a warlock, and a generally terrible pony, but unless you have a better—”

“Hell yes!” Gale cut me off. “How do I do it?”

“You’re… not mad?” I asked. “Tempest was pissed.”

“Yeah, well Tempest had also already been born when Ty had to kill Vow. I just want to meet him; Mom and Dad won’t tell me any of the interesting parts of his story, and Ty almost caught on fire when I asked her, so everything I know about him I heard from other ponies.” Gale, seemingly without realizing it, hopped from hoof to hoof in excitement at meeting the serial killer her step-sister had executed. “Maybe after him, we can do Warlord Halite? Or Yngvilde?”

“Maybe dead crystal warlords aren’t the best idea; it’s considered rude to seance somepony without a reason. And I don’t know who ‘Ingvilduh’ is…”

“Yngvilde,” Gale corrected. “She was a griffon leader that Rain and Pathfinder killed in the Red Cloud War.”

“Ah; that’s much harder. Griffons have their own afterlife, right? It would take some effort—or a live griffon, I suppose. With ponies we can just follow the ties of our own souls to the Summer Lands, but other races you have to know much stronger necromancy. I’m glad to teach you—” in truth, I was ecstatic at her interesting, grinning from ear to ear myself. “—and I’ll be glad to walk you through whatever you want, but for now let’s stick with ponies. Traditionally when a wizard learns to seance, the pony you call up is your teacher’s teacher. But since I dispersed Wintershimmer’s soul, that’s not exactly an option. I guess the right next option would be his teacher, Archmage Comet—she’s fun, . But skipping ahead to Vow will be fine, even if it means you’re seancing into Tartarus instead of the Summer Lands.”

“What difference does that make?” Gale asked. “Is it harder?”

“No, it’s just unpleasant. The Summer Lands is… we usually say ‘warm’, but it’s not actually heat per se. It’s like the feel of being in direct sunlight, but without the temperature. Sort of a glowy, tingly feeling. Tartarus is the opposite of that; I guess the best metaphor is being chest-deep in swamp water.”

“It’s wet? Cold?”

“Clammy?” I suggested. “But also freezing to the point you start to feel numb. Like the Summer Lands, there’s not actually temperature; you won’t get frostbite. But if we weren’t stuck in a haunted library, I’d teach you this next to a fireplace and have a bowl of candy for you like Wintershimmer did when he taught me.” I shook my head as I realized I was getting off topic. “I’m going to send just a tiny thread of my magic into the aura around your horn. I want you to hold onto it with your magic, just like if you were grabbing something telekinetically, okay?”

“Sure,” Gale answered. “Don’t you need to draw one of those stars on the ground, though?”

“No, those are mostly just for show. They help you hold your grip on the other pony’s soul if you’re going to be talking to them for a long time, or you need to cast other spells at the same time, but otherwise they just make ponies think it’s fancier magic. Now, close your eyes and light up your horn. Just focus on the feelings around your magic.”

I waited for Gale to ignite her horn before I pressed up next to her and put my horn against hers. I built up a tiny bit of my own magic, so small that its pain was no more than the sting of a too-hard pat on the shoulder from a close friend. Beside me, Gale tensed, and then let out a slight shiver, as she felt my pale blue magic slide into her raging aura. “Hmm…”

I nodded, letting her feel the motion on her shoulder. “Now, grab on to my magic and stay with me.”

As I moved my magic—and Gale’s with it—over her shoulder, she nuzzled against me. “Morty, is this some kind of foreplay?”

“Not in the middle of some library, but if you like it, I’ll remember.” I guided the magic further along, probably feeling like it was just under her coat (though in truth it no longer had a location in the physical sense), before stopping at the back of her neck, just below the base of her skull.

“Ooh, that tingles… wait, is this—”

“If it were cold, I’d be about to rip out your soul with the Razor, yes,” I explained. “A pony’s soul doesn’t really have a ‘location’ in the body, but when you touch it with magic, the mind tends to associate it with that spot. Nopony knows why. Now, focus; do you feel this?”

I felt Gale cock her head. “It’s like… like a thread? Or a really fine chain, like on a necklace?”

“That’s your body’s connection to the Summer Lands,” I explained. “Or, rather, the Between in general. When your body dies, this is what pulls your soul away to be judged.”

“What happens if it gets cut?” Gale asked.

“It…” I took just a moment to square away my thoughts. “It can’t. Without getting into too much detail, it’s not really a chain or a string or whatever you’re feeling. It doesn’t have length, or thickness, or texture, or anything like that. Even if I opened up the Summer Lands with the portal ritual, you wouldn’t be able to see it or touch it or hold it. Your brain only knows how to deal with sensations coming from the physical world. Since your horn is used to touching physical things telekinetically, your brain has taught itself to assume that the sensation of resistance against magic corresponds to a physical object, the same way it would if your leg touched a physical object. And since the bond between your soul and the Between is ‘tangible’ in a magical sense, your brain is making up its best explanation for what it's feeling in a way that makes sense in a physical world.”

“Huh.” Gale nodded again. “I think I kind of understand that. You actually can explain things.”

“This is my special talent.” I let myself nuzzle Gale a little bit forward, as if urging her to take a physical step, as I gave the next direction. “Now in a moment we’re going to move our magic along it. It’s going to feel like your magic is lurching away from you suddenly, very fast, but that’s just another of your brain’s mistakes, because the other ‘end’ of that soul cord is where we want our magic to go. When you’re ready, you push.”

“Okay.” I felt the slight lurch on my magic when she moved us, entirely comfortable and even welcome to me after a decade of practice, but beside me Gale tensed a moment as if worried she would collapse. “What is that feeling? It’s... floaty? Rippling?”

“Instead of physical air, our magic is just surrounded by more magic. The closest your body gets to having what’s inside it feel like what is outside it is when you’re swimming, so your mind feels all that magic like it’s water.”

“...you mean blood?”

“Well, you didn’t like the ‘scrambled eggs’ metaphor, so I was avoiding that. But yes, when I was learning, Wintershimmer described it as ‘floating in a sea of blood’. Which, in retrospect, should have made me less comfortable with him than it did when I was a little colt.” I shook my head to focus. “Alright; now here’s the hardest part for a beginner, so if you need me I’ll help. In the Between, what we think of as ‘weight’ comes from emotional weight instead of something’s mass. And right now, we want our magic to sink, since just like in the physical world, in the Between, Tartarus is below us.”

“Wait, Tartarus is a real place? Like, that you can dig to?”

“You don’t need to dig; you can walk there. Well, climb; it’s mostly vertical, but there’s stairs if you know where to look. The upper layers really aren’t as bad as everypony thinks if you can get past the dog. I’ll take you some time when I need to make a trip for reagents. But for now, we’re going deep, where the damned souls are. So I need you to focus on something you hate. Something that makes you feel miserable.” I paused. “I’m gonna try not to be comforting, but if you need me to step away to focus, Gale, I can.”

“Not ‘Gale’,” she said. “Call me ‘Platinum’.”

“Really?” I asked, opening my eyes in surprise only to find her gritting her teeth and not just closing her eyes but squeezing them shut as hard as she could. “Alright, if that helps, Platinum.” When I saw her brow twitch, I realized exactly what she really wanted. “After what happened at the party, Your Highness, I’m afraid you really ought to marry High Castle—”

I gasped because of the ‘downward’ lurch on our combined magic; I had intended to hurt her enough to get our magic moving, but I hadn’t expected the rather shallow comment would send her plummeting so harshly. It took more than a bit of my willpower not to wrap a leg around her shoulders and try to comfort her as the clammy chill of Tartarus wrapped around our magic.

Refraining from praising her, though in every regard she was doing quite well for a non-mage, I focused on getting through the rest of the spell as fast as possible. “Now, focus on his name. Solemn Vow. Say it with me. Solemn Vow.”

“Solemn Vow.”

“Solemn Vow.”

“Solemn Vow.”

“Solemn—”

“Yes? I did hear you the first time.”

Gale gasped and I felt her nearly drop the spell. Like a coil of hose or cable under stress snapping under strain, the loss of her concentration snapped our magic back up from Tartarus, flying across the void of the Between and back to her horn in the physical world, where the sense of phantom inertia sent Gale tumbling back onto her tail. Still, her horn held the spell.

“Don’t let go of your magic, Gale,” I told her, shooting only a quick nod to the phantom of Solemn Vow floating a few inches off the floor in front of us. But apart from that brief flash of attention, my focus was on Gale. I spoke in a rush, the way one does when a joke lands poorly, when you see pain on a friend’s face. “You did great! I’m sorry; I didn’t mean that to hurt so much! It doesn’t need to be that bad; if we have to do it again, we’ll find a less painful thought. But the hard part is all over. I was lying, I’m still here for you.” I wrapped a leg over her shoulders and pulled her in for a quick but forceful hug, which she answered by latching on to me like a vise. “Now you just hold your horn lit while we talk.”

Behind my back, in plain view of Gale, Solemn Vow spoke with more than a slight amount of cheer. “Ah, I’m your first seance, miss? Congratulations. And I’m honored to be your first subject.”

Gale chuckled, and when she let go of me enough for me to pull back, I saw the hint of tears in the corners of her eyes before she wiped them away with a foreleg. “Holy shit; you’re Solemn Vow.”

“In the fl… well, no, I suppose ‘in the spirit’?” Vow folded one foreleg across his chest and offered a bow. “I’ve spoken to Morty once before, and slightly more recently had the misfortune of being forced to try to kill three of him, so he’s a familiar face… but I’m afraid my lady has me at a disadvantage.”

“Vow, this is Gale. Gale, Solemn Vow.”

Solemn Vow nodded, quirking a brow. “A pegasus name? Interesting. Well, Miss Gale, it is a delight. If nothing else, Morty, I’m astounded you’re alive. After Wintershimmer bound my soul to Luna’s candlecorn, I thought the fight was nearly over. Is Wintershimmer really gone, or did he escape?”

“He killed Wintershimmer,” Gale confirmed.

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” I responded.

“Forgive me for what might be an insensitive question, then; not that I’m anything but ecstatic to hear that, but how? You’re, what, eighteen? Twenty? And you killed Wintershimmer the Complacent?”

“It would take a long time to explain, and I don’t know how long Gale can hold a seance, since it’s her first. So I’ll try not to waste time: how do we get out of your library?”

“How did you get in? There isn’t a door, and you’d have to have—oh. Hah!” Vow shook his head in amusement. “Of course.” Thankfully, the dead stallion had enough presence of mind not to simply leave us hanging as his mind raced ahead with his realizations. “I taught the house’s magic to recognize me by my jacket, since it’s a large enough visual pattern that I could use a second order divination matrix that could sustain itself on ley arcana instead of needing upkeep.”

“Does that explanation come in Equiish?” Gale asked.

“There’s a little bit of magical energy—’mana’ is the formal term—all around us constantly, in the air and the dirt. Some enchantments are magically cheap, like teaching a spell to ‘see’ our jackets and recognize them.” I gestured with a hoof in the direction of Vow’s spectre as I continued. “He could have used something that actually would have only identified him, such as by his soul, but that would taken more mana than the enchantment could pull out of thin air, so he would have had to recharge it every few months or years or so. That’s not the worst task in the world, but it is a chore.”

“Well said.” Vow nodded. “Keeping the enchantment self-sustaining also meant I could board up the wall where I drew the glyphs and embedded the crystals; I was going to some lengths to hide that I was a trained wizard, so I didn’t want it to be completely obvious my house was enchanted. And at the time I died, Wintershimmer and I had the only jackets from the Order of Unhesitating Force; and he wasn’t coming to visit any time soon.”

“That’s why all the doors open for you!” Gale rolled her eyes. “You and your fucking evil cult robes, Morty!”

“They’re not ‘robes’,” Vow corrected sternly. “It’s a jacket.”

Gale very slowly let her gaze sweep from the ghost of Equestria’s most prominent murderer toward me. “So I’ve been told,” she said as flatly as possible.

“And you’ll be getting your own set soon,” Vow added. “Given you must be Morty’s apprentice—”

“She’s just a friend,” I interrupted. “I’m not training her. The seance was because we don’t know how to get out now that we accidentally teleported in.”

“Ah, yes. Well then… Morty, you know that as a fellow victim of Wintershimmer’s education, I’m always willing to do you a favor. Morty, you no doubt said Wintershimmer’s name while touching the little picture on the mantle in my reading room, correct?” Gale rolled her eyes, which caused Vow to glance over at her. “Something wrong?”

“Reading rooms, jackets… Just wondering if I should be worried that my coltfriend talks almost exactly like Equestria’s most famous serial killer.”

Vow shrugged. “I prefer to think of myself as more of a failed revolutionary, but point taken.” Then his shade turned back to me. “At the far side of the library, there’s a rather large portrait of Queen Platinum.”

“Why her?”

“My two mentors,” Vow explained. “They seemed as appropriate symbols for my place of learning as any. Say her name—just ‘Platinum’ will do, no titles needed—while you’re touching it. Or rather, while you’re touching the frame; obviously I can’t stop you, but I commissioned the portrait from Reinbray just before he passed, so it’s irreplaceable. If you’d be so inclined, Morty, I’d be grateful if you could give it to Her Majesty; no use letting it gather dust, and even if she may justifiably not want a gift from me, I had meant to make a gift of it to her eventually.” His idle note about the painting—I’ll note that I did eventually give it away, and that this is the same one hanging in the gallery at L’hoof today, and probably the one you picture when you imagine Platinum I—ended just as abruptly as it had begun. “And make sure your friend is in hoof’s reach when you do; you wouldn’t want to leave her behind.”

“Or Morty could keep it,” Gale muttered. “The house is his now.”

“Hmm…” Vow nodded. “Your reward for cleaning up Wintershimmer?”

“Something like that,” I agreed.

Vow nodded. “Well, I’d be more than happy to give you a tour and show you around the secrets; there are rather a lot. If you want to employ my services, that is.”

Gale chuckled. “Yeah, I’m sure that would go over well. ‘Hey, Morty, where’d you hire your butler?’” Gale’s voice dropped into what I can only assume was her impression of mine. “‘I dragged him out of the depths of Tartarus. I save a lot on payroll that way.’”

“Joking aside, I’ll consider your offer, Vow. Right now, my horn is still healing, but I promise you that in a few days when I’m back to my magical self, I’ll seance you and we can settle things.” Then I glanced to Gale, decided (or rather, reminded myself) that I trusted her with my life, and continued “I do owe you for telling me the truth about Wintershimmer’s attack on Smart Cookie and Jade. If you hadn’t, Jade would have killed me in the Union. So in thanks, I promise you this: even if I don’t take up your services, I would be willing to disperse you rather than send you back to Tartarus.”

Vow’s eyes widened. “You’re just going to admit it in front of her—”

“Gale and I are good at keeping each other’s secrets,” I noted, before turning to her. “In the swamp outside of Platinum’s Landing, Vow offered to help me learn the rest of Wintershimmer’s magic, since obviously Celestia won’t know that.”

“And a few things Wintershimmer likely didn’t know either,” Vow added, with just a hint of desperation in his tone. “As well as helping maintain the home, all joking aside.”

“I get the point, Vow,” I told him, before turning again to Gale. “In exchange, he wants me to get him out of Tartarus. I’d probably bind him to a golem body—one without a horn, most likely.”

“Well understood,” Vow agreed. “I’m not asking you to trust me; we’ve only spoken the one time before, after all.”

Gale put a hoof on my shoulder. “You’re serious? You’re going to go behind Celestia’s back?”

“I’m considering it.” I chuckled. “I mean, I went behind her back when I fought Wintershimmer too. But we can talk about that more privately.” I turned to Vow once more. “Unfortunately, with my horn out of commission, she’s just going to have to end the seance and send you back.”

Vow raised a brow. “Can I ask what happened?”

“I pushed past Palisade’s Threshold and nearly killed myself from mana burn while I was fighting Wintershimmer.”

“Ouch,” Vow offered sympathetically. “Hence why your friend is holding the seance, I imagine. I had the ice box in the kitchen cloud lined, and I enchanted it to carve ice cubes for drinks. It won’t heal any faster, but if you wrap some in a cheesecloth and hold it against your horn, it may at least help numb it.”

I nodded. “Appreciated.” I glanced to Gale,and then whipped back to Vow. “One other thing: where do I buy a new bed?”

“What’s wrong with the one I left?” Vow asked.

“Nopony’s lived here since you died,” Gale explained. “So it’s dusty as shit, and most of the fabric’s musty, if not fucking rotting.”

“There’s no need to curse at me, but again, point taken.” Vow nodded. “Well, my information may be a few decades out of date then… what’s it been, thirty years?”

“Nineteen,” Gale explained. When both my predecessor and I raised our brows, she added “I was born almost a year after Ty killed him.”

“You know Typhoon?” Vow chuckled nervously. “Yes, well… our disagreements aside I do hope she’s doing well.” Shaking his head, the dead mage continued “On the corner of the Ridge and Wayward Way, a few blocks north of here, the Hold Up Sisters Upholstery makes the best furniture in the city—assuming they’re still open, but I can’t imagine they would have gone out of business. It’s expensive, but if Her Majesty is as generous to you as she was to me it shouldn’t be a problem. For linens, while it may seem a little pedestrian for a young noble like yourself, I cannot endorse enough going to one of the earth pony street markets, like at Rank Road and West File.”

“A young noble?” I asked.

Vow frowned. “Her Majesty didn’t give you a title?”

I glanced to Gale. “The Queen can just do that?”

Vow chuckled. “I mean, how else did you think noble titles got assigned? It isn’t as if Celestia herself descends from the sky.”

“It has more political consequences for the Queen than whoever is getting the title,” Gale muttered.

Vow glanced Gale’s way with a hint of amusement on his expression. “Yes, I suppose that’s true. In any case, Morty, you ought to just ask Her Majesty. If she gave you this house, I doubt she’d hesitate to grant you a barony. If it weren’t for the ties to me, I’d suggest you’d make an excellent Baron Card.”

“You’d be surprised,” Gale muttered. “Look, my horn is starting to sting; are we done? And do I need to do anything fancy, or do I just let go?”

“When you’re ready, just let go. And Vow, thi—” Vow’s soul blinked away as Gale’s magic finished before I could finish my thought. “Ah.”

“Sorry; I thought you were done.”

I shrugged. “It’s no skin off my back; I usually just make a habit of saying goodbye.” I chuckled. “Vow knew how to seance in life, so what happens won’t catch him by surprise, but for the average pony you want to give them a bit of warning about the lurch.”

“The lurch?” Gale asked.

“You’ll recall when we followed the tie from your soul to the Between, and then down to Tartarus, there was that sense of moving forward sort of suddenly? I don’t know if it’s a formal name, but we always called it ‘the lurch’. When I was a little colt, if I had spells left at the end of the day, I’d trace my magic up and down that bond because I thought the feeling was fun.”

Gale shook her head and chuckled. “Reminds me of when I was small enough to ride around on Ty’s back. Or Aunt Luna’s.”

“'Look upon me, mortals, and despair' let you ride on her back?”

“Honestly, Morty, I think she just hates you in particular.” Gale shook her head, taking a first step toward the far side of the library, and our exit. “I think she liked showing off her flying stunts to a little filly who couldn’t get enough of it. Ty too; when she was younger she loved stunt flying.”

“Huh.” I shrugged. “And you didn’t… throw up?”

“You fucking lightweight… How the fuck is flying worse than teleporting? Or ‘the lurch’ when you cast one of those spells?”

“Well… Huh. I guess because in those cases I’m in control of the motion. That, and it’s just not as protracted. Even if I have to reach into Tartarus, once you’ve practiced seancing for a while, you can find who you’re looking for pretty fast.” I shot Gale a grin, though she didn’t look back at me to catch it. “You should think of a family member or a friend who’s passed for next time we practice; somepony a bit less, uh…”

“Controversial?” Gale nodded. “Well, that asshole we just talked to killed Dad’s sister, Twister, so I’d like to meet her. And I guess there’s Ty and Cy’s mom, Swift Spear. Dad’s first wife.”

“What happened to her?”

“Cyclone,” Gale answered. “Same as my grandpa.” I nearly choked behind Gale as she followed that thought aloud, and what it might mean for my promise to keep the elder Platinum’s conversation’s quiet. “He’s probably the best choice. King Lapis IV. You think I can do that?”

“I’m… sure it’ll be easier than Vow,” I answered after a moment of nervous hesitation that, mercifully, she didn’t press me on.

“Well, I’ll think about it. But hopefully he gives better advice than Mom. Speaking of which…”

The prompt was accompanied by Gale gesturing to a much younger picture of her mother that hung on the wall in front of us on the far side of the relatively small subterranean hidden library. Heavily done up in makeup and wearing elaborate jewelry, about the only similarity I could see between the metallic mare and her purple daughter was in the shape of their jawlines. I placed my hoof on the side of the painting, stepped to make sure my side was brushed up against Gale’s and announced “Queen Platinum”.

A moment of lurching magic and a ‘pop’ later, we were back beside the mantle in the reading room.

“I’m going to head back to Dad’s place and clean up after all this bullshit today,” Gale told me. She took a solid stride away, and as she moved, unsubtly flicked her tail so it ran up my inner leg, just past me knee. “You don’t want to sleep in a rotting bed here, right?”

And that, dear reader, is not another Tale; at least, not one I’m sharing with anypony else.

2-9

II - IX

Queen Platinum's Folly

Gale arrived the next day at the Stable clad in a plain burgundy dress that Lark had told her looked business-like, if not just a touch stern. Combined with wearing her mane back, the hoofmaiden had created an effect that forsook complicated imagery in favor of simple efficiency and directness. On the ride to the Stable, Platinum’s only commentary had been a nod after looking the outfit up and down, which was perhaps as close to a compliment as Gale could stomach from her mother on her appearance without feeling ill.

In what the newspapers would call an unusual show from the unicorns’ senior statesmare, Grand Duchess Chrysoprase was waiting outside when the Royal Carriage arrived.

“Aunt Chrysoprase,” Gale greeted, spurning Sir Gauntlet’s offered hoof in favor of leaping down almost into the Grand Duchess’ face. “Good news?”

“I wouldn’t offer anything else to my Queen,” Chrysoprase answered with a practiced smile. “Would Your Majesty and the Queen-Mother care to join me in my office briefly?”

“We’d be honored,” Platinum replied.

Gale shot a stern glance to her mother, and then frowned. “Of course, Grand Duchess. Lead the way.”

As the trio of unicorn mares made their way past the day’s reporters, questions were shouted in furious volume. “Will the mining quota be reduced today?” “Have you spoken to Secretary Gallery?” “Is it true you intend to appoint non-unicorn nobles?”

Gale’s instinct was to stop and answer the questions, but Platinum put a firm hoof on her daughter’s shoulder and encouraged her wordlessly to keep walking.

Only once two sets of doors separated the trio from the crowd outside did anypony speak. “Calling out random questions without acknowledgement like a mob; how do the earth ponies tolerate it?” Chrysoprase asked bitterly.

“It’s not that hard; you just pick the questions you want to answer and shout back.” Gale chuckled. “You’ve been using your gong too long.”

“Perhaps you’re right, Your Majesty.” Chrysoprase shook her head as they progressed through the Stable building. “I’m afraid I haven’t arranged for drinks or breakfast this morning.”

“That’s hardly an obligation,” Platinum answered. “Hurricane always makes quite filling breakfasts, especially now that the house is bursting at the seams. We’ve already had quite a bit to eat.”

“House guests?” Chrysoprase asked.

“Morty’s and his friends are staying with us,” Gale answered swiftly. “Mom gave him Vow’s old house, but all the furniture there is still rotten and musty.”

“Ah, Baron Card’s house, you surely mean?” Chrysoprase corrected, before letting her voice drop to a bit of a whisper. “It is an old custom not to speak the names of traitors. And Solemn Vow was a personal friend to many in the Stable before his treason was revealed, so for some the wounds are still quite brisk.” Then, lifting her tone again, she glanced back curiously toward Platinum. “You don’t think that was a bit on the muzzle, Platinum? Given the colt already wears one of Baron Card’s jackets?”

“I thought that if anypony is going to know how to use all the strange magic in the house, it would be him. I’ve been trying to sell it for nineteen years.” Platinum chuckled. “If anything, it was a liability to the treasury.”

“An excellent solution, then. I shall have to send our new neighbor a houseplant or something.” Chrysoprase did not look at Gale as she spoke her next words, but her tone was plenty stern enough. “I trust Your Majesty won’t be repeating your mother’s mistake and assigning him a barony? Baron Card, at least, wasn’t a half-breed barbarian—I’m afraid the press would eat the poor colt alive, to say nothing of the Stable.”

“I thought you would have preferred him to my other proposals.” When Platinum turned to her daughter with distress in her expression, Gale rolled her eyes. “I’m kidding, Mom. I’ve got more urgent assignments to make, remember?” And with that particular segway hanging in the air, Gale waited until the trio had actually made it the rest of the way down the last hall on the way to their destination and fully into Chrysoprase’s office before continuing “So what’d House and Glass say?”

“Your Majesty is certainly direct,” Chrysoprase noted, glancing to Platinum. “Did she learn it from Hurricane?”

Platinum shrugged. “Him or Typhoon; they’re both that way.”

“Yes, I suppose so—”

“I’m standing right fucking here, in case you two are done debating who taught me how to get shit done.” Despite the strength of her words, Gale refrained from shouting, though she lacked the discipline to keep wrinkles of frustration from her brow. “What. Did. They. Say?”

Chrysoprase sighed. “The agreement can still be saved, but they need all the domains.”

“Then we’re done here,” Gale muttered.

“Your Majesty… Gale, wait!” Chrysoprase called out as the young monarch turned to leave. “Please, reconsider. You said as we were leaving yesterday you wanted to do what is best for Equestria; won’t throwing away two years of our work for your subjects be worse than butting your forehead into the Stable and declaring an eternal stalemate?”

“She asked you to call her ‘Gale’?” Platinum asked flatly, before walking over to her daughter and extending a hoof toward Gale’s shoulder. “Daughter, Chrysoprase is right. Your goals aren’t defeated forever just because they aren’t happening this very instant!”

“Your rule is only three days old,” Chrysoprase added. “You’ve taken the throne decades earlier than most of the great kings and queens in our history, and without the Scourge of Kings in your blood, Celestia willing you’ll rule longer than any of them too! You have fifty, sixty maybe seventy years in front of you.”

“Fifty years of kissing the Stable’s ass?” Gale asked. “No. I told them where I stood.”

“This will hurt you more than it hurts them,” Platinum warned. “This won’t make them respect you, Gale; you’re making enemies.”

“Please, Your Majesty, let me help you,” Chrysoprase pleaded.

Gale sighed. “Mom, you win.” As Platinum and Chrysoprase’s faces softened, though, she continued. “You finally got me to do it; I’ll quote Tongue and Horn at you. ‘To beg is to reveal that you have nothing better to offer; to fold and reveal that your hoof of cards is empty; to call your own bluff.’”

Had they been outside, I fully suspect a timely wind might have swept between the three ponies gathered, batting at their clothes as they stared in silence, testing their wills where words had failed.

Rarely have I seen such a meeting end without bloodshed, and given what happened in the weeks that followed, perhaps Equestria would have been better had Gale been wearing a sword.

“Permit me one last thought,” Chrysoprase announced at last, mustering the will to cut through the silence. “Your Majesty, if you walk out of this office without an oath for Duke House and Duchess Glass, you will lose three votes to one. Tomorrow, or the next day, the earth ponies spurned by your failure to fulfill the Crown’s promise, will turn on you. The next time you seek to build a coalition in Parliament for any sort of compromise, you will find you are not trusted and the earth ponies will likely demand a steeper compromise to aid you. In the Stable, your intransigence will mean House and Glass—but most especially House, who at the moment is the closest to endorsing your position of the Great Houses—will be quicker to vote against you. My banners may include more of our delegation to Parliament than any of the other Great Houses, but those two, along with Duchess Fire Power, easily outnumber me. And if I am forced to choose between the Stable and the Crown, as Speaker for the Stable my position is quite clear. Understand, Your Majesty: you are choosing a path that will hurt you much more than it will hurt us. I want to be your ally, Gale, but I need you to let me.”

Gale scowled and grabbed the handle of the office door with her magic. “Do your worst; I’m not afraid.”

A moment later, the door clicked shut behind her.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

Platinum made no further attempt to sway her daughter, nor did the elder statesmare accompany her into the Stable chamber proper. Gale entered alone into the chamber; it had been by her own insistence that Platinum not weaken the firmness of her position by whispering in her ear. So instead, for the first time before a full array of her subjects, she was truly alone.

The room could feel the tension that hung in the air between her and the dukes and duchesses. Where often one would hear the clicking of hooves on railings or the gentle creaking of chairs as nobles all but fell into them, now there was nothing. Ponies moved with all the delicate focus they could manage, for none wanted to become the focus of the floor’s attention.

“Mares and stallions of the Stable of Nobles, all rise in honor of Her Royal Majesty, Queen Platinum the Third,” announced the Stable’s herald. Ponies stood, and though Gale’s hoof moved as if to wave the motion away, she hesitated. She would later confess to me it was the first time, in the middle of a sort of stubborn rage at the density of the nobleponies, that she had realized the ceremony she so hated was useful. It forced the nobles to remember that she was Queen, and more than anything else she wanted that on their minds. So as they rose, she waited. Eyes sharp, she swept her gaze around the booths above her in the Stable, meeting as many eyes as she could find, trying her best not to betray her singular feeling.

And then, after twenty long seconds, she lowered herself into her seat, and the room breathed.

“Get started,” she ordered.

Chrysoprase stepped to the front of her booth and rang her gong once. “As Your Majesty wishes. When we left yesterday we were in the midst of discussions of the settlement bill. Given where we left yesterday, I bring a motion that we move directly to Her Majesty’s final thoughts, and then our vote. Do the other Great Houses approve?” Though it wasn’t a formal vote, a quick glance from Chrysoprase around the room saw a number of quick nods from the ponies on the ground floor. “Very well. Your Majesty, for the sake of a reminder in your first Stable vote as reigning Queen: it is your right to a last word addressing the Stable.”

Gale shrugged. “Why?”

What followed was a very long, very strange pause, as most of the room stared at the new queen with confusion, and perhaps a hint of pity. Finally, Chrysoprase leaned forward. “I confess, I don’t know when the right of the last word was originally given to the monarch off the top of my head; I would have to study a bit in our histories, and—”

“No, no. I mean ‘why bother’?” Gale leveled her focus heavily across the nobles—though mercifully sparing Star Swirl—as she gestured dismissively into the air with a forehoof. “You know what I’m willing to offer. You know why I hold my position. I challenge you all to do what’s right for Equestria. I’m not changing my mind, and yours are already settled.” Then she shut her eyes and sighed with a dry chuckle. “But feel free to surprise me.”

Chrysoprase sighed. “Thank you, Your Majesty. We now proceed to vote. Duke Swirl, I welcome your vote first on behalf of House Zodiac and your banners.”

Star Swirl nodded, setting the bells on the hem of his robe jingling, though he had omitted both his hat and his pipe for the proceedings. “House Zodiac is in favor.”

“One in favor,” Chrysoprase repeated. “Duchess Glass?”

“Against,” said the sharp-edged mare shortly, ensuring her piercing blue eyes were drilling into Gale’s skull, rather than facing the mare who had, ostensibly, prompted the question.

A few gasps and murmurs slipped into the room, but when Chrysoprase lifted the gong in threat, they were quickly suppressed. “Very well. One in favor, one against. Duchess Power?”

“I am against letting the earth ponies infringe on our domain rights, and granting domains to non-nobles,” said Duchess Power, her ruby coat replaced with a vest of gold and orange threads that, while more muted in the amount of physical light it reflected, was no less extravagant in its implicit price tag. Nopony seemed surprised by her vote.

“One in favor, two against.” Chrysoprase sighed. “And the Stable reminds the Lady of the House On Fire that the last word in argument belongs to Her Majesty, not our houses. Duke House?”

The bland stallion gave only the slightest of nods as he lifted his head to glance over his pince-nez. “Against.”

What had before been slight gasps and murmurs turned to quite audible shows of surprise.

Chrysoprase cut through the noise not with her gong but her uplifted voice. “It is settled. A tie-breaking vote is not needed. The Stable of Nobles rejects the crown’s request, as is within our rights.” Chrysoprase sounded her gong once. “And with our business settled, the Stable is adjourned until our scheduled autumn gathering, pending a sooner summons.”

As the mostly geriatric ponies of the stable rose from their booths and shuffled toward their respective private exits, Gale sat still for a very long moment, watching the room empty. Fire Power and Glass Menage and House Divided saw no need for further words with their monarch; in her own words, why bother? Chrysoprase at least sent Gale a parting glance, filled with a potent blend of disappointment and pity.

The sound of bells approaching snapped Gale from her brief fugue; by the time Star Swirl’s stride had reached her, the room was nearly empty.

“Well, kid, that was something.”

Gale took a short breath, and let it out in a chuckle. “I’m still ‘kid’ to you?”

The old wizard raised a brow. “Platinum Gale Gladioprocellarius… is that right, that last bit? Never really got the hang of Cirran...” Without waiting for Gale to correct him, Star Swirl shook his head and continued. “I’ve had the honor in my life of advising your grandfather, both your parents, and now you. I’m one hundred and two damnable years old. And sure, I’ll call you ‘Your Majesty’ in front of the others. But we both know that’s not me being honest. You’re still a kid to me.” He grinned through his thick whiskers. “I’m sure you’re about to get taken to task by your mother, and the earth ponies, and the unicorn delegation in parliament, and stars know who else. So I just wanted to let you know I’m proud of you for standing up for what you believe in. Your dad probably is too, if you need somepony to talk to who’s been in those shoes before.”

Gale sighed. “How long do you think it’ll take before I get the Stable’s support?”

Star Swirl raised his bushy brow. “If you carry on like you just did? Never.” The old wizard chuckled. “I never said I thought your plan was going to work. But in my experience, it’s a lot easier to teach a skill like diplomacy or magic than it is to teach morality.”

“I’m that bad?”

“Do you want me to be honest or comforting?” Star Swirl asked back. When Gale winced, Equestria’s senior wizard let out another small laugh. “I told you I was no good at diplomacy. Just wanted you to know somepony appreciates what you’re trying to do before you head out of here.” Star Swirl concluded the thought by lighting up his horn, and then he was simply gone.

Gale lingered there, in the tall empty Stable chambers. It wasn’t that she was afraid—she hadn’t been when she stood up to her mother and Chrysoprase before the vote, and nothing had changed since then. The future she had chosen had come to pass. But Star Swirl’s warning hung in the air. Would it work? Would the nobles really hold out forever to stop her?

Finally, the new queen turned to her doors on the back of the Stable floor and with a push of her horn, made her way toward the exit.

Platinum I waited calmly in the middle of the hall. “Are you interested in my advice?” the silver mare asked bluntly.

Gale sighed. “Go ahead.”

“You should make arrangements for you to take Peanut Gallery out to lunch, and offer him your apologies for the failure of the compromise.”

Gale sighed. “Alright. I can do that.”

“Good,” Platinum agreed. “See if he is willing to arrange some sort of a meeting for the major leaders of his delegation, and make the same apology to them. If Secretary Gallery is reluctant, Chancellor Puddinghead may be another way to speak to them. I encourage you not to make any promises whatsoever regarding the Settlement Bill, even if they press you. The Great Houses will want to punish you for standing up to them, so any deal they offer you will be worse than the one you rejected today. It’s better to let the legislators sort that out without interfering now.”

“Sure,” Gale nodded. “I thought you were going to tell me to apologize to the Stable or something.”

“No, I know a lost cause when I see one,” Platinum answered sternly. “Until we are able to find an issue that they truly need your support on, or you are able to offer some kind of material apology, I would give up on having the Stable’s support, or by proxy, any easy passage of bills through Parliament.”

“If that’s the only way to make them listen—”

“Queen Platinum the Third, I am not going to waste my breath explaining to you the damage you did today. The reason I am not advising you to throw yourself on the Grand Duchess’ mercy and offer to marry her son as a way to undo what you did today is that I know you won’t listen. It seems the only way you are going to learn is to experience the pain of your mistakes first hoof. So for the time being, my advice regarding the Stable is to interact with them as little as possible. Do not play this game of brinksmareship again and lose even more ground, do not attempt to persuade any of them in private. Wait. And until then, we will focus your education on how to interact with your half-sister and Chancellor Puddinghead.”

“I’m not afraid of pain!”

“No?” Platinum asked. “Very well.” As the mother and daughter neared the exit to the Stable, they found two knights waiting. Sir Gauntlet and the other armored unicorn both bowed to the approaching mares, and Platinum answered them with a nod. “Since you don’t seem to value Sir Gauntlet’s assistance, I’ll be having him walk me to the carriage alone, daughter.”

Hearing the barbs in Platinum’s voice, Gauntlet stiffened. “Um… Your Majesty, I don’t mean to contradict you, but we serve at the Queen’s pleasure, not the Queen-Mother; by oath, I cannot abandon her—”

“Go,” Gale interrupted. “Do it.”

Gauntlet nervously glanced at his fellow knight, and then nodded. “As Your Majesty commands. We shall wait for you by the carriage.”

Gale was left alone again after that, as Platinum and the two knights made their way out of the Stable. Between the doors, Gale caught a faint glimpse of a crowd gathered around the walkway between the Stable’s doors and the waiting carriage. In addition to knights, a few pegasus legionaries could be seen controlling the masses.

She waited long enough for her mother’s slower gait to reach the carriage, then steeled herself and opened the door.

A chorus of “Boo!”s greeted her. The crowd surged and shouted and pushed against the line of guards. “Race traitor!” someponies shouted. Another voice asked “What’s Typhoon giving you for the land?” More screamed incoherently, trying to reach the young Queen’s ears.

A reporter near the front of the mass leaned over a legionary’s blade-crested wing, risking a painful cut for the chance to be heard. “Your Majesty, I’m Held Presses, Ridgeline Review—What makes your demand for pegasus representation in the Stable worth destroying the settlement bill compromise?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do!” Gale answered. “We need to tear down walls—”

“Aren’t you putting pegasus interests above your subjects, though? Without a settlement bill, Legion control will become even more entrenched in the new lands.”

“The Stable could have solved that—!” Gale was cut off by the shouts and the rushed questions of the reporters.

“Some would say the common unicorn cares more about new homes and places to do business than who has a presence in the Stable; what do you say of accusations that your refusal to compromise is elitist?”

“I wasn’t refusing to compromise; I offered Glass and House more domains—!”

“We heard from other nobles from inside the Stable that you did away with dozens of Stable traditions; why?”

“Because—”

“Your Majesty, do you—”

“Do you fuckers want your questions answered or not?!” Gale’s curse would have been heard around the crowd with how heavily she shouted, but when her horn surged to amplify her tone, the young queen’s fury instead echoed around the entire block.

The crowd answered with murmurs, but they did not especially grow quiet, and Gale briefly found herself wonder how Chrysoprase’s gong was so powerful. “I offered those assholes a compromise; Chrys… Grand Duchess Chrysoprase was willing to give up her domains to satisfy them; I only wanted one. But apparently the idea of implementing a shared government the way Equestria was supposed to work from square one is some kind of war crime, because even that wasn’t good enough.”

Somepony in the back of the crowd, obscured by the mass of bodies, shouted toward Gale “Who cares about the Stable? Give us our new lands!”

“What?” Gale asked.

“Down with noble games!” somepony else shouted. “Give us the lands!”

“Lands!” the crowd shouted, one voice and then two and the a dozen. “New lands now!”

“But—” Gale winced when the chanting overrode her protests. Desperately, her eyes searched the crowd for the well dressed nobles of the Stable. But the masses surrounding her were no well-funded elites glad in finest fineries and decorated with precious jewels. The mass was full of the naked bodies of the common folk, most of them not even unicorns, who had simply come to hear the good news of new lands and new opportunities.

Somepony in the crowd lunged forward. Maybe they were shoved, maybe they really were taking a swing at Gale; even my magic can’t tell me, let alone give a name. History forgot who moved first. But the knights and the Legion took it as a threat, and as the knights abandoned their lines to wrap tightly around their Queen, and the masses began surrounding the remaining legionaries, inevitable chaos erupted.

Gale tried to shout “Stop”, to use her magic to warn them off, but there comes a point when words, even magically heightened, are no more use. A point when ears hear, but hearts refuse to listen. Her knights pressed her into the Royal Carriage, though surrounded by a now broken crowd the roads were too blocked to take it anywhere. Inside, Gale pressed her face against the window, helpless to do anything but watch what followed.

The next day’s newspapers would call it Queen Platinum’s Folly. History books, conflating those first three fateful days, took to calling it the Regency Day Massacre. As Gale watched the crowds shouting and dispersing and cursing her name, six civilian ponies were injured by Legion blades.

One mare, an earth pony named Satchel, bled to death on the Stable’s red carpet. It was a slow death, and when the crowd began to disperse enough that Gale was sure it would be safe to try, she teleported out of the Royal Carriage.

No reporters were left behind to write the story of how she held that poor mare in her dying moments. They only told the story of the stubborn queen and her bloodstained pride.

And so began the rule of Queen Platinum the Third.

Author's Note

If you want to chat with me and other readers, feel free to join us on The 24th Pegasus' Discord. I discovered that, although we've had a channel there for some time, the last time I provided a link was a blog post 2 years ago.

Im very glad that this chapter did not fall next week (for future readers: the 2020 US election).

Interlude II - Concerning Tempest Shadow

Interlude II

Concerning Tempest Shadow

As you may have gathered from my own story, I had virtually unlimited sympathy for ponies with unfortunate names. And never was there a pony with crueler parents—at least when it came to naming—than one Fizzlepop Berrytwist.

Seriously… that’s four words. Deleting the spaces doesn’t make one a genius of coinage.

The poor unicorn filly later renamed herself Tempest Shadow, and as a fellow unicorn largely raised by the forces of evil, I will refrain from any mockery about the sophomoric ‘edge’ in that choice of name. Nevertheless, because Commander Typhoon chose to name her eldest son Tempest (in keeping with the family theme of inclement weather), I’m forced to remind you, dear reader: Tempest, grandson of Hurricane, was long dead by the time of these events. I didn’t prolong his life in any unusual way, he didn’t somehow ascend to godhood under his own power or some similar nonsense; in short, he was dead.

Tempest Shadow, meanwhile, was very much alive that day in Canterlot, a fact she seemed determined to demonstrate by hopping in place as she inspected the hull of the sleek airship hanging in dock off the cliff-side of the mountain capital. Her custom made cuirass of banded plates, polished almost to a black mirror sheen, reflected the object of her affections as Sunset Shimmer and Celestia approached; both slipping between the movements of a huge crowd of porters and dockworkers readying the vessel for departure.

“I take it the vessel is suitable?” Celestia asked with a chuckle at the military mare’s enthusiasm.

Immediately, Tempest’s hopping ceased, and with a bit of a red glow to her already rose face, she nodded. “It’s a beautiful airship. More than beautiful; uh, gorgeous? I’m not the best with words... I’m guessing it's your personal one?”

At that, Celestia laughed fully. “I’ve never been much of a sailor, no. If I’m being completely honest, when I get the chance to fly, I prefer to do it on my own wings. Can I ask what you made you guess that, though? I am curious what a mare with your experiences thinks, looking at an airship like this.”

“I’ve never met a soldier-type who’d bother with all the luxury of a ship like this; the galley’s huge, the quarters are massive; it’s even got a little hot tub. But I’m guessing rich ponies don’t usually opt to enchant their hulls or install the kind of rudders that let you take the eyewall of a tornado across the wind. This is...” Tempest turned her head back to it and grinned like a schoolfilly. “I’ve burnt down cities that would be cheaper than this beauty.”

“Uh…” Sunset swallowed nervously at that particular metaphor, and a visible chill ran down Tempest’s spine as she realized what she had just said aloud, and who she had said it in front of.

“I’ll have to take your word for it,” Celestia noted. When Tempest raised worried brow, the alicorn explained “My Honor Guard confiscated the ship when Prince Blueblood violated the Palace’s airspace limits one time too many, and over the years they’ve made the occasional upgrade.”

Sunset Shimmer had to hide her schadenfreude behind a hoof. “Is he still as bad as he was when we were foals?”

“So much worse,” Celestia replied not with good humor, but rather a look of mild horror, before returning her attention to the vessel. “Since I assume you’ve had time to look it over, perhaps you could help a sailing novice understand what makes it such a fine airship.”

“Where do I even begin?” Tempest gestured grandly to the vessel’s stained dark wooden hull, natural tones evading the constant temptation of most Canterlot vessels to be painted in the city’s favorite white and purple. “I don’t know this ‘Blueblood’ pony, but it was obviously some kind of a rich kid’s pleasure yacht. Maybe he used to race it, if the hull treatment is original, though I’ve never seen a clipper or an interceptor in a catamaran shape—at least, not one that isn’t meant to land in the water. I’m guessing nobles don’t usually go diving?”

Sunset quirked a brow at that. “Not that I’ve been before, but why would you say that? It sounds like a ton of fun; Twilight said it was amazing to visit the seaponies—”

Tempest scoffed. “Yeah, it’s all fun and games until a sea serpent or a shark takes a bite out of the side of your boat, or pirates decide your fat pony pockets need to be lighter.” Then she shook her head. “The only place in the world shadier than Klugetown is the Reef, and that’s saying something.”

“The Reef?”

“It’s a city made of coral,” Celestia explained. “Ruled over by the octopus magnates who control most underwater trade.”

“Rule is a strong word, Princess,” Tempest noted. “It’s more like you have to look over your shoulder to make sure one of the bosses isn’t literally right there before you do whatever you damn well please.” When Sunset winced, Tempest realized who she was talking to and flinched a bit herself. “Uh, sorry Princess.”

Celestia, for her part, seemed utterly unperturbed. “Perhaps the Reef has changed since I last visited. It has been nearly three hundred years. But while I’m sure Morty can arrange to breathe water if the need strikes him, I have no reason to expect you’ll need to make such a journey.” Celestia nodded back to the vessel. “You were saying?”

Immediately, Tempest’s glee returned. “Well, I’ve heard of glass-bottom boats, but I’ve never seen the entire trough between the two catamaran pontoons made of glass like that—much less up through two floors in that sort of… common room space, I guess? I hope nopony’s afraid of heights, ‘cause you’ll be able to see straight through the floor to the ground.” Then she shot a side-eyed glance to Sunset. “I guess you’d be the only one, since the old mare and Stalliongrad are both pegasi.”

“The ‘old mare' and ‘Stalliongrad’?” Sunset asked.

“The other two,” Tempest clarified. “Somba-whatever and the guardspony.”

“Somnambula,” Sunset corrected. “It actually means ‘sleep-walking’.”

“And your other companion is Lieutenant Commander Red Ink,” Celestia provided.

“Look, I’ll get them down eventually,” Tempest told the other two ponies. “My last job had kind of a high turnover, so I’m not the best with names. Anyway, are you afraid of heights, Sunset? Or do you get skysick?”

“I ride BMX back home; I can handle a lot of motion.”

“BMX?” Tempest asked.

Sunset sighed. “Right… um… Imagine if you had a chariot that didn’t need to be pulled, and went as fast as a pegasus flies—”

“Nevermind,” Tempest interrupted. “Wizard crap, I don’t care. Come on, I’ll show you around inside. You can have second pick of bunk.”

“Is the glass actually safe to walk on?” Sunset asked as Tempest led the trio toward the gangplank up onto the ship. “I mean, like you said, I’ve heard of glass bottom boats—but there’s no water underneath this to support it. What if it cracks?”

Tempest cracked a grin, and then glanced around the porters and dockworkers, until at last she set her eyes on a small ballista—the sort one might mount as a turret just behind the prow of a ship for launching harpoons or boarding tethers. It was an utterly modern model, and like most of the goods being loaded on the airship, of the highest quality, with a ‘clip’ of harpoons that would automatically slot into place as their predecessors were fired, like the chu-ko-nu repeating crossbows of the ancient feline empires. The guardspony who was carrying it gasped as Tempest yanked the thing out of his grip, and then in a considerable display of upper body strength, rose up on her hind legs so she could balance the weapon like it were a standard hoof crossbow across both her forelegs. Sunset was still mid-gasp when, with a decisive twang, the string was yanked back and snapped violently forward.

Quite a few more screams echoed around the docks when the bolt bounced off the glass with nary a scratch. Unfortunately, the bolt seemed not to have lost much momentum from its deflection; it pinged back off the stone of the docks beside the ship, and then up against a steel keg full of the magically charged sludge which fuels an airship of the era. The bolt was about half a stride from the eye of an unfortunate dockworker when, abruptly, it was caught in an aura of powerful golden magic.

With a rather deliberate motion and a completely even expression, Celestia reloaded the bolt into the bottom of the ballista’s ‘clip’, and then telekinetically relieved Tempest of the weapon, passing it back to the same dockhoof whose life she had saved.

“I think a verbal description will suffice, Tempest,” Celestia noted.

Tempest swallowed hard. “Right… Well, I guess it’s pretty obvious now but the glass is magically hardened. The wood too, actually, and I’m guessing the balloon canvas as well, though I haven’t climbed up the rigging to dig around in there yet. I guess the point is, I could probably fly her through a dragon’s breath and the only thing she’d need on the other side is a new coat of paint. I don’t know if she’d hold up to a dragon’s claws, but since we aren’t covered in metal plating, good luck catching us.”

The three ponies made their way from the docks up onto the deck of the airship, though the moment she set hoof on the wooden planks, Sunset leaned her head over.

“What happened to not getting airsick?” Tempest teased.

“I’m not; I’m looking for the ship’s name.”

“It’s not there,” Celestia observed. “Are you superstitious about names, Tempest?”

Tempest rolled her eyes. “Anypony who tells you that luck has anything to do with running a ship doesn’t deserve the helm.”

“Good.” Celestia glanced across the numerous crates and barrels being loaded down into the ship’s hull. “Prince Blueblood called the ship The Monarch Butterfly. Under the Honor Guard, it was The Stormrider.”

“Well, your guard are good for something,” Tempest muttered. “But we’re going with The Constellation.”

“Ooh, that’s a good name!” Sunset pulled herself back from the railing and strode over to the doors in the face of the sterncastle. “So the quarters are down here?”

“Everything’s down there,” Tempest answered. “It’s like a normal ship; just upside down because the primary helm is on the lowest deck. Keeps cargo close to the top deck though.” Then the mare with the broken horn turned to Celestia with a hesitant expression. “On that note: Princess, I saw you loaded us up with quite a few bits, but if we want to keep a low profile south of the Equestrian border, we’re going to need some more local money. Can we get some saddles? Or some tusks, if you have them?”

“I don’t think the treasury keeps much Suidan money on hand,” Celestia answered. “Relations with the boars have been thin for a very long time. But our trade with Saddle Arabia should make saddles more than attainable. I’ll arrange a supply for you. Sunset, if you’d like to figure out your place on the ship, I’m sure you and Tempest can keep each other company for a few minutes?” When Sunset nodded, Celestia’s horn burst into golden energy and she vanished entirely.

“Well…” Sunset muttered. “She must really be in a hurry to talk to Morty.”

“What makes you say that?” Tempest led the way into the belly of what she had named The Constellation. Though the stairs behind the sterncastle led down a floor, Sunset quickly realized that the uppermost floor was dedicated not to quarters or common space, but storage. It took a turn and the revelation of a second flight of stairs for her to realize just how big The Constellation’s bowels really were.

“The Princess never teleports anywhere unless she’s in a huge rush,” Sunset explained. “When I was her student, and she first taught me how to teleport, I always asked her why we had to take the long way to get everywhere.”

“What’d she say?” Tempest asked.

“Well, she told me it was to teach me patience. Which… may have been true, but even when she’s not taking somepony else, she almost never teleports.” Sunset shrugged as both ponies rounded on a hallway flanked by six doors , but most notable for its completely transparent floor.

“Well, here we are; quarters. Mine’s the one all the way at the fore on the port side—uh, far end on the left, sorry. You’ve got your pick of the rest, but between you and me, you want starboard fore, across from me.”

“Why?”

Tempest answered by pushing open each door on the right side of the hall she passed, before finally revealing the room she’d suggested for Sunset; while it nearly looked identical to the others in most aspects, the fact that it was adjacent to the righthoof ‘pontoon’ of the catamaran shaped ship meant that there was considerably more room on its sloped fore-facing wall. “More space,” Tempest clarified. “Next floor down is the common spaces: two heads—that’s uh, bathrooms. The hot tub I mentioned. A couple couches, the galley and mess, and the main helm. Though if I’m honest, I’ll probably steer from topside.” Tempest shrugged. “What do you think?”

“It sounds more like a vacation than a secret mission,” Sunset answered with a shrug, wandering into her quarters and flopping down on the bed. “Ooh, this is comfy. No pegasus down beds on the other side of the mirror.” Tempest was frowning when Sunset met the other unicorn’s gaze. “Something bothering you?”

“I’m just having a hard time with… all this.”

“You still think it’s a suicide mission?” Sunset pressed.

“No. It’s one thing to get a bunch of specialists for something like that, but it’s another thing to throw so much money at making it comfortable…” Tempest waved her hoof. “Look, I know Celestia’s ‘the best pony in the world’ or whatever.” The phrase was accompanied by some of the heaviest hoof-quotes I have ever seen wielded. “But the last time somepony offered to heal my horn, I got stabbed in the back. And all this talk about some two thousand year old dead guy… it just makes my coat stand up, I guess.”

Sunset nodded. “That’s probably fair. If you’re looking for advice, though, I’d talk to Celestia about it honestly before we leave. Just ask her what’s on your mind; better than worrying the whole way. And honest is one of the Elements.”

“Yeah…” Tempest glanced back down the hallway. “Well, the dock ponies are good at their jobs, but I still ought to be keeping an eye on them.”

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

While she may have left in a grandiose show of magic, Celestia returned walking, and carrying a small safe under her wing the way a more… mortally challenged pony might heft a gym bag. “I assume The Constellation will work for you, Sunset?”

“Like I said to Tempest, it feels more like going on a vacation than a secret mission.” Sunset offered the comment with a joking smile, but when Celestia’s eyes fell on Tempest, the tension in the air was obvious.

“Something wrong, Tempest?”

Tempest grit her teeth and glanced to Sunset, who nodded supportively. “Can I be blunt, Princess?”

“Certainly.”

“Just… I don’t know what to make of all this, I guess. You’re giving us all this money and this fantastic airship, but we don’t even know where in Tartarus we’re going. All you gave us is something about a locket; do you have anything else to go on? If Morty really is still alive, why hasn’t he come back on his own?”

Celestia frowned at the question, and for just a moment Tempest feared she had pressed too hard questioning Equestria’s ruler. Or perhaps, just perhaps, Celestia sensed the deeper unvoiced concerns beneath the question. But then Celestia glanced over her shoulders at the dock workers, and her voice dropped to an almost conspiratorial whisper—and the airship captain realized that, just perhaps, she wished Celestia had been angry instead. “The last time we spoke, Morty and I had a disagreement about my sister.”

“If this book is anything to go by, that’s putting it mildly,” said Sunset. When Tempest raised an eyebrow, my successor continued “When Morty wrote this book, apparently Luna had ripped off like half of his head, and he was still… growing it in a jar, I guess?”

“Nightmare Moon,” Celestia corrected. “But otherwise yes, what Sunset said is true. A thousand years ago, when I used the Elements of Harmony to banish Nightmare Moon, we knew the magic wouldn’t last forever. The Elements wouldn’t answer me until it was almost too late, and it was the last time they ever heeded my call. And, if we’re being honest, even if they hadn’t rejected me for what I had to do to Luna, I don’t know if I could have brought myself to renew the seals that bound her to the moon.”

“Morty fought Nightmare Moon?” Tempest asked. “How strong is this guy?”

Celestia chuckled, though it was a surprisingly sad noise. “Morty occasionally jokes that his special talent is dying. I needed time to try and ready the Elements, and he volunteered himself to stall her, knowing he didn’t stand any chance of actually beating her. It wasn’t the first time, nor the last, that he died to stall for somepony else’s plan.” With a shake of her head, even the sad smile fell from the alicorn’s face.

“We knew her imprisonment would fail, but we didn’t know how long it would take. Two hundred years ago when I last talked to him, we gathered together because some of the faculty at my school’s astronomy department accidentally worked out exactly when Nightmare Moon would break free. Since the Elements had rejected me, we knew we couldn’t repeat our strategy to deal with Nightmare Moon again. I proposed grooming one of my students to make the necessary friends to use the Elements in my stead.”

“Twilight and her friends?” Tempest asked.

Celestia glanced nervously to the orange mare at her side. “Well, to tell you the truth, Twilight was a… last minute replacement. At least, compared to the thousand year scale we had to plan.”

“Wait, me?” Sunset nervously placed a hoof on her chest. “You wanted me to fight Nightmare Moon?!”

Celestia nodded timidly. “I had been hopeful you might make the right friends. And judging by what I hear about the other side of the mirror, it seems I was right—you just needed more time than I had to wait. Regardless, things worked out.”

“Barely, from the sound of it,” Tempest commented. “What would have happened if you were wrong?”

“Thanks to Starlight Glimmer and Twilight, I actually know.” Celestia swallowed nervously before elaborating. “Nightmare Moon would have defeated me and conquered the world, bringing about eternal night and tyranny over Equestria.”

I will note Celestia was misrepresenting how using time travel to create (or more accurately, travel to) ‘alternate timelines’ actually works. In her defense, it is almost without question the most complicated subject in the study of magic.

“You were betting that on Twilight Sparkle?” Tempest asked. “And she wasn’t even your first choice?!”

“I see you would have agreed with Morty, Tempest,” Celestia observed dryly. “In the Twilight War, Morty had suggested that we kill Nightmare Moon. He argued that even if Luna was innocent, it was wrong to ask thousands to lay down their lives trying to save her. And no doubt he was right... it would have saved many ponies' lives. But I couldn’t bring myself to try to kill Luna, and he was sympathetic to that.” Then Celestia closed her eyes. “When the threat of Nightmare Moon came around a second time, more recently, he was less understanding.”

“But… she’s your sister,” Sunset whispered, more to herself than to Celestia.

“In his eyes, I was risking millions of lives and the freedom of Equestria selfishly. And perhaps he was right… but I still couldn’t bring myself to try and kill Luna, and as history taught him, he couldn’t best her alone. So he set off to… well, not to put too fine a point on it, but to find some way to kill Nightmare Moon.”

“Okay,” Tempest nodded. “Phew; I thought you were just sending us off after some locket, like you mentioned in the throne room.”

“How is this better?!” Sunset asked. “At least the locket is a physical object, not some… assassination scheme! Honestly, Princess, I’m a little uncomfortable that when you were looking for somepony who could think along those lines, you thought of me. I would never want to murder Princess—”

Sunset found herself cut off when a voice behind her and somewhat above head level interjected. “I apologize, young mare, but may I cut in? I need a moment of my sister’s time.”

Sunset and Tempest both went somewhat pale as they turned to see the only outright war criminal ever to be benevolently given co-rulership of Equestria approaching them. Giving the bitch more of the benefit of the doubt than she deserves, I will assume for future readers that Luna hasn’t fallen back into the magical corruption of being Nightmare Moon once more, and trust that you know what she looks like.

If I’m wrong, and you dug this out of the ruins of Canterlot instead of being given it by Celestia, there’s a rather foolproof strategy for assassinating your new tyrant and liberating the world later in this book.

“Luna, this is Sunset Shimmer, a former pupil of mine. And I believe you’ll remember Tempest Shadow.”

Luna nodded briefly to Sunset, and then refrained from even that show of acknowledgement to Tempest, only glancing her way for a moment. “Thou’re—”

“You’re,” Celestia interrupted.

Looking back to this moment with my magic, I confess to no small joy at watching the twitching of a vein on Luna’s temple. “You are keeping interesting company today, dearest sister whom I hope I might someday again refer to with the casual thou instead of approaching you like you are my social superior.”

“...what?” Tempest asked.

Sunset dropped her voice to a low whisper, explaining without interrupting the sister’s conversation. “About a thousand years ago, during the ‘Linguistic Golden Age’ when all the branch languages of Equiish started spreading, plain Equiish developed ‘thou’ as a more informal version of ‘you’, when addressing somepony in the second pony. I guess Luna’s still used to that, since she’s only been back a few years.”

“But the pegasus mare from the past—Somnawhatever—she doesn’t talk funny.”

“She’s from before the linguistic shift,” Sunset explained.

As the two unicorns spoke in hushed whispers, Luna had pushed on to her point with her sister. “Can we speak privately, Celestia?”

“We can,” Celestia answered. “But I do trust Sunset and Tempest enough to discuss most matters in front of them. Is it something personal?”

“It concerns our respective personal guards,” Luna replied. “And I am afraid I do not trust your former student, to say nothing of that one, to discuss affairs concerning my Night Guard.”

Tempest Shadow fairly took being called ‘that one’ rather personally, and bless her heart, she responded with poetic beauty. “Why? Because you don’t want everypony to know you keep a bunch of dead ponies as guards?”

Luna’s eyes quite literally flashed white with the power of her magic, though her rage quickly turned not toward Tempest, but Celestia. “You told her?!”

Celestia, for her part, gently massaged her temple with her wing. “Luna… Let me start at the beginning. You remember the request you made of me regarding Rainbow Dash and the incident with Masquerade?”

Luna’s glowing eyes faded, and her sneer dropped to a mere frown. “A poisoning is not something one easily forgets,” she observed.

“Wait, this world’s Rainbow Dash was poisoned?”

Luna scoffed. “No, Miss Shimmer. I was. And I do not desire to discuss the matter further. Assuming my sister has not already spread that matter across every renegade and runaway in Equestria.”

Celestia hung her head, shaking it in mild disappointment. “Luna, these young ponies are going to help me fulfill your request. I haven’t discussed present matters, both to respect your privacy and Miss Dash’s—so Tempest, Sunset, when you stop in Ponyville I will request you to kindly not bring up this conversation with her.” When both young unicorns nodded, Celestia turned back to her sister. “The fact of the matter is that I spent very little of the thousand years of your absence actually studying magic myself. I can’t do what you’ve asked. And if neither of us can manage, that only leaves one option.”

Luna frowned, furrowed her brow in thought, opened her mouth to speak, hesitated, frowned again—deeper this time—and then finally her eyes widened in realization. Then her furrowed brow wrinkled yet further. “Coil? I thought Sombra killed him.”

“He did,” Celestia agreed. “So did Chrysalis, and the Queen of Silk, and Grogar—”

“And you,” Sunset added, apparently without thinking.

Tempest’s eyes widened in shock and Celestia winced, though Luna answered largely with a look of confusion. “I don’t… Ah, I see.”

Though the slip seemed to have taken Celestia by surprise, a thousand years of rule had taught her nothing if not how to recover from such a shock quickly. “In order to help my sister work through the memories that led up to… her absence…”

“To my becoming Nightmare Moon,” Luna cut in. “I am not made of porcelain, sister.” Then Luna turned to the other mares present. “When the Bearers of the Elements freed me, I inflicted nightmares on myself as punishment for my actions. But even those nightmares threatened the lives of our ponies. Now, Sister and I are trying to work through my memories in a healthier way to avoid any risk of those events causing Equestria further struggles. Unfortunately, that means many of my memories of those days are still sealed away by magic.”

Out of respect for Celestia, I will not comment here on my opinion of said choices.

Celestia nodded to both Sunset and Tempest. “I’m sending them to try and find Morty; he hasn’t been back to Equestria in a very long time. To help them, I provided a few copies of Morty’s autobiography.”

Luna’s brow fell. “Ah. Don’t take it too seriously; Coil is an incessant braggart, and his ego borders on psychosis.” Then she glared at Tempest. “And you will not discuss the nature of my Night Guard with anypony.”

“Sure,” Tempest agreed, rolling her eyes. “It’s not like anypony’d believe me, anyway.”

“Good.” Luna nodded and her expression loosened. “Lieutenant Ink of your Honor Guard was interrogating some of my servants about their lives prior to joining the Night Guard.”

“Doesn’t that just mean ‘their lives’ at all?” Tempest asked.

Luna shot her a harsh glare, before returning her attention to her sister. “I normally forbid such interactions, but I assume his curiosity is related to this mission to locate Coil?”

Celestia nodded. “At least, I assume so. I didn’t put him up to it, but if the Lieutenant Commander believes there is something to be gained from speaking to the Night Guard, I would ask you to let him carry on.”

“What in Tartarus is Stalliongrad going to find?” Tempest asked. “You didn’t save your guards from before being Nightmare Moon, did you?”

“No; such a thing would be impossible even for my powers.” Luna scoffed. “Coil had such a trick to achieve such a feat, but even before I became Nightmare Moon, he hated the Night Guard.”

Tempest grit her teeth. “So they all, what, died in the last five years? How could any of them possibly have met Morty? Unless your Night Guard is all super old earth ponies, it seems stupid to me.”

“I am inclined to agree,” Luna replied with a nod. “But I am also going to give Lieutenant Ink the benefit of the doubt in this case, given our past experience with him in Ponyville.”

Celestia cocked her head. “Was that ‘our’ as in you and me, Luna, or was that the royal plural sneaking in again?”

Luna answered by turning around fully and ignoring the question. “I shall inform the Night Guard that they have my blessing to answer his questions.”

Celestia shook her head, but she wore a smile as she did it. “Sunset, why don’t you go with Luna and get to know Lieutenant Ink a little bit better? I’ll help Tempest with the last few preparations for your trip here.” Then, igniting her horn, she added. “I can hold on to your copy of Beginner’s Guide so you don’t have to keep dragging it around the palace.” And saying that without the slightest hint of deception in her voice, she took this tome and tucked it under her wing.

“Come, Sunset Shimmer,” said Luna as she began to walk away. “I am curious, as a former student of my sister, if you are the more alike to Twilight Sparkle, or to the target of your search.”

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

I’ll note briefly before continuing for curious readers: everything you need to understand about the events surrounding the attempt on Luna’s life are included in this tome you’re reading. That being said, if you do find yourselves curious for more details, I have included a reference for the report Celestia’s Honor Guard compiled following those events. It doesn’t hold up to my talents of narrative, of course, but I do have the unfair advantage of far, far more experience.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

After Luna and Sunset were out of earshot, Tempest turned to Celestia with a raised brow. “Let me get this straight, Princess: last time you talked to Morty, he outright told you he was going to try and kill your sister?”

Celestia nodded.

“And, what, a couple years ago somepony managed to poison Luna? And almost kill her, I’m guessing?”

The pale alicorn drew in a very long breath. “That is also true.”

“But we’re going after Morty to do some kind of favor for Rainbow Dash? Not because you think he’s gonna try and kill Luna again?” When Celestia didn’t answer, Tempest pressed. “Because it doesn’t seem like that’s a really hard connection to make to me.”

“If you don’t know Morty personally,” Celestia answered after a pregnant pause. “At worst, I could believe this was some kind of mistake, but he would never try to hurt Luna after the Elements worked.”

“You’re sure about that?” Tempest asked. “Ponies change. Especially over, what, two hundred years?”

Celestia sighed. “What do you want me to tell you?”

“What do you actually want out of this mission? I’m obviously enough muscle, to say nothing of whatever magic Sunset can do, that you don’t need to send your secret special guardspony too. Is he there to kill Coil if things go wrong? How much do I need to worry about this whole thing blowing up—?”

“Tempest Shadow, please stop.” Celestia then sat down, and massaged the bridge of her muzzle, and spent a good few seconds breathing. “I understand given your history with the Storm King that these are probably reasonable concerns, but that isn’t how I do things. Yes, there is some danger in this mission, because Morty almost constantly puts himself into situations that would be dangerous to anypony else. Morty himself is not one of them. Even if your suspicions are right, and Morty really has given in to a desire to kill Luna, he won’t murder innocent ponies to get to her. Whatever else I may or may not know, I’m certain of that.”

Celestia then dared to extend a wing, resting it on Tempest’s shoulder as she looked the mortal mare in the eyes, taking a moment to flick her ethereal mane out of the way and grant herself a rare moment of depth perception. “I don’t know if you think that I’m deluding myself, or if you think I know something I’m not admitting, or something else. The truth is I really don’t know what part Morty had to play in the attempt on my sister’s life. I know what I want to believe. I know what I expect. But I’m not all-knowing; I’m just old enough that I’ve gotten very good at guessing. As for why I didn’t tell all four of you before more plainly, that was for Somnambula’s benefit. Morty may have changed a bit from when she knew him centuries ago, but I don’t want her falsely expecting him to be a completely different pony. And once such seeds of doubt are planted, they can be very hard to dig up again.

“And, since you brought it up: whatever Morty might believe about assassinations, that isn’t how Equestria works. Yes, we have spies and keep secrets, and yes at the end of the day the Royal Guard is an army. I fully admit I’m hardly the beacon of Harmony that Twilight and her friends are; sometimes I conceal things or manipulate the truth to try and teach a lesson or achieve an end. One doesn’t rule a nation for a thousand years and remain quite that naive. But murder, or assassination, or whatever form such an idea takes, is beyond an uncrossable line for me. If Morty really was behind this attempt on my sister’s life, she and I will be the ones to deal with him, not you four. Whatever else your journey may entail, on that you have my word.”

Tempest broke away from Celestia’s firm gaze to offer a nod. “I… thanks, Princess. I guess that does sorta help.”

“Good.” Celestia smiled. “I cannot promise to answer any question you might have, but I won’t be offended if you ask them. All I ask is that, until I have a chance to talk to Morty face to face, please don’t speak of your suspicion with Luna. As she mentioned, we’re working through her memories of the dark times of her life slowly, in a safe and controlled way. Her memories involving Morty will come from the darkest of times near the end of the Twilight War, and I am not certain she is ready to face them yet.”

“Alright. I won’t talk to her.”

“You’ll have to be mindful, even in your dreams,” Celestia noted.

“I’ll try. I… wait, if Princess Luna can talk to anypony in their dreams—he doesn’t sleep, does he?”

Celestia chuckled and shrugged. “Either that, or he has some trick to keep her away. I never bothered to ask.” Then, releasing her wing from Tempest’s shoulder, she stretched her forelegs. “I suppose I should actually get to those final preparations like I told Sunset I would. Honest is an Element, after all.”

Tempest rolled her eyes, but there was a hint of a smile on her muzzle when she did. “Sure, whatever you’ve got to do.”

3 - The Little Red Lie

III

The Little Red Lie

Far, far to the east of modern Canterlot, in the snowy wastes where the last of the three ‘Hearths Warming’ windigoes still smothers the land in eternal winter, a reader will find the ancient city of Stalliongrad. With its own language, completely removed from any of the other dialects common in Equestria, and its own strange government ruled by ‘Tsars’ alongside the proper noble titles like Dukes and Barons, many denizens of Equestria treat Stalliongrad as if it were a completely separate country.

The name ‘Stalliongrad’ comes from the draconic ‘Стольный град’ meaning ‘capital city’, because while it has never been the Equestrian capital, it was at one time called River Rock, the capital of the unicorn Diamond Kingdoms. For centuries, if not millenia, the dynasties of the so-called Five Wise Kings ruled over the unicorns (and de facto if not de jure the earth ponies as well) from the mighty turrets and grand halls of Burning Hearth Castle on the hill overlooking River Rock and the mighty Volgallop river. That continuity of rule survived crystal ponies and dragons and earth pony rebellions alike, until finally it met its match when King Lapis IV was slain, still sitting in his throne by an upstart pegasus: Cyclone, firstborn son of Commander Hurricane.

Hurricane won mercy for his son by pleading with Lapis’ only surviving foal, the then-young Platinum I. Instead of execution Cyclone was left to watch over the city he had won, trapped in the frozen wastes with his little cabal of loyal soldiers and those earth ponies and unicorns too old or infirm or just plain stubborn to make the long snowy journey to the land that would become Equestria. Bitterly, Cyclone’s new subjects gave him the title his father had abandoned—’Haysar’, the imperial title of the fallen pegasus empire of Cirra—as a constant reminder of the legacy he had failed to live up to.

What followed were lean decades spent struggling to build enough of an economy to even feed his new bitter subjects. Aid ultimately came in the form not of ponies, but dragons. With the help of a merciful Archmage Clover the Clever, Cyclone Haysar negotiated with the dragons for the aid of their fire magic to bring up heat from beneath the earth—heat enough, at least, that with the construction of great greenhouses, his subjects could grow their own food despite the winter and not live in constant fear that starvation was only a few missed shipments away.

Cyclone is remembered in most modern history texts by the draconic form of his name, Tsyklon. The name ‘Stalliongrad’ likewise, obviously, comes from the city’s negotiations with the dragons under his rule (and if Cyclone is the father of Stalliongrad, Celestia is surely its mother; her absurd fondness for that ridiculous pun is certainly the only reason the name stuck). But as for the title of Tsar, its origins come from what I hold is the most selfless action Cyclone ever took: a single careful lie he told on the same day of the Regency Day Massacre.

This tale begins the day before that fateful day, though, when Gale had only just become Queen Platinum and was due to first present herself to the Stable of Nobles, as a figure limped over the frozen surface of the Volgallop. Despite being summer in the northern hemisphere, the namesake river of River Rock (for Celestia had yet to have the ‘epiphany’ of its modern name) was frozen into a solid sheet. It wasn’t an uncommon event, but as I alluded earlier, it was a terribly dangerous one even for the ponies safe in their brick homes. Without shipments on the river to carry food from the warmer climes of Equestria, Cyclone had more than once found the city’s more desperate denizens turned to cannibalism.

Through that blizzard and over the river staggered a figure, lost and freezing and utterly snowblind. He knew nothing of his location; not the name of the river whose surface he followed by the hard slippery chill beneath his strides (for eyes were no use in the miles of blank white), nor the name of the city he approached, nor even that there was a city to approach. His blind hope was that, since water was usually warmer than ice, if he followed the river far enough, he might eventually find somewhere that the ice was cracked, and he might be able to slip into the warmer water below.

Our figure was… perhaps not the most clever of beings in history.

Fortunately, while his strategy would have led to a swift death if it had succeeded, where his wits were lacking, he found himself blessed with luck. Rather than a hole into which to dip and freeze himself to death, he found (with his face, no less) an upright tree trunk, apparently stripped of its bark by lightning. Surprised at the sight of such a tree in the middle of a river, he spread his considerable wingspan and—demonstrating his considerable strength simply by not being swept away at the strength of the blizzard—used it to heft himself up the tree in hopes of branches and greenery he might be able to fashion into some vestige of shelter. Or, at least, that was his hope. Half-frozen and stiff, it took three solid tries and at least one painful slip that bashed his belly and chin onto the ice before he found the right combination of purchase and wing strength to leap upward. By the time he succeeded, the insides of his feathers, previously keeping his core insulated, were crusted white with snow and utterly useless and keeping him warm.

What he found, instead of pine needles (and again, with his face) were clearly hoof-worked flat planks. For much like the idiomatic blind monk feeling an elephant’s trunk, our momentary hero had not stumbled on a tree at all, but one of the pillars of a dock jutting out into a frozen river. And while his rather birdbrained mind might not have understood the relationship between soaking one's fur and fatal hypothermia, he was, evidently, clever enough to recognize that a dock implied some form of civilization, and therefore some shelter. And so, after pulling himself up onto the dock—itself a rather violent and awkward motion—and getting a feel for the texture of the frigid boards beneath him (so as not to lose his place in the whiteout of the blizzard), he began to walk forward and called out “Hello?!”

Well, to be entirely correct, he actually called out “Salve?!”, speaking heavily accented old Cirran—not “Hello” in Equiish as we would be accustomed to the term. But since nearly all our subject’s dialogue in this Tale comes in the form of Old Cirran, and that language is largely considered dead (nevermind the irony of a ‘necromancer’ calling Cirran a ‘dead’ language), I’ll spare the reader the need to translate themselves, and use italics to indicate its speech—though I’ll do my best to note its use as well.

Soon, the ground beneath our subject’s stride turned from frozen boards to frozen cobblestones. “H-h-hello?” he shivered out in Cirran again, folding his wings tight against his sides and wishing he had any clothing whatsoever to speak of. And while I (rightly) make a bit of light of his intellect, in this case I can hardly fault the poor fellow; he had no idea that he ought to expect cursed eternal winter in the height of summer when he departed on the journey that found him on the frigid streets of River Rock that day.

Stuttering in the dead language of the pegasi, he cried out “An-n-n-yon-n-ne? P-p-please?”

With the heat of his wings lost, white was beginning to fade in on the corners of his vision. And so it was, again, that luck saved the wanderer, for on the road he had stumbled upon, running along the riverside dock district of River Rock, there sat a little bakery whose central chamber was well alight with life and heat and the delectable smells of honey and baked bread and rich spices. And inside that bakery, a mare only a few years older than I was at the time happened by chance to hear the desperate cry of our wanderer over the howling of the wind.

Readers of my prior record may remember Lefse, my friend Blizzard’s only real friend in her former home of River Rock. For those who don’t, she was an earth pony baker named after a peculiar but delectable potato flatbread still popular in Stalliongrad today. Her recurrence, I assure you, is purely coincidence from the location of her family’s shop being located on the waterfront. Regardless, hearing a voice in need—even if she didn’t understand its cries, the combination of obvious shivering and the simple fact that no sane native of River Rock would be caught dead outside in such a storm—meant that she knew something was surely wrong. And so, after informing her grandfather that she hadn’t suddenly been stricken with snow-madness, she looped a length of rope around her stomach, threw on a blanket as a makeshift coat, and strode out into the storm.

“Is somepony there?” Lefse bellowed out into the storm from the doorway of the bakery.

Though the storm made sight nearly impossible, the light of lanterns and ovens still colored a part of the white storm a warm yellow tone for the wanderer. And to the credit of his incredible strength, not only did he answer “Can-n-n I please come…?” in Cirran, but he even managed nearly to carry himself into the door before the cold finally overtook him and he collapsed, just in view of the young earth pony mare.

“Holy Celestia!” shouted Lefse at the sight. “What—what is it?”

“Does it matter?” her grandfather answered, rushing over from behind the counter of the bakery. “He’ll freeze there in the doorway. Help me pull him in.”

And with that short exchange, the two earth ponies each grabbed one of the wanderers golden claws at the end of his forelegs, and tugged. First over the threshold came his yellow beak and his bald white head, covered in snow-covered feathers. Then came a sudden line where feathers gave way to tan fur. And finally, at the end of his body, a pair of shivering lion’s paws and a tail managed to just squeak in before Lefse hopped over the frigid creature and slammed the door shut.

“I’ve never seen anything like this. Do you think he’s a monster, Lefse?”

Lefse shrugged. “I think he was speaking Cirran, Grandfather. When the storm settles, I’ll go up to the castle; maybe one of the guards will know more. For now, we should get him closer to one of the ovens; he’s freezing.”

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

Like so many blizzards in the lands haunted by the last windigo, though storm conditions could last for days, the great blinding winds that made it impossible to safely venture outside without a rope soon ran out of loose powder to blow, and the storm grew drier, and while colder, also quite navigable. And so, with the wandering creature—for while readers might immediately recognize my description, his species was known firsthoof only to the most senior generation of Equestria’s pegasus population—with the creature still asleep, Lefse departed the bakery bundled in two layers of scarves, coats, boots, and hats bound for Burning Hearth Castle.

Unlike the enlightened rule of Equestria, Cyclone was not the sort of ruler who generally held anything like ‘open court’ or really generally interacted with his subjects at all. Instead, his commands reached the populace by way of his extensive military—and though that ruling style would certainly have been seen as a harsh military dictatorship had he had any particular cruel ambitions, in practice the extent of his orders were largely ‘don’t eat each other’ and ‘ration your food’ and ‘behave yourselves’. So, instead, while the populace of River Rock that weren’t his soldiers generally hated him, it was a very vague, rather disassociated hate. In practice, there was a whole generation of young ponies in River Rock who had never even seen Cyclone the Traitor, and certainly had never heard the stallion give an impassioned speech or lead a military parade.

Lefse was one such young pony. Hence she was very much surprised when, halfway through describing the creature in her family’s bakery to one of the guards at the entrance to the castle, he had cut her off, and at spearpoint, demanded that she swear on pain of death she was telling the truth. Then quite terrified, as she attested to the truth of her story, she had been led directly past not only the gate guard, but even one of the guard officers, and directly up to a pair of huge iron doors, partway melted open so that even fully closed, they might offer a tall pony a glimpse into the room beyond. The guard escorting her muttered something in Cirran to the two guards flanking that pair of doors, and with considerable effort, the three soldiers together pushed open enough of a walkway for her to enter.

When she walked through, the guard who had threatened her didn’t follow.

The room beyond the doors was the throne room, as it had been for every unicorn monarch dating back to the capital fortress’ construction, and as it now was for Cyclone. And though he sat in the throne, letting his red crippled wing, scarred from the very day his rebellion had failed, hang over the edge of his chair, I fully suspect that anypony walking up to Cyclone would have recognized him as a leader even if were seated on a three-legged wooden stool.

How does one describe Cyclone? Perhaps I shall start by observing that I was neither the first nor the last pony to, upon first meeting him, wonder aloud whether or not his father, Commander Hurricane, had at some point in his youth copulated with a she-bear and passed the foal off as his own. In addition to his prodigious size and bulky build, Cyclone wore a full beard of bristly black hair that, together with his overgrown mane, only further emphasized his size. And, of course, beside his throne one could see his hoof-forged sword Infernus (a Cirran synonym for Tartarus, though I’m told most ponies translate it ‘hellfire’) resting where it could be easily retrieved in the event somepony needed to be bisected the long way—the sword being roughly the length of a sizeable oar, and the width of an average pony’s torso.

Lefse immediately blanched as the tyrant’s eyes leveled on her, smoldering like coals between his thick black eyebrows and the base of his muzzle. “Who are you?”

“Lefse, sir. Uh… Emperor Cyclone. Sir.”

Cyclone let his heavy brow cover his eyes and exhaled once through his nostrils. “My father is still the Cirran Emperor, no matter how much he might pretend otherwise. You may call me ‘Commander Cyclone’, Lefse.” Then, with another notable pause, he reopened his eyes. “You are my daughter’s friend? The baker?”

“Ah, yes!” Lefse smiled. “That’s me, Commander Cyclone. Blizzard’s friend.”

“Blizzard has left River Rock,” Cyclone told her. “She went to Everfree City to be with the rest of our family. I do not know when she will return; I’m sorry.” With a rather dismissive flick of his good wing, Cyclone nodded toward the doors behind the earth mare.

“Yeah. Um, I mean, yes, sir. Blizzard told me before she left. I’m, um, not here about her.” Lefse swallowed.

“Then why are you here?” Cyclone asked.

“Well… I don’t really know, sir.” When Cyclone’s brow lowered toward a skeptical glare, Lefse winced. “I mean, I came to the castle to talk to a guard. And he sent me in here. But I don’t know why the creature is so important that I needed to talk to you. But he threatened me with a spear about whether I was making it up or not, and—”

“Stop,” Cyclone ordered, and immediately Lefse fell into silence. Nodding in approval at her obedience, he instructed her “Start at the beginning.”

“Right. Sorry. So, during the storm a little bit ago, my grandpa and I were working at our bakery, and we heard a voice in the storm, like somepony had gotten lost outside. And it was speaking Cirran, which I don’t actually speak, but you know somepony caught out in a blizzard can freeze really quickly, so I tied a rope around me and put on some warm clothes and went out to see if I could find him.”

“Brave,” Cyclone commented with a single nod. “And commendable.”

“Th-thanks,” Lefse noted. “Well, I did find him. But he wasn’t a pony. Grandpa didn’t know what he was either, and he passed out from the cold before he could even get inside; we had to drag him in. But he’s really big, like bigger than even a big earth pony. Or even you, Commander sir.”

“A giant pony?” Cyclone asked with a raised brow.

“No; I don’t think he’s a pony at all. He’s, um, got a bird’s head. And front legs. And his back is like… I guess like a cat, kind of? I mean, I’ve never seen a cat with a tail like that, but—agh! Did I say something wrong?! Please don’t hurt me!”

Lefse’s abrupt declaration there at the end stemmed from Cyclone physically hurling himself out of the throne with his forelegs, and then pausing only to sling his enormous blade over his shoulder.

“No, Lefse. You did well to report this.” He took two strides forward, and then bellowed at the young mare—or rather, she realized a moment later, past her. “Guards, fetch Imperator Sirocco. Have her meet us at the gatehouse.”

“Us?” Lefse asked. “Wait, sir, are you going to kill him?”

“I don’t intend to, yet.” Cyclone answered. “But no wise Cirran trusts a griffon without a sword at his side.”

“A griffon?” Lefse asked. “What does that mean?”

Cyclone didn’t answer her more than gesturing with his good wing for her to follow as he walked straight past her toward the partly melted iron doors of his throne room. While they had been quite the obstacle for his guards, to his beastly physique they presented little obstacle.

Lefse followed closely after Cyclone, wondering all the while what she had gotten her family into, but not daring to voice her hundred curiosities out of a quiet terror of the mysterious ruler and his infernal sword. So instead, back through the halls of the castle she followed, rushing after his formidable stride. And though in truth the throne room of Burning Hearth is only a few hallways removed from its gatehouse, with her heart pounding and her hooves nearly at a gallop to match Cyclone’s stride, Lefse felt the trek took nearly a day.

Waiting in the icy wind just outside the gatehouse was a figure Lefse did recognize, if only from a distance. Cyclone’s right hoof in ruling River Rock was his second-eldest daughter, Legatus Legionis Sirocco. Wearing a coat of burnt orange that nearly matched her father’s red, she cut a slimming and imposing image clad in steel armor painted black that was certainly reminiscent to the Equestrian imagination of the day of her grandfather’s magic-eating black armor. Over it, however, the mare had wrapped herself in a crimson sash, the same color as her father’s coat. But perhaps most notable in her appearance was the way that she managed to don an expression of mild scorn for her surroundings while still holding to strict military discipline in her posture.

“You summoned me, Commander?”

Cyclone nodded. “This is Lefse; Blizzard’s friend.”

“What would I want with that traitor’s friend?” Sirocco snapped, openly glaring in Lefse’s direction.

Disappointment swept over Cyclone’s expression. “Your sister is not a traitor, Sirocco.”

“Blizzard isn’t my sister,” Sirocco replied, though she deigned not to meet her father’s disappointed look eye-to-eye. What she had said was true, if only in a technical sense; my friend Blizzard and Sirocco were only half-sisters—both Cyclone’s daughters, but to different mothers. And in all fairness, both in temperament and appearance the two could not be further apart.

Evidently, the matter of the griffon weighed more heavily on Cyclone than settling the differences of his foals, as he let the comment pass unchallenged. “A griffon has come to River Rock, Sirocco. Lefse’s family found him in the storm that just passed. I would like you to accompany me. Depending on what happens, I may need someone I can trust with a working pair of wings.”

“A griffon?” Sirocco gasped. “From Dioda?”

“I would assume so,” Cyclone answered with a shrug. “I have never met one either, daughter. We shall have to see if it is a scout for Magnus.”

“What is a griffon?” Lefse asked.

“You don’t know, peasant?” Sirocco asked. “The griffons are the ancient enemy of Cirra. They’re the reason Cirra crossed the sea to come here in the first place. And someday, Father will return and take back—”

“Enough,” Cyclone cut his daughter off, and for just a moment, flames danced over his good wing before he restrained his pegasus magic. “My ambition was my folly, Sirocco; not something to be admired. Your grandfather was right; reigniting war with Magnus would be a mistake, even if Equestria were behind us—and if we are the ones who ignite war, they won’t be. Which is why we will not harm the griffon—at least, not unless he gives us cause.” Gesturing down the road with his wing, Cyclone nodded his head to Lefse. “Lead the way.”

Lefse nodded. “Yes, Commander, sir.” Swallowing, she took her place ahead of and between the two armed pegasi, and her hooves clicked on the road as she traveled into the winds of eternal winter. “The bakery is down by the docks.”

“He must have followed the river,” Cyclone observed.

“Or he has a map,” Sirocco suggested. “And he just got lost because of the whiteout storm. How do we know this griffon hasn’t already scouted River Rock?”

“We don’t,” Cyclone answered dryly. Then, to Lefse’s surprise, he stepped up beside her. “You’re cold?”

Lefse hadn’t even noticed the chill, as focused as she was on the discussion of the threat of war; she only realized the fact when she followed Cyclone’s gaze beside her and realized her teeth were chattering. So she gave the tyrant a brief nod.

Cyclone answered by extending his good wing over her back—not wrapped over her, but held aloft a solid hoof above her back. And then, with an audible crackle, his feathers burst into flame. The sudden appearance of fire arrested Lefse’s stride, though Cyclone shook his head and nodded forward. “The fire is my magic; it won’t burn you unless I want it to. Lead on.”

Though his phrasing was perhaps less than comforting, Lefse had to note that a fire hovering above her back, combined with Cyclone’s considerable frame breaking the wind at her side, really did cut back on the chill of the frozen air. So, as she walked on, Lefse had to admit how strange it felt, after having never even seen her ruler in the flesh before, to be walking the street at his side and under his literally flaming wing.

Less comforting were Cyclone’s directions as the trio approached the bakery. “Lefse, when we arrive, you will lead your family to another room. Sirocco, hold your tongue; I will be the only one to speak to the griffon. Even if he threatens me, do not draw your blade unless he draws my blood.” After some silence, as the trio rounded the corner to walk along the docks, where the bakery’s door was a mere few strides away, he finished “Do I make myself clear?”

“Y-yes,” Lefse answered.

“Crystal, sir,’ Sirocco replied.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

It came as some amusement, at least to me, that despite the ruler’s concerns about secrecy, the griffon was still quite asleep when Cyclone arrived in the bakery. And so, after a moment consoling and dismissing Lefse’s grandfather that nothing they had done was wrong, and that it was the griffon who had attracted Cyclone’s personal attention and not the family who saved him, the ruler of River Rock sent his second-eldest daughter and right hoof to retrieve a covered wagon, a Cirran legion medicus—essentially, a field doctor—and an old unicorn apothecary who had refused to abandon River Rock. All, it seemed, would be needed for the griffon, whose wingtips were missing feathers, and the flesh beneath blackened with frostbite, and whose paws and talons alike seemed a ghastly pale gray even with the heat of the bakery. Cyclone’s only grim command to the bakers as he left the bakery was that they were not to speak whatsoever of what they had witnessed until they heard otherwise from the city’s guards.

Transporting the griffon back to Burning Hearth Castle was handled with considerable care and paranoia, though ultimately there was little need for it. The ponies of River Rock knew better than to stick their noses into the affairs of Cyclone and his family—and even beyond that, though the whiteout effect of the storm had passed, it wasn’t as though anypony enjoyed the freezing temperatures long enough to linger in the streets just to gawk at a passing wagon, even if Cyclone himself walked alongside it.

So it was that, a full six hours after he passed out on the threshold of the bakery, the griffon wanderer stirred and yawned, and found himself surprised to be covered by a thick quilt, resting in a bed of straw with his head on a pillow of the same dry material.

“I see you are awake.” Cyclone’s rough voice drew the griffon’s attention immediately, though it carried with it a look of confusion.

“I… y-yes.” Even under his quilt, there was a slight trembling shudder to the griffon’s words. “Y-you prefer Cirran or… this?”

“Whichever,” Cyclone muttered indifferently, before switching tongues. “I speak Cirran.” With a sideways nod to Sirocco at his side, he added “As does she.”

The griffon smiled at that. “I was told it was p-proper to greet you in Cirran, if-f-f—” If you have never heard a beak chatter in cold, it is a curious noise. Letting his head flop back against his pillow, the tercel breathed a sigh and focused himself.

“You will not come to harm here,” Cyclone assured. “Rest. I will send soup.”

“No, w-wait!” The griffon pulled himself to at least sit upright in his bed. “My message.”

“Griffon, you were frozen on Garuda’s threshold… or whatever griffon god sees to you when you die. My medicus assures me you will survive, but when your health is more stable, you have frozen tissue that needs to be removed or it will rot and infect you.” Cyclone nodded to the bed. “So lay down, spare your strength, and your message will still be here when you are more fit to speak.”

Artorius stubbornly shook his head. “I am sworn as a knight to deliver this message first. My name is Artorius, son of Theod. Thank you for saving me from the cold. When I am well, I will repay you. Please, forgive me for being in a rush, but it is urgent that I speak with Emperor Hurricane.”

Cyclone drew a short breath and then let out a long sigh—I suspect being more dramatic than he actually felt, given what followed in perfect Cirran. “Artorius, my father died some years ago. I am the Emperor of Cirra now: Gladioprocellarius Kyklon Haysar.”

More as a fact of historical amusement than necessity of understanding: Cyclone’s Cirran name was not actually Cirran at all, but the Nimban Kyklon—owing to fact that his mother, Swift Spear, was herself half-Nimban, and wanted to compromise the naming of her first foal between her own heritage and Hurricane’s family’s longstanding tradition of naming all their foals after generally foul weather.

Sirocco shot her father a sideways glance, which in a testament to the giant pegasus’ poker face, he didn’t even acknowledge with a glance of his own.

Nervously, Artorius shrunk back in his bed. “Oh, forgive me, Emperor Cyclone; I didn’t know.”

Cyclone answered by steepling his hooves, switching back to more casual Equiish and loosening his shoulders. “Why are you here, Artorius? What message did you carry for my father that means so much to you?”

“My mother, Aela, has led a long rebellion against Emperor Magnus’s tyranny. But we have run out of knights and swords, and we will soon run out of food.”

Cyclone scowled. “I will not drag Cirra into another war.”

“I’m not asking you to, Emperor,” Artorius answered, rolling forward onto his claws and paws, before bowing his head low toward Cyclone. “We’re only asking for shelter. Somewhere to escape Magnus, as Emperor Hurricane years ago.”

Sirocco let out a cruel laugh, and despite Cyclone’s outright glare, she spoke up. “A griffon begging Cirra for shelter? What’s next? Will you pray to Mobius for mercy instead of your griffon gods?”

“I…” Artorius swallowed, and despite being bedridden, braced his shoulders as if he were prepared to come to blows with Sirocco… or at least, to indicate he didn’t fear her. “I had hoped Emperor Hurricane would be here. When I was just a hatchling, he and my father fought side-by-side as allies.”

This time, Sirocco was not amused. Her wings flared. Cyclone raised a hoof to silence his daughter—not that she heeded it in the slightest, stepping forward with murder in her eyes. “Grandfather may not be here, griffon, but don’t think that means you can lie to us about him. There were no griffons on our side in the Red Cloud War.”

Cyclone sighed. “Imperator, not only are you out of order, but you are also wrong.” Gently flicking his good wing downward in her direction toward the floor—as one might when ordering a dog to sit—he added “You will not speak again.” Then, returning his attention to Artorius, the tyrant of River Rock leaned forward. “I take it from the fact that you have a Cirran name and a white head that your father was one of the Canii?”

“Dogs?” Sirocco asked, her rage tempered by confusion. “Father, are you calling him a bitch in Cirran?”

Cyclone opted for a curious and rare display of emotion by rolling his eyes. “The Canii were a group of griffons who served Cirra instead of Gryphus in our wars. They were used as auxilia, and often on dangerous high-risk maneuvers, but they were renowned through Cirran history as a powerful fighting force, combining the strength of griffon bodies with the discipline of the Legion.” Cyclone then turned to Artorius. “Most had white feathers like Artorius, and yellow-tan fur. And unlike most griffons, they took Cirran names—as Artorius is.”

Artorius smiled. “Thank you for believing me.”

“I didn’t say that,” Cyclone warned. “Though my Imperator spoke out of turn and in ignorance, she is right that my father never fought alongside the Canii. He served in the eighth legion offensive up to Hengstead… and of course he couldn’t have after that.”

Artorius quirked a brow. “Why not?”

Cyclone hesitated a moment, and then sighed. “Because the Eighth Legion had just reached Hengstead when Emperor August ordered the Legion to exterminate the Canii auxilia, along with all griffon slaves in Cirra, and all griffons in conquered lands. His idea of a fair punishment…”

Artorius winced, and glanced nervously to the side where he saw Sirocco smiling at the uncomfortable note of Cirran history, before turning his attention back to Cyclone. “My mother told me a bit about that history, but I didn’t know the timing of the offensives. I, um, I’m only twenty four; I wasn’t alive during the war. But, uh, both my parents were in the auxilia—though I get my Canii colors from my mother.” Taking a moment to swallow, seemingly to center himself, Artorius continued “We only met Emperor Hurricane later—twenty years ago or so, when he and the goddess Celeste came back to Dioda.”

“Grandfather never went back to Dioda!” Sirocco snapped. “He’s too much of a gods damn coward to take back Cirra!”

Cyclone turned in his seat so that his good wing could point at the door. Tongues of flame licked along his feathers. His eyes glowed like molten iron, and there was no kindness to be found in them. “Wait,” he ordered.

With a sour look on her face Sirocco stalked over to the door of the small castle bedroom. Still, defiantly, she took a parting moment in the doorway to turn over her shoulder and glare at Artorius before she finally slipped from view.

Cyclone turned back to Artorius and once more steepled his hooves. “While you are here, you will not speak of my father’s return to Dioda. If you do, I will kill you, and tell whoever sent you that you never arrived. I am the only pony alive besides Celeste… and now my daughter... who knows.”

Having stood on the other end of a death threat from Cyclone, I can sympathize with Artorius’ nervousness, pulling his avian neck back in a way that ruffled up the feathers of his ‘bald’ white head. “O-of course. I apologize. I did not realize it would cause such a problem.”

“It will not cause a problem once I speak to Sirocco. Bringing more griffons here will cause much more of a problem than airing my father’s secrets…” Cyclone frowned and leaned forward, until Artorius could smell his breath in the air. “I cannot take your story on faith, Artorius. For the time being, I will have to assume you are a scout serving Emperor Magnus, come to finish off the last remnants of the Cirran Empire. Fortunately for you, my father left considerable records from his time ruling what remains of Cirra.” Artorius breathed a small sigh of relief at that revelation. “Unfortunately, he kept them with a heavy cipher. And while I know how to decode them, the process is time consuming—especially when I do not know what volume will hold the relevant story. Until I have time to determine the truth, you will stay here.”

“I understand,” Artorius answered. “How long do you think it will take?”

Cyclone glanced to the door, closed his eyes for a few moments, and then answered “Three weeks at the longest.”

“If that is what it will take. I’m at your mercy, Emperor Cyclone, but I have to beg you to hurry. Magnus would love nothing more than to kill the rest of my family and friends while they wait for my answer.”

Cyclone nodded. “We shall see.” The crippled, but brutally powerful pegasus rose from his chair and took two solid strides toward the door before pausing. “To be clear, if my father’s records do not echo your story, I will kill you. So before I go, is there anything else you would like to add?”

Artorius swallowed. “No, sir.” As Cyclone took another step toward the door, he called out again. “Er, that is—”

With his face turned away from the griffon, Cyclone grinned a predator’s smile.

“When I was in the storm, there was a… a pony hen? What do you call your females?”

Cyclone turned and raised a brow. “The word is ‘Mares’. You mean the baker?”

Artorius smiled and nodded. “If she is the one who first saved me from the storm. I would like to meet her, and do something to repay her for saving my life—if that is acceptable. Under whatever restrictions you see fit, of course. But I am a knight, and it would help me to feel like I had kept up my honor if I could thank her.”

Cyclone chuckled, seeming genuinely surprised at the innocence of the griffon’s request after his attempt at a parting threat. “I will make arrangements for one of my offspring to accompany you when you are well enough to walk. But do not try to flee.” Artorius’ eyes widened in shock, and the pegasus shook his head. “A griffon may outfly a pegasus in a straight line, but even if you did escape, you can hardly cross the ocean back to Dioda without supplies. And I imagine you don’t even know the right direction.” With a brief gesture toward the griffon’s bed, Cyclone concluded “Rest now. You must be tired. I’ll have some food sent up. For now, do not try to leave this room.”

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

Though Cyclone seemed pleased to find Sirocco still waiting in the hall when he left Artorius’ chamber—one of the dozens, if not hundreds, of guest suites in the halls of Burning Hearth Castle leftover from its time as the capital of the Diamond Kingdoms—he said nothing to her as he passed. His only indication in her direction was a flick of his good wing to signal that she follow him.

The two pegasi ultimately made their way to what had once been some unicorn monarch’s parlor for card games—a room which Cyclone had converted into, for want of a better term, a map chamber. The card table had been replaced by an elaborate wooden topographical map of the lands of the former Diamond Kingdoms, stretching from Neighvgorod and Arkhayngelsk in the far north all the way down to the Castle of Midnight in the south…

Forgive me; for those who don’t know what will someday be called ‘the history of the Twilight War’, but which I would still classify as ‘current events’, the location where I lost half my face still holds a special place in empty space beside my open skull where my memories would normally be stored. (Since somepony will inevitably be wondering: the brain and the soul both store memories, albeit in very different ways. I’m cheating a bit, double-dipping in the latter to make up for the absence of the former.) The Castle of Midnight was once the fortress of Tirek, ‘The Centaur’ you hear about in foals stories and sermons. More recently, it is where the final battles of the Twilight War took place.

In more ancient and relevant history, the map on the table was a masterpiece, though far from the only notable feature of the room. When Queen Platinum I and her servants had taken what they wanted from the structure, though they saved a considerable number of portraits, they left behind the largest and most ornate picture frames—the ones too metallic and too heavy to be worth making the long and frankly dangerous trip across miles of winter wasteland on the way to Equestria’s sunnier shores. Thus, being left with dozens of elaborate empty picture frames, Cyclone had repurposed them as holders for maps of the various cities in his newfound holdings. Opposite the door to the room was a beautifully painted map of River Rock proper, while the side walls were covered with carefully but less beautifully traced charcoal diagrams of the other cities in the territory.

In the center of the room as Cyclone and Sirocco entered was a third pegasus, slightly younger than the latter of the pair. In color, he was the spitting image of Cyclone’s sister, Commander Typhoon: a lanky, middle-sized tan pegasus stallion. His mane and tail were, like hers, tri-colored in the tones of autumn leaves: brown and orange-red and a golden yellow—at least, as much as one could see it. Very much unlike Typhoon, he wore his mane so short as to make one suspect he might be going bald at the ripe young age of sixteen.

Removing a pair of reading glasses from his muzzle and stowing them on the collar of his steel lorica segmentata armor, he asked a single simple question to the approaching pegasi: “Father or Commander?”

“Both matter today, Prelate Maelstrom” Cyclone answered. “And for the time being, at least in front of our guest, it will be best to address me as ‘Emperor’.” When Maelstrom recoiled, Cyclone nodded. “I don’t like it either, but it is the least of our necessary evils today. Sirocco, shut the door.”

Cyclone, like his father before him, had embraced a certain… overt nepotism in naming officers to his highest military titles—a pattern that was not common in greater Cirran history, lest any ambitious historian infer too much from this text. Hurricane justified the practice by the (probably reasonable at the time) inference that a young Cyclone would one day succeed him, and that military leadership was far more important to a Cirran leader of that era than it had been to emperors of the older, more decadent empire. For Cyclone, the matter was more pragmatic: following his rebellion, Cyclone had two Imperators and four Praetorian Prelates before he had given the titles to his offspring. All four had died violently; half, by Cyclone’s own hoof, after failed usurpation attempts.

Family, at least as far as the history of our story, had proven both more loyal and more permanent—though it did lead to some distance between father and foals.

As Sirocco silently obeyed her father’s order, Cyclone took a seat, and then spared a moment to adjust his crippled wing so that it would lay comfortably against one of the chair’s arms. Only once he was settled, and once Sirocco had likewise had a chance to sit around the table, did the pegasus father continue. “I assume you heard about our visitor?”

“The griffon scout?” Maelstrom nodded. “The fact that you walked down the street with Blizzard’s friend and came back with a covered wagon is making quite the stir; maybe more than just admitting the griffon’s existence would. Do you think more will follow?”

“He outright told us so,” Sirocco answered. Cyclone shot his daughter a sideways glance for her speaking up so aggressively, but without the strength of condemnation he had offered in Artorius’ presence. To Sirocco, that evidently meant she had tacit permission to continue. “He claims he wants to bring another group of griffons to keep them safe from Magnus.”

“They could be spies,” Maelstrom observed.

“They’re obviously going to be spies,” Sirocco countered. “Commander… Emperor… Look, Father, permission to speak freely?”

“You didn’t seem to need it a moment ago,” Cyclone observed.

Again, Sirocco took that light chastisement as permission to continue. “I don’t know why you’re giving him the time of day. No pegasus has been back to Dioda since the Red Cloud War. And if we know he’s lying to us, it’s obviously because he’s a spy for Magnus.”

Cyclone closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. “That isn’t true, Sirocco. Before you were born… It was only perhaps four, five years after ‘Hearth’s Warming’.” Cyclone spat the increasingly favored name of the holiday with all the vitriol of the villain of a foal’s rhyme-laden parable about charity. “I think you may have been a year old; your grandfather came here with Lady Celestia and…” Cyclone’s already rather negative face took on not only a deeper frown, but also seemingly ten years of age. “…nevermind.”

Maelstrom and Sirocco exchanged a glance I saw many times in my youth, shot between Gale and Tempest. While I would normally be tempted to call it a ‘universal sibling experience’, there aren’t many parents in the world like Cyclone and Hurricane, and I suspect the average potter or baker or chandler lacks the kind of dark secrets to make such an exchange common. Regardless, it was evidently common enough for Cyclone’s 2nd and 3rd foals, just as it was for Hurricane’s 3rd daughter and his grandson (and, though I haven’t confirmed it, I suspect for Cyclone himself and Typhoon, in their respective youths).

“Father had just lost his wing; the wound was still rather ugly, and whatever took it had poisoned him. They were headed to Dioda to find Luna. Celestia believed Luna would know the cure.”

“Grandfather found the goddesses by going back to Dioda?” Maelstrom frowned. “Why didn’t they help us in the Red Cloud War? Celestia and Luna, I mean. If Magnus is truly the griffon god, why didn’t they involve themselves?”

“I do not know,” Cyclone answered. “It would be a question for your grandfather. When they returned to Equestria, they did not stop in River Rock. I don’t know if what Artorius claims about Father befriending griffons is true or not, but it is hardly beyond the realm of reason.”

“Why did you lie about Grandfather being dead?” Sirocco asked.

“To protect Equestria,” Cyclone answered. “If we do allow Artorius to go back to Dioda, I want him to believe the Compact Lands are all that’s left of Cirra.”

Maelstrom cocked his head. “You believe Magnus won’t attack us here, but he would attack Equestria?”

“As Father told me, the one time he spoke on the subject, Magnus is a creature of overwhelming pride,” Cyclone answered. “Equestria would be a much more tempting target than a frozen wasteland with a starving population and virtually no resources. And if ‘Emperor Hurricane’ is dead, there are no grudges left from the war…” Cyclone chuckled to himself. “I will have to find a way to mention in passing that Iron Rain is dead.”

“Who’s Iron Rain?” Sirocco asked.

Maelstrom shook his head dismissively. “Are you illiterate, Imperator, or do the words just drain out of your ears as you go?”

Sirocco gritted her teeth at her brother. “Listen, little Prelate—”

“Enough,” Cyclone interrupted. “We are a family, not bickering senators. Shame on both of you.” Then, with a shake of his head, he turned to Sirocco. “Iron Rain was my mentor in swordsmareship, a lifetime ago. But more importantly, if the story she tells is true, she is the only pony besides your grandfather to have survived facing Magnus in combat.”

Both younger ponies gasped. “Grandfather fought Magnus?!”

Cyclone snorted heavily and smiled just a little—it was as close a noise as the stallion seemed to allow himself to actually laughing. “If the story can be trusted, yes—I’m sure you’re both imagining all the stories the other legionaries tell about him bucking bolts of lightning and walking through dragon fire, but this isn’t like that. Even the parts of those stories that are true are from after we came here, and pegasus magic became more than a Nyxian mercenary’s secret. He was just a rank-and-file centurion, and the battle was just a chance meeting. And even then, he would have been slaughtered if it weren’t for your grandmother, Swift Spear, and his friend Silver Sword coming to save the day.”

Maelstrom nodded. “So if Magnus believes both Grandfather and this Iron Rain to be dead, and Cirra to be just a bunch of frozen cities on the verge of collapsing, you’re sure that’s a good enough reason for him not to care about us?”

“I hope,” Cyclone answered. “I can only hope. If the griffons do come, we can't fight them without Equestria’s help. And I can’t be sure they will come. So we have to do everything we can to appear beneath Magnus’ notice.”

Standing up, Cyclone made his way over to a cupboard set just below one of the maps on the wall. From one of its drawers, he retrieved a sheet of parchment and an inkwell. Combined with a red feather plucked from his bad wing, it gave him a complete writing set. He set the parchment on a particularly flat plain of the topographical map table and, demonstrating a somewhat frightening skill at multitasking, began to write as he continued to speak to his foals.

“Maelstrom, I’m entrusting Artorius into your custody. You should be better able to deal with him if he suddenly takes flight than I can with my bad wing.”

“What difference would it make, if he’s confined to the palace?” Maelstrom asked.

“He isn’t,” Cyclone answered. “When he’s well enough to walk, you’re to take him back to the bakery where Blizzard’s friend lives… you know the place, by the docks? Let him see the rest of the city too—closely supervised, though.”

Maelstrom’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “What? Commander, with respect, why?”

“Because we want him to see River Rock is half-starved and falling apart,” Sirocco answered with more than a hint of snideness. “It would be weird if we just told him that; nopony talks that bad about their own land even if it’s true. Maybe books just tell you everything, but that’s not how real life works. Like most things you read in books.”

Maelstrom rolled his eyes. “I see. What should I do to ensure his wanderings don’t expose the existence of Equestria?”

“You are my Praetorian Prelate,” Cyclone answered. “Direct your troops ahead of you, and have them give strict orders to whoever Artorius is going to speak to. And if necessary, lie to him. You’re a creative colt, Maelstrom. But I doubt there will be much risk; our weather century expects the storm to last another few days, if not into next week. Ponies aren’t likely to be out for chance encounters.”

“As you command,” Maelstrom replied, hesitantly. “I’m not certain if I’m confident in risking him catching wind of the truth on what three ponies are guessing about the weather.”

“You sure you want him watching a griffon?” Sirocco puffed up her scrawny teenage shoulders: it should be noted she had quite the defined musculature for a mare her age, but she was a far cry from an intimidating presence, especially compared to Cyclone. “We all know I’m the best fighter.”

“Your fire magic is the strongest we have,” Cyclone agreed. “Besides mine. But you also have two working wings, and aren’t forbidden on pain of death from entering Equestria. Which is why I have a special task for you.” Looking up from his writing, Cyclone left his plucked feather sitting in the inkwell. With a hoof and his good wing, he swiftly folded his parchment into thirds. “Sirocco, I need you to take this letter to Everfree City, and deliver it to your grandfather. We can’t wait for the weather to break, so you will need to light your wings on fire and fly straight through. Stop for nopony. Do not reveal the existence of the letter.”

“Relax, Father. I’m the best flier in the Compact Lands too.”

Cyclone snorted in humor. “You remind me of Typhoon.” Then, shaking his head, he shed the slight hint of that good humor and let his hair face turn serious again. “Do not pass this off to anypony else. Not your aunt, not one of her soldiers, not even Celestia or Luna. And not your older sister.”

“Half-sister,” Maelstrom noted spitefully.

Sirocco was even less forgiving. “Not even that. Blizzard betrayed us. She isn’t family anymore. I hope that unicorn asshole is as bad to her as he was to Aunt Gale.”

For those who have forgotten, it was in River Rock, perhaps a month and change prior to these discussions, that I had first revealed—accidentally—that I knew Gale’s true identity as Princess Platinum III. I… was not the most diplomatic in delivering that revelation. And Gale did not exactly take it well.

Cyclone seemed to age even further in front of his foals, his military posture and restrained expressions cracking under the strain of something like shame or regret. “I made a mistake once too. She’s still family. But you are to deliver this directly to your grandfather.”

The return of her father’s tone from fatherly regret to stark, cold command struck Sirocco, and she nodded decisively. “I understand, sir.”

“He will give you a reply to bring back to me,” Cyclone explained. “The same rules apply. Nopony else reads it, nopony else carries it. You are welcome to stay in Everfree City as long as you need to recover from the flight. I do not want you to wear yourself out and get lost, especially on the trip back with the storm at the end of the flight. But don’t stay longer than you feel you need.”

“Will she need to be worried about how Grandfather will receive her?” Maelstrom asked. “Given what you tried to warn Blizzard about before she left?”

Cyclone shook her head. “Your mother wasn’t involved in my rebellion the way Blizzard’s mother was. If Blizzard was able to find a welcome in Everfree, Sirocco will be fine. And even if not, my father will understand that this message is more important than any differences he and I may still have.”

Sirocco frowned. “What difference does some griffon make? They’ve abandoned us our whole lives. We’ve only met Grandfather, what, twice? And Aunt Typhoon has never even come to meet us once.”

“Typhoon has her reasons not to come back to River Rock,” Cyclone muttered, almost more to himself than his daughter. “More of my mistakes. I can’t fault her.”

“If anything you’ve ever said about family is true, Father, they don’t care about us.” Sirocco took the letter from the table and tucked it into her armor. “I’ll fulfill my mission as you command, sir. But I won’t waste time trying to reconcile with them.”

Cyclone hung his head just a bit, but he did give her a nod. “Tell Blizzard I love her. And I love you, my daughter. Fly safe, Sirocco.”

“If it were safe, you wouldn’t need to send me,” Sirocco answered by way of parting, before (rather awkwardly) adding “But, uh, I love you too, sir.”

Once Sirocco was gone, Maelstrom looked thoughtfully at his father. “If I may ask, sir, what are you going to do?”

“I need to learn how to fight griffons, in case this does come to war.”

“You don’t know?”

“You forget, Prelate: I was born here, in the Compact Lands. Some ponies say I was the first Cirran not born on Cirran soil. Artorius is the first griffon I have ever met. And by the time I was old enough to lead a century, let alone the entire Legion, Cirra was more concerned with crystals and dragons than griffons.” Cyclone rolled his neck, and then shook his head. “There’s no reason for me to keep secrets. When I was your age, I dreamed of making a name for myself, separate from my father, by returning to Dioda and reconquering Cirra. Father refused to even speak of the idea, but there were other veterans of the Red Cloud War who were more sympathetic. Blizzard’s mother Summer. Rust Shot. But only one of them was old enough to have held a command in the war and is still alive: Thunder Hawk.”

Maelstrom frowned. “I’ve heard those other names before, but I don’t recognize Thunder Hawk.”

“I may have been the leader of the rebellion, but Thunder Hawk was in many ways its architect. Where I had respect and talent and ambition, he had the cunning and influence to make the arrangements we needed quietly. When we believed your grandfather was dead on his journey searching for new lands, and we set our plans into motion, I tasked him with arresting your grandmother and your great aunt. His attempt failed, and your grandmother died resisting him. I haven’t spoken to him since. He was spared to exile along with me. I think he lives in Emerald Orchard, or what’s left of it..”

Maelstrom nodded. “Will you be taking an entourage? I can arrange some of the Praetorian to guard you—”

Cyclone shook his head and chuckled. “Son, I’m scarier than anything in the wilderness. I’d much rather all your legionaries stay here in case anything goes wrong. I’m entrusting the city to you.”

“And my siblings?”

“Bliz—” Cyclone winced. “Yes, that’s right. She’s gone now. Can you—?”

“With respect, speaking to you as my father and not my commanding officer: I can manage the defenses of a city and a disciplined command structure of legionaries, and personally babysit a griffon who may be a scout for a hostile enemy force, or I can focus my attention on a dozen and a half foals who have no respect for my command whatsoever. But I cannot do both. And given my marks are legion banners and not… I don’t know, foals balls or bottles or something, I think we both know which option I prefer.”

“You’re right.” Cyclone sighed and rubbed a hoof down the length of his face. “Do you have any ideas?”

“No… ” Maelstrom chuckled. “Have fewer foals? I don’t suppose you’re beginning to regret the one-night stands or the poisonings and stabbings?”

Cyclone was not amused. “Believe it or not, son, I don’t find the whispers on the streets amusing. The last thing I need is my own flesh and blood spreading those lies. But since I apparently must say it aloud: I loved your mother. And I loved Rampart after her. And as for the rest, you of all ponies know I’m too damn busy trying to keep order in this frozen hellscape to have time to father many bastards. To say nothing of how stupid I would be to kill parents to steal their foals. But they were orphaned by my mistakes, and I won’t let them freeze. Or be eaten. So now they are my foals.”

Maelstrom’s ears dropped. “I know, Father. I’m sorry… The orphans—” Those words too gave way when Cyclone glared. “Well, what do you want me to say? I can’t just call them ‘my siblings’; I’d be including Blizzard and Sirocco and—”

“The younger ones are no different than Blizzard and Sirocco,” Cyclone insisted. “Blizzard doesn’t share the same mother as you and Sirocco, after all.”

“No…” muttered Maelstrom glumly. “But at least you’re our real father.”

Maelstrom’s nostrils flared at the smell of smoke in the room, and then apparently knowingly, he responded by hanging his head and squeezing his eyes closed. For a moment, the room sat in silence. Maelstrom was sure he would have heard his father move; Cyclone was many things a warrior would strive to be, but quiet was not among them.

Then heavy hooffalls marked the grown stallion walking toward the door. The old unicorn door creaked on its hinges to make way for the castle’s conqueror. In the doorway, Cyclone stopped. “Since you clearly need a reminder of the importance of family, son, I know you’ll find a way to look after your siblings. Personally.”

Interlude III - Apropos of Red Ink

Interlude III

Apropos of Red Ink

The last member of Sunset’s crew in her mission searching for me was Red Ink. Ink was born under the name Roscherk Krovyu, which in modern Stalliongradi would most often be translated as ‘bloody stroke’. To be clear, that is not ‘a pony from Trottingham describing the impacts of a blood clot in an elderly pony’s brain’, as in “Come quick, guv’nah; Gran’s ‘avin a bloody stroke!”. Rather, it means ‘to draw one line in a character or glyph, as will a quill or pen, using blood as the medium of coloring the paper’, as in “after I killed a giant wolf that was trying to eat me and my brother, I ripped a quill out of my wing, sharpened the end on a rock, and carved my name in the wolf’s back with the tip of the feather.”

Which, incidentally, was the real story of how Lieutenant Commander Red Ink, Equestrian Honor Guard, got his talent marks.

If that doesn’t tell you most of what you need to know about the stallion, don’t worry, it gets worse.

On the day before Sunset Shimmer, Somnambula, Tempest Shadow, and Red Ink set sail, or weighed anchor, or caught the tide, or whatever nautical term airship captains have stolen from the good and kindly seafaring ponies who know better than to artificially put a unicorn in the sky, Princess Luna and Sunset Shimmer found Ink standing in a long narrow hallway full of stained glass in one of the higher passages of Canterlot.

Red Ink was a short stallion whose stunted growth was owed to having been born in the middle of a series of draconic invasions over the Equestrian border that burnt down Stalliongrad twice and left the frozen city in famine as well as constant blizzard. Being a pegasus only worsened matters. As the middle foal of three colts, his stature had left him with something of a complex, which manifested obviously in adulthood by the fact that his legs were broader than the necks of most other ponies. Naturally a cinnamon-candy red, and wearing a darker red mane, he was rarely found outside the company of a black jacket—though unlike mine, his was fully for warmth against Stalliongrad’s permanent blizzards, with a thick fur collar and well padded shoulders. How he survived wearing it in Canterlot’s warm summers, I have no idea. Underneath it, not that Sunset could see, his mark was a quill writing fancy (but meaningless) cursive script in red ink.

The most important visual quality of Red Ink that day, though, was that he was not alone. Sunset Shimmer took note that amongst the many-colored rays of light cast by the stained glass, at least six other ponies were in the room… if one, indeed, did decide to call the creatures ‘ponies’. The only particularly common features the six beings shared were that their ears were tufted up into rough but sharper points than even the sharpest eared example of a conventional pony, and that their teeth were quite pointed and decidedly carnivorous.

Three of the number were pegasi, or at least had been. Now their wings were leathery, reminding the young mare (and everypony else who ever looked at one) of a bat’s wings.

Two of the group were unicorns, with curved horns like those common in ponies whose heredity favors the former Shogunate of Uma. Unlike even Mistmane or her kin, however, these horns were completely smooth, and though they matched the fur tone of their owners at their bases, their tips looked almost like polished crystal: partially translucent, and glowing with an interior magic that matched their owners' eyes.

The last of the number could have been called an earth pony. His only notable feature that Sunset recognized at a glance, other than his fangs and tufted ears, was that there seemed to be cracks in his forehooves running up his legs. After a moment of staring, however, she realized rather that the creatures’ legs did not end in hooves at all. Rather, he had something like a dragon’s talons, simply curled so tightly into fists that they took on the slender profile of forelegs; it was only in walking forward, when the light through the stained glass windows caught the razor-sharp edges of the claws, that she could truly tell how they fit together.

They were the Night Guard, and Sunset found her heart hammering in her chest as everything that I had revealed about Luna’s servants swept back into her mind.

“Princess Luna. Sunset Shimmer.” Red Ink nodded to the Night Guard he had been speaking with, turned, and gestured that the two ponies who had entered should approach with his wing. His heavy Stalliongradi accent tinged every word. “Something I can help you with?”

“There is not. In fact, perhaps I can help you. My sister has told me of the quest on which you will soon embark. Let me say, Lieutenant: I am glad my Sister hath chosen you and not one of the other Honor Guards.” With that thought concluded, Luna glanced up and down the line of her Night Guard. “For the purposes of assisting Sunset Shimmer and Lieutenant Commander Ink in their task, you are all permitted to speak of your lives before joining my service. You shall also pass this information on to the rest of the Night Guard, and fetch them as Lieutenant Ink, Sunset Shimmer, Somnambula, or…” Luna frowned, and her voice dropped. “Confound it, Celestia just named the mare… Assist me, my sister’s apprentice.”

Sunset nervously lifted her voice. “Tempest Shadow, Princess.”

“Yes, that is the name! Huzzah!” Luna jumped just a little bit, and if I didn’t know she were a millenia-old monster, I might have found the enthusiasm cute. “Tempest Shadow. If any of those ponies have questions or tasks for you, you are to heed them. This quest of theirs is most important to me.”

Sunset took a hesitant step forward. “So they’re really all…”

“Dead?” One of the pegasus Night Guards offered, closest to Ink. In her surprise at their shapes, Sunset hadn’t even noticed that in place of an armored black and purple breastplate, he wore what looked like a twenty year old tan trenchcoat, and was actively smoking a slightly bent cigarette. “As doornails. You can touch me if you want proof.”

“Uh…” Sunset swallowed, glancing up to Luna as if for permission. The alicorn nodded, so Sunset stepped forward, and to her own surprise, found the stallion’s body even colder than she’d been expecting. “Eeugh.”

“I know we get a little clammy, but I didn’t think it was that bad,” a dead unicorn quipped.

“Oh, uh… no, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean any offense.” Sunset jerked back. “Um, thank you, uh…”

The Night Guard shared a few chuckles at Sunset’s discomfort.

“Ninth Brother,” the winged corpse answered around his cigarette. “Or, if you don’t mind, since we’re apparently allowed to use real names with you, Chocolate Malt.”

“Do not become too comfortable, Ninth Brother,” Luna warned. “Thou art still on notice for how thou… fie and damnation, how you recruited Twelfth Sister.” Then she nodded to Sunset. “You need not fear them, Sunset Shimmer. They do not bite.”

Red Ink chuckled. “Well, not you, anyway.” Then, when Luna frowned at him, he held up his wings in mock defensiveness. “I’m not blaming anypony. I’m just saying, when I ran the Black Cloaks in Stol’nograd, usually if you didn’t find the perpetrator’s body, it meant something wild at them. And when I read incident reports with the Night Guard involved, well…” Ink shrugged and winked at Sunset. “Do svidaniya.”

Princess Luna frowned. “My Night Guard protect Equestria from magical terrors, not mortal ponies. And they do not write incident reports.”

‘Lack of accountability’ is a somewhat less damning criticism of a force of supposed protectors than ‘cannibalize the guilty’ (and at least under Nightmare Moon, quite a few innocents too), but it still ought to be condemned.

“Equestrian Intelligence is very thorough. I wish I had had spies like that when I led the Black Cloaks.” Ink smiled wryly. “Can I ask two favors?”

“You may ask,” Luna agreed.

“I need to speak to Third Brother and Twelfth Sister; can you retrieve them for me?”

“I certainly—”

“Mistress,” another one of the pegasus night guards, a mare, interrupted. “I am sorry to interrupt. But I caution against summoning Third Brother here.”

“Oh?” Princess Luna raised a curious brow. “Do tell.”

“He and Lieutenant Ink… have a past. I would prefer not to discuss it further in his presence.”

Ink grinned. “Ah, I see. Thank you, Eldest.” Then he winked at the dead mare, before focusing once again on Luna. “I no longer need to speak to Third Brother.”

“Now I find myself concerned, Honor Guard. Who is my servant to you? Do I need to be worried you shall attack him behind my back?”

“What, because I killed him the first time?” Ink calmly placed a wing over his chest. “Princess, I promise you, I will not attack any of the Night Guard, even if one of them turns out to be somepony I really hated, like Baron Frostbite..”

Sunset Shimmer’s eyes widened. “Baron Frostbite is dead?”

Ink closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. “Right. You’re actually almost fifty despite how you look. Blyat, I knew I should have paid more attention to that part of the report. And you were Celestia’s student so you would have met him… Well, there’s no point hiding it now. Yes, Baron Frostbite is dead, by my hoof. If that’s going to introduce some kind of tension for our mission, I can ask Commander Flag to accompany you instead. She’s less well versed in history and she probably doesn’t have as many underworld contacts, but she can teleport the heart out of a living pony, so she’ll do the fighting part just fine. And if we’re being honest, that’s probably why Princess Celestia actually wants an Honor Guard with you.”

“If I may, Sunset Shimmer,” said Luna. “I would prefer if you kept Lieutenant Ink. Out of the current Honor Guards, I think I can trust him the most for this task.” Then, with a tip of the tip of her wing to Ink, she turned for the door. “I will return with Twelfth Sister.”

Ink collapsed onto his flanks at the sound. “Night Guard, I’m done with all of you; thank you for your time. Give me some privacy to talk to Miss Shimmer.” After his request, the red pegasus waited a few long moments for the assembled dead to shuffle off before he finally turned back to Sunset.

“Okay. As first impressions go, that was not my best. Can I start over?”

“Um… sure?”

“I am Red Ink. Well, actually, I am Roscherk Krovyu, but ‘Red Ink’ is a lot friendlier to ponies who don’t speak the language. I am Lieutenant Commander of the Honor Guard, though I spend most of my time as a history and gym teacher at Sparkle’s Friendship School in Ponyville--sometimes it comes as a surprise, but she does teach more than just ‘kindness’ and ‘generosity’ there. That’s supposed to be my cover identity to watch Ponyville, since everything wrong in Equestria seems to happen there these days, though most of the time, Sparkle and her friends just go solve the problem anyway. ‘Overwhelming violence’ is what I bring to that kind of table, and it is not exactly an Element of Harmony, no?” Ink offered a smile. “How about you? What is life like where you get to skip twenty years of age and walk around on two hooves?”

Sunset blinked, and then chuckled, and then laughed, and then finally had to hold a hoof over her mouth. “Sorry… I… well, I guess to start with, we don’t have hooves. Humans—that’s what the species on the other side of the mirror is called—have ‘feet’, sort of like griffons or dogs or whatever. There’s no magic, so I’m a little out of practice with having a horn… Did you say your real name was ‘Roscherk Krovyu’?”

“Ah, you pronounced it very well.” Ink smiled. “Why?”

“I speak enough Stalliongradi—” Ink visibly gritted his teeth. “—to know that doesn’t translate to ‘Red Ink’. But also, everypony here in Equestria has a version of themselves on the other side of the mirror where I’ve been living, and your name kind of shows up on the news sometimes.”

Ink’s smile remained pinned, but it fell from his eyes, leaving him looking mostly like something had disturbed him. “I… take it he did not get sent by human goddess Celestia, on pain of death, to go learn friendship at Sparkle’s treehouse?”

“What?” Sunset took a few long seconds to stare at Ink, during which time the stallion cursed heavily under his breath in Stalliongradi. “No, no; Celestia’s not an alicorn on the other side of the mirror. She’s just a high school principal. And you’re, uh…” Sunset hesitated. “Well, there are some very handsome pictures of you shirtless, riding a horse outside of Neighvgorod.”

Ink’s face flickered through several confused emotions that I suspect most readers unfamiliar with interdimensional portals have shared, before finally settling upon simultaneously the most telling and the least acceptable clarifying question one can imagine: “Was the… mare of the night at least good looking?”

“What?” Then a rich blush swept over Sunset’s face. “No, no, not like that, eww! Not that kind of horse. No ‘w’!”

“Oh… Now I’m even more concerned; is a ‘horse’ at least a mammal? And this is in the newspaper there? And why do you even know about—”

“Not that kind of riding either!” Sunset was redder than Ink by that point, trying to hide her face behind her delicious bacon*-colored mane, and was not helped at all by the unsubtle chuckles from a few of the Night Guard, who couldn’t help but hear at least the shouted parts of the conversation. “Nevermind about other you, okay? Sorry I brought it up. Look, I’m just living a regular life over there, or at least trying to. I promise it’s not as weird as it sounds”

* It follows from a basic principle of necromancy that bacon, unlike beef, isn’t meat. And no, this isn’t a post-hoc justification because bacon is somehow that delicious. I explain further in a later Tale, so I won’t prepeat myself here.

“I can respect that.” Ink glanced around the room and nodded at the windows. “Did you just want to meet me, or to talk about the mission?”

If only at the prompt of a less awkward subject of conversation, Sunset smiled. “Sure, let’s talk about that! Have you found anything out? What did you want to talk to the Night Guard for?”

“Nothing yet. When the Princess mentioned the amulet Morty is supposedly looking for, I remembered something I read in a report from one of Celestia’s spies.” Ink chuckled at the mild look of shock on Sunset’s face. “You can’t be that naive, or you wouldn’t be on this mission.”

“I… no, you’re right. I mean, it’s not like S.M.I.LE. is that secret. It’s just weird hearing somepony say ‘Celestia’s spies’.”

“She is very good at giving that image, isn’t she? Sort of like the implication that the ‘M’ in the acronym means they don’t spy on ponies.” Ink winked knowingly before his husky accented voice carried on. “There was a pendant a lot like the one the Princess described that got stolen a couple of years ago from a noblepony here in Canterlot in the middle of a Nightmare Night party. I dug up the report; it didn’t say much. But Ninth Brother was in charge of the investigation.”

“Were you kidding about not finding anything yet? That’s huge!” Sunset grinned. “So what happened to it?”

“After the thief wound up dead and the fence got caught, the trail went cold.”

“Oh.” Sunset frowned. “I mean, I guess we still know somepony tried to steal it. Do you think Morty was the buyer?”

The black fur collar on Ink’s neck rose and fell with his shoulders. “I do not know the stallion enough to guess. Fortunately, he did give us an example to follow, of how a corpse doesn’t have to be a cold trail.”

Sunset grimaced. “You’re asking me to seance the thief? Lieutenant Ink, look, I’m a pretty good mage, but I only got my necromancy license because Princess Celestia thought it was important for me to have studied the theory, and it probably expired twenty years ago! I can’t just call up somepony from Tartarus!”

Red Ink rested his wing on Sunset’s shoulder. “You don’t have to. I already did.”

“You what? You’re not a unicorn.”

“And the thief isn’t in Tartarus. Princess Luna is bringing her to us right now.”

“She—wait, Twelfth Sister is that thief?”

“That’s what Ninth Brother had to say, anyway.” Ink glanced to the door where Luna had left, and then closed his eyes. “As Honor Guard, I’m supposed to look out for Celestia and Luna. They don’t make it easy even on a normal day, and all the secrecy around this ‘Morty’ pony is giving me chills. Do you know what Celestia actually wants him for?”

“Not really…” Sunset shrugged. “I mean, part of it, I think, is about Starlight Glimmer being in his story.”

“The guidance counselor cyka?!” Ink growled. “What does she have to do with this?”

“You did read Beginner’s Guide, right? She’s Archmage Hourglass. Twilight told me she already knew how to do some kind of powerful time travel magic, so I guess I just took it for granted that wasn’t that weird, but I guess if you don’t know about that kind of magic it would be pretty weird.”

“Glimmer knows how to time travel? What’s next? Applejack actually is a plant?”

Sunset chuckled. “No, I don’t think so. It’s just Starlight. And don’t talk to her about it. Remember, that one is an order from Celestia.”

“Damn.” Ink nodded. “So that’s it? Celestia wants to set up her old supposed-to-be-dead student and the guidance counselor for some sort of time travel thing? Maybe stop Luna from having to be banished?” The red stallion massaged the bridge of his muzzle with the two leading feathers of his wing.

“Given what little I know about time travel, which admittedly isn’t a lot, that would probably destroy the world. Especially since Morty was there the first time.” As Ink raised a very concerned brow, Sunset shook her head to dismiss the impending question. “The only other thing I know is that Morty’s supposed to help Princess Celestia do some kind of favor for Princess Luna. Something about Rainbow Dash.”

“Ah.” Ink nodded, tilted his head back, took a deep breath, and let his wings sag to the ground in an open show of both relief and regret. “And here I thought I had left that chapter of life behind.” When the comment prompted Sunset to frown in curiosity, he took a long breath. “It is a very long story, but I’ll try to sum it up. An assassin named Masquerade tried to kill Princess Luna. With a poison made specifically to kill the Princesses, if you believe it. She hit Luna while she was flying; Rainbow Dash had to save her from falling out of the sky and dying from hitting her neck on the ground. So she made one of her sonic boom rainbow things—”

“A sonic rainboom?”

Ink nodded. “About at ground level. The explosion pushed Luna sideways enough that she didn’t die. But… well, Rainbow hit the ground before her noise did.”

“Wait, what? Is this world’s Rainbow okay?”

“Well, she’s fine now. Celestia raised her from the dead.” Red Ink managed to keep a straight face for what I would call ‘two beats’ as Sunset sputtered and failed to vocalize her thoughts. Then, finally, his calm broke into laughter. “Obviously, at the time, she kind of looked like spilled strawberry jam.” When Sunset winced and her shoulders tightened, Ink’s brief humor started up again.

“But— but— Rainbow Dash here is undead?!”

“Well, not like them,” Ink noted, tilting his head toward the door the Night Guard had left through. Unfortunately, at that exact moment, Princess Luna had entered said door accompanied by a pegasus mare’s corpse, and Red Ink had to double-take at what he had just indicated. “Blyat. Nothing rude, just contrasting you with… well, I suppose that’s classified.” Then, with a nervous glance to Sunset, he added in a whisper “Do not mention that to Rainbow Dash if you see her. She does not appreciate the subject being brought up. And when she punches, she punches hard.” Then, much louder, he gestured a wing. “Sunset Shimmer, may I introduce Twelfth Sister. Twelve, this is Sunset, Celestia’s last student. She’s older than she looks.”

“Thanks,” Sunset noted with bitter sarcasm, before extending a hoof to the approaching Night Guard. “I’m Sunset Shimmer, yes. You must be Twelfth Sister. Um, do you prefer that or your real name?”

The corpse in question was a pale purple pegasus pony whose fangy grin somehow managed to be charming despite its implications. She took Sunset’s hoof earnestly and gave it a quick shake. “Well, my real name is Eyewitness so I used to go by ‘Eye’, but you can just call me ‘Twelve’. Most of the Night Guard skip the ‘brother and sister’.”

Ink raised a brow. “Most?”

“Well, we call Eldest ‘Big Sister’,” Twelve noted.

Luna nodded. “Eldest has been a great boon to me; I permit her to use her real name, but she prefers to follow my restrictions for the others.”

“Can I ask why?” Sunset asked the bad princess.

It probably hadn’t seemed like much of a troubling question to Sunset, but Luna recoiled at the simple words. “I… would prefer you speak to her, if you wish to hear her story, should she choose to share it. Suffice it to say, she has my eternal trust and gratitude.” Luna closed her eyes for a very long few seconds, and then placed a wing over Twelve’s shoulders. “As I directed, you are to help them however you can. Now, I should take my leave.”

Twelfth Sister nodded, and watched Luna depart before she turned back to the living ponies in the stained glass gallery. “So?”

Ink nodded. “I understand you know something about a locket that was stolen from an art collector in Canterlot a few years ago?”

Twelve nodded. “Yeah. I’m the one who stole it.” Then she rolled her slitted eyes and added, “Then my friend ‘Wax Mold’ stabbed me in the heart over it,” making the injury sound like a chipped hoof or at worst a black eye.

“What happened to Wax Mold after he took it?” Sunset asked.

Slitted eyes avoided her gaze. “Um… how much do you know about us, Sunset?”

“She can guess what happened to him,” Ink observed. Then, when Sunset raised a brow in his direction, the short pegasus added “Do svidaniya.” Sunset held a hoof up to her mouth at the realization, which made Ink chuckle slightly as he directed his attention to the corpse in the room. “We’re more interested in what happened to the amulet.”

“I don’t know,” Twelve muttered, suddenly very interested in the floor. “I was the face, and a decent cat burglar when the situation called for it, but I just got the stuff. I didn’t know how to get rid of it; Wax was the fence. He was the one who came up with the deal too; usually, we just stole stuff and sold it ourselves. I was never gonna meet whoever was buying it. And Wax didn’t exactly talk before… well, you know—”

“Yes,” Sunset interrupted forcefully.

Red Ink donned a scowl that seemed to fit his broad red face quite comfortably. “So that’s it, then? The trail’s cold?”

“That’s everything I know. Malt and I—uh, ‘Malt’ is Nine’s nickname—”

“We know,” Sunset interrupted. “He’s got an… interesting getup.”

“If it makes it make any more sense, I think he’s actually that old. Malt’s the only one of us I know about who actually died of old age. Not that you can tell; I guess the magic makes us look younger, but I was only about your age when I died, Sunset.”

“Remember, she’s older than she looks,” Ink teased, but his comment seemed half-hearted, distracted even from the humor. “You really just gave up on looking?”

Twelve frowned even as Sunset glared at the red pegasus. “Well, Malt and I got assigned to try and find it. That was my first job after I, um, got recruited. We shook down everypony we knew Wax had contact with. Well, I guess Malt did; he actually used to be a guardspony. Being a thief didn’t exactly teach me how to play ‘bad guard’. But nopony knew anything. Wax didn’t exactly usually deal in magic things; just art and jewelry and stuff he could move easily. I didn’t even know the necklace was magic when I stole it; I just thought it was expensive for some reason.”

Ink waved a frustrated wing in the air. “Blyat. We’re back to square one.” Bordering on stomping, he stepped away from the Night Guard and the unicorn to stare at the stained glass windows on the nearest wall. “Thank you for your help, Twelfth Sister.”

“Sorry I don’t know more. But, I guess if I did you probably wouldn’t be having to do this?” Twelve shrugged. “It was nice to meet you, Sunset, I guess.”

“Wait,” Sunset asked, nibbling on her cheek. “You stole it from Canterlot, right? Who actually had Morty’s amulet? Who did you steal it from?”

“Oh, that was Lord Barnacle. He’s an art dealer and sort of a recluse in North Canterlot; he’s always on some trip or safari or something. It was kind of a big deal we were going to target him in our circles. Everypony said he had some of the best security in Canterlot.” Then she let her eyes drift away, and one could tell at a glance, her mind with them. “He’s got a cute accent, but he’s easy to distract.”

“That’s a pseudonym. His real name is Dr. Grail Caballeron,” said Red Ink with an upswing in both his voice and mood as he turned away from the stained glass.

“From Daring Do?” Twelve asked with a raised brow. “You know those books are made up, right?”

“Only some of them,” Ink replied. “Trust one of those sorts to use an anagram for his name.”

“An anagram?”

“Lord Barnacle. Dr. Caballeron.” When Sunset raised a brow, he actually smiled. “I’m glad you didn’t think that was clever of him. Sparkle would have.”

“You learn that from those spy reports?” Sunset teased.

Red Ink groaned. “If only. I took a student to a Daring Do convention.” With a distant, glazed over look in his eyes, Ink noted “I lost five soldiers that day.”

“How do you…?” Sunset let the question trail off, shaking her head. “No, that doesn’t matter. You’re serious that this Dr. Caballeron pony is real?”

Ink groaned. “Yes. So is Daring Do.”

“Okay, Mr. ‘She’s-older-than-she-looks’,” Twelve interrupted. “We weren’t born yesterday.”

“No, hold on…” Sunset dutifully produced her copy of my prior work, A Beginner’s Guide to Heroism, and flipped to the back (though, obviously not the part featuring her that I wrote since). Finally finding Chapter 51 (Spoiler Warning, for those following along), she read aloud. “It’s part one of your autobiography. Oh, this is Archmage Hourglass… that is, Starlight Glimmer talking.” Then, with a wince, she added “I don’t know if you know her, Twelve, but Princess Celestia said not to tell her about this until Morty does… anyway, I think this is Starlight from our future, and she talks about this exactly. Let’s see… ‘A fun read, though personally I’m much more of a fan of the sequels. How To Make Undead and Influence Government…”

“You’re joking,” Twelve muttered.

“Nope. Although I don’t know why she lists them out of order. Tales from Everfree Cityshould chronologically be next. She lists that and then continues with How I Learned to Stop Living and Love the Spell… Oh, and of course, Daring Do and the Very Handsome Necromancer. Though you had to ghost write that one.”

“Where did you have that book?” Ink asked idly.

“Extradimensional pocket,” Sunset noted as casually as that phrase ought to be to a wizard, seriously concerning both pegasi in her presence. “That’s not important. Look, Morty writes a Daring Do book! There’s our link!”

“You think that there’s a link between Morty writing a Daring Do book someday maybe hundreds of years in the future, and the fact that Dr. Caballeron happened to have his amulet when she died.”

“Can we back up?” Twelve interrupted. “Daring Do is a real pony?! You two honestly believe that?”

“Compared to Morty, I feel like that’s fairly simple,” said Sunset.

“You’ll be happier if you just accept it,” Ink noted. “Even if you’re right, Sunset, what does that mean for us?”

“Well, it means we need to find Dr. Caballeron or Daring Do.” Sunset slapped her hoof on her (precious, arguably irreplaceable) copy of Beginner’s Guide. “I mean, Daring is a hero, right? And if anypony is going to know about weird ancient artifacts, or Morty for that matter, it's her.”

“She’s more of a tomb thief with good propaganda,” Ink noted flatly. “But you’re probably right that she’s a better lead than just trying to ask around for the amulet ourselves. And maybe she or Caballeron will have some idea who wanted to steal it.”

“Do your secret spy reports know where to find her?” Sunset asked.

Ink rolled his eyes. “I’ll ask Secret Service” When Sunset raised a brow, he sighed. “The head of the S.M.I.L.E.—and no, that’s not her real name. But I have a sneaking suspicion Princess Celestia’s advice about starting in Somnambula’s hometown is going to be the answer we get back. Past that, I would bet the other two are better off taking the lead.”

“Why?” Sunset asked.

“Somnambula probably remembers at least some of the tombs Daring Do would want to dig up. And as far as finding Caballeron’s latest job, I don’t have a lot of contacts in Klugetown, which is a big market for black market magical artifacts like the kind Caballeron is usually selling. Really, I don’t have contacts anywhere hot.” Ink then patted Sunset on the back with his wing—an action which involved a certain rather awkward reach up for the short pegasus. “You ask good questions, Shimmer. Is there anything else you wanted to talk about? Or should I go try and dig up what I can about Daring Do?”

Sunset raised both her forehooves frog-up. “That sounds like the best next step we have. Thank you very much for your help, both of you. I think that’s all we need for now from you, Twelve. I’m sorry to ask you about your, uh death...”

“No worries,” said Twelfth Sister. “I know normal ponies kind of get weirded out by it, but in the Night Guard it’s just kind of normal. So it was kind of fun… I still can’t believe Daring Do is real though…” Giving a flick of her leathery wing by way of a half-salute, half-wave goodbye, Twelve headed for the doors out of the gallery.

As the dead mare walked away, Sunset turned her attention back to Ink. “I’m gonna go back to my room and do some more reading before we leave tomorrow, and maybe brush up on my necromancy. I guess we might stop in Ponyville first to talk to Twilight.”

“That will be good for us,” Ink noted. “Rainbow Dash has met Daring Do a few times; she may know how to find her. And I need to drop off substitute plans.”

Sunset chuckled at the thought. “Are you going to do a unit on Morty and Gale?”

“I would be a lousy Equestrian history teacher if I didn’t cover Queen Platinum III. The Centralization Reforms aren’t something you can just skip.” Then Ink raised a brow. “Or did you forget you learned about ‘Gale’ in history class?”

Sunset winced. “I… I mean, I remember that, obviously. It’s just weird to be reading about her swearing all the time and compare that to who you imagine in history books. Morty definitely doesn’t make her look like that painting you always see pictures of—you know, the one with the pauldron and the fur cowl and her rapier.”

“By Hyacinth,” Ink replied with a nod. “Is Celestia allowing you to discuss it?”

“With you and the rest of the team, sure, but I’m not supposed to share it around too much.”

Ink grinned. “I’m not trying to spill state secrets. But since I teach history, I’m very interested in how Morty’s books feel different than what you learned in school. I want to make sure my students can remember history actually happened, with real ponies who aren’t so different from them.”

“Oh, it’s night and day. We definitely never learned about Morty, which seems weird. I mean, sure in the grand historical scale, killing Wintershimmer probably isn’t the biggest historical deal, and I can kind of see where Princess Celestia was going kind of covering him up. You wouldn’t want curious students trying to rediscover his spells. But it’s hard to believe after all that, that Morty just kind of disappeared from history. I’m kind of half-expecting to find out the history books are wrong somehow.”

“Because you think he must have had his hooves in Centralization?” Ink asked. “Or do you just want to believe he and Gale actually ended up together?”

Sunset winced, tellingly. “I—Kind of, yeah? It’s also really hard to believe Gale is the same Queen Platinum from history, since she’s so bad at politics. And with how much she loathes her suitors.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Ink answered. “I may have to ask Celestia if I can use Beginner’s Guide as a source. I’m sure Ocellus would love to hear about another good changeling in history. I bet she’d get a kick out of turning into a bear cub…” Ink’s words trailed off as he took a step away from Sunset, and he nodded her way as he passed. “Forgive me. I think I want to write this down before I forget.”

Sunset listened to the red stallion in the black coat as he walked away, muttering to himself. “Smolder’s angry enough to sympathize with Princess Platinum, and as for Morty… Heh. ‘Yaks best at necromancy?’ I wonder…”

4-1 Show and Hell

IV

Show and Hell

or

The Death Sentence of Coil the Immortal

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

IV - I

The Crap Commencement

If you, dear reader, have had the fortune in life to study as Celestia’s personal apprentice, there is a threat you have likely heard from the lips of her immortal majesty. Certainly, she might sound like she is joking when, in your moment of childish misbehavior or petulance, she warned you that your attitude might need to be corrected with a return to ‘magic kindergarten’. Perhaps, if you were older, she might have issued those same words in what sounded like a joking tone. She had to be joking, of course, didn’t she?

Let me be completely clear on two points. Firstly, Celestia was deadly serious; I have heard her more jovial on a literal battlefield than when uttering those words.

And secondly: no matter what you were actually imagining, it is worse than you think.

Before we move on to the next few weeks of the events of our story, I fear I must once more rewind time for you and return our attention to that politically charged morning around Hurricane’s breakfast table.

Celestia must have thought she was being as clever as I usually am when she observed, after explaining that her obligations that morning were to Gale, “Just because I’m busy doesn’t mean I can’t still teach you something.” When Celestia passed me a scroll bound tightly in red ribbon, I was forced to take hold of it with my hooves instead of my magic (heeding Mage Meadowbrook’s warning) before tucking it into the bigger-on-the-inside extradimensional pocket plane breast pocket of my enchanted jacket.

“It’s a letter to Mrs. Aspirations,” Celestia explained. “She teaches a class of foals about Graargh’s age in the palace district. I’d like you to take Graargh and go deliver this.”

“And then?”

“She’ll tell you what to do next. Graargh is likely going to be a new experience for her, so I trust you’ll help her if she needs it.”

From there, I bid farewell to my friend Blizzard (to remind the reader: the elder half-sister of Maelstrom and Sirocco, whose opinions on their elder sibling would be voiced rather harshly later this same day, days and days of travel to the east). Goodbyes for Tempest were shorter; though I liked to imagine we had become friends, I had to admit that I had mostly been an inconvenience for the young soldier who was the theoretical heir to the pegasus throne. My flying golem Angel got the most parting discussion with me, though it mostly consisted of my amusement at just how effectively he had traded barbs with Gale over breakfast, and a stern admonition to choose his targets more judiciously in the future. He assured me he would be gentle with Blizzard as he accompanied her during the day’s adventures.

Graargh managed to hug all three, despite Tempest’s best efforts.

Though I still couldn’t call myself accustomed to the heat of Everfree, there was something calming about being back on my hooves, carrying Graargh on my back (at his insistence) the way we had on our original journey a few months prior. And while an undeniably handsome young stallion carrying a bear cub on his back drew more than a few curious eyes, most of them at least turned soft as Graargh offered them enthusiastic waves and called greetings in the disarming way only the very young can.

When he wasn’t calling out to everypony we passed, Graargh chatted my ear off about the goings on of Hurricane’s household while I had been asleep. In his broken Equiish, he ranted at length about how ‘Papa Cane’ had taught him to play some Cirran board game, ludus latrunculorum (though I learned that name from Hurricane’s mouth later; Graargh called it ‘lood latrinumum’ which raised some very troubling questions), and that Graargh was very proud to have beaten the old pegasus twice (very troubling questions). Whatever fear I still felt about Hurricane from my crystal upbringing, and despite how utterly fair he had been to me in the trials I first faced upon arriving in Everfree City, I think it was in Graargh’s tales of bedtime stories and snuck desserts that my ingrained terror of the stallion first began to chip away. And I found myself smiling along to his stories.

In fact, the experience of catching up with my fuzzy, beclawed little friend after being cooped up in Celestia’s bedroom for weeks was so pleasant, that by the time I remembered where we were going enough to actually ask somepony, the sun was so high in the sky that it had to be closer to noon than to dawn.

It may bring some amusement to a reader to consider that, at least under Wintershimmer’s tutelage, I had been the image of punctuality. But then, Wintershimmer did have that way with ponies, and perhaps we can be grateful that Celestia didn’t.

The palace district, despite the implications of its name, wasn’t as pompous or wealthy as the Ridge or ‘Horntown’. Just outside the walls of the palace’s immense grounds and gardens, one could find shops and inns and houses that, while by no means cheap or slummy, looked at a glance that a normal pony could, with some diligent savings, actually afford in their lifetime.

Quite unlike the home Platinum had given me, and whose key I held in my breast pocket.

Eventually, we did find the building in question: a small but well-painted structure that had surely been intended as a artisan’s workshop of some kind—perhaps some kind of smithy, judging by its wide double doors and attached, fenced-in yard. Mrs. Aspiration’s Class, the plaque on the door read, though at the time I couldn’t. Underneath, a smaller label added for Fantastic Fillies and Commendable Colts. If I could have read it at the time, I might have crushed the door into a hoof-sized ball of wood pulp and splinters, purely on principle.

“Morty, go in! We need to—”

“Hold on, Graargh.” I put a hoof on the back of my companion and friend. “One last reminder: what are we going to do if somepony asks you to pretend?”

Graargh frowned. “Pretend in mind; don’t actually pretend. No bad green fire.”

“Good.” I took a bracing breath, and swore that I could smell gravedust in the air. Then, as ready as I would ever be, I pushed open the door.

I almost immediately realized that my mental preparations were about as sufficient as the breath a turtle takes before entering the competitive world of ice hockey. I had been expecting a classroom of ponies largely older than Graargh, and only a few years younger than myself.

What I saw was a startlingly attractive unicorn mare a few years older than myself standing next to a chalkboard in front of a class of some seventeen foals ranging in age from, by my guess, maybe seven up to thirteen or fourteen. (But take that with a lick of salt, my margin for error in guessing ages is only slightly better than the average of ponies who try to guess mine by my appearance.) She seemed to be enjoying her work, if one judged enthusiasm by the energy with which she moved as she addressed her class—though she displayed considerable control of her expression as she did, refraining from showing anything more than a hint of an upturned cheek.

Aspiration’s slender eyebrows were an edifice unto themselves, sharply white in spite of her relatively young age framing her piercing eyes with more power than the frameless glasses she wore very near the top of her muzzle. Her coat matched the color of her chalkboards, though without their white blurs and stains. That particular comparison was what I most took in about her appearance as she concluded her active point to the class. “We call those sounds ‘vowels’. Now, class, try and see if you can sound out all five while I talk to our new students.”

“Plural?” I teased with a raised brow.

“I was told to expect two new students,” the chalk-white-maned mare observed. “Did you lose one, sir?”

I shrugged. “I’ve only got Graargh.” And then I handed her Celestia’s letter. After she raised a brow for a moment at the fact that I did so with my hoof and not my magic, she shrugged, opened the letter, adjusted her glasses, and quickly scanned it.

“Well, I’m Misses Aspiration, as you no doubt gathered from the door.” She made the comment ‘through’ the letter as she read, and I didn’t bother to correct her assumption about my literacy. “Judging by the name, I’m going to guess this young… cub is Graw?”

Graargh opened his mouth and let out an ursine roar, which produced quite a set of reactions from the class. Misses Aspiration alone seemed unrattled, though I suspect it may have been more a show of willpower to keep up an act than actual apathy.

“He answers to ‘Graargh’, though,” I explained.

“I see.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Then the missing student is one…” she paused for just a second on my name, parsing its unfortunate implications with a startling display of grace and ambivalence. “Mortal Coil?”

“I’m Mortal Coil,” I told her, so confused by the implication of what Celestia’s letter had said that I didn’t even think to offer my preferred nickname. “So I suspect there must be some kind of mistake. Celestia sent me to watch out for him.”

Her eyebrows led a fierce guerilla offensive, devoid of casus belli, against the rich and fertile steppes of her brow. She looked me up and down, and then up and down again, and I briefly worried her neck had given out. But then she gestured into the room. “Mortal, I will ask you to take a seat near the back of the class, so that your height isn’t an impediment to the other students. Graargh, take any place you like.”

“But he’s a grownup!” somepony shouted as I walked across the room.

“I’m sure if Lady Celestia sent him here, he should fit right in. After all, school is for anypony who wants to learn, right?”

The foal who spoke up second was, in fact, familiar to me. And really, if I’m being completely honest, ‘foal’ wasn’t a completely fair way to refer to the cinnamon candy red young stallion whose mentor I had quite publicly killed in the middle of the Queen’s birthday party.

Seeing that I was staring in his direction, the young teenager offered a wave. “Hi, Lord Coil.” No longer wearing his religious tabard, it had taken me a good moment to recognize Cherry Tomato, but his perfect infuriating innocence was unmistakable once I caught his eye.

“Cherry,” Mrs. Aspiration frankly snapped at the young stallion. “What is our rule about titles?”

“I’m sorry Mrs. Aspiration,” Cherry answered. “The rule is ‘everypony is equal when they’re learning’.”

“Correct.” Aspiration sighed. “So tell me, Mortal—” She clearly saw me wince at the use of my much-hated given name, and carried on regardless. “—are you here to learn to read? Or was Lady Celestia mistaken?”

“You can’t read?!” a younger filly called out, though she very quickly shot her eyes down to the thin book on her desk when Aspiration shot her a hard glare. Still, it was hard not to hear the snickers of the class at my expense.

“Hey!” Graargh called out. “Mean ponies stop!” And, while he may have been just a bear cub, the prospect of having a bear angry at the class got those students quiet quickly.

“Well, Graargh…” Aspiration stopped, stared at Graargh for a moment, and flared her nostrils in a motion that gave me the sense she took offense at his ursine fragrance. “While it was rude for the class to laugh, we use respectful volume in the class. Do you understand?”

When Graargh made his answer quite clear by cocking his head like a lost puppy, I patted him on the shoulders. “Thanks, Graargh. But I can look out for myself.”

“I not am believe,” Graargh answered, quite to my surprise. “Always Morty say—” and then, much to my horror, while he didn’t shapeshift into an (uncomfortably handsome) copy of yours truly, he did slip into a perfect imitation of my voice—albeit with perhaps a less perfect imitation of my grammar. “‘I be okay, trust Morty, Graargh.’ Or ‘I sooo good at fight, bad wizard not hurt me.’ And every time, Morty get hurt, can’t walk good, make hurt sound when I give good hug. Not just sleep, but have big hibernate. Well, now I ‘look after’ Morty, so Morty not get hurt no more.”

“That’s…” Aspiration raised her brow. “Quite the talent for imitation, uh, Graargh. Did I say that right?”

Graargh nodded. “If not can roar like S’lestia, it is be best name.”

With Graargh’s admission, rigid posture and formal stance retook Aspiration’s body, and she regained vocal control of the room with a simple word. “Ahem,” was the word, and in her inflection I concluded I had to be dealing with a full military mare (rather than just military eyebrows). “Now, Mortal, I’m afraid I do have a class to teach, so either be seated and learn with the rest of my students, or the door is behind you.” And without even waiting for me to answer, she stepped back up to her place in front of the chalkboards.

With a sigh, and a resolution in the back of my mind to have a stern word with Celestia about outright lying to my face, I found my way to a seat at the back of the class, my seat right beside Cherry’s in fact. The wooden chair was, suffice it to say, just a bit small. I somehow wedged half my backside onto the miniscule surface, but when I lifted a hoof to join it, the whole chair groaned and something snapped, depositing me on the floor. Adding insult to injury over beneath me.

Somepony laughed. Mrs. Aspiration slapped a hoof down on her desk. Absolute silence and order. I have known dictators who were less oppressive. “I’ll arrange some other seating, Mortal, but for now, feel free to sit on the floor; I trust you won’t have any trouble seeing the chalkboard regardless.”

A young colt, perhaps eight or nine, raised his voice as I set myself down beside what remained of my chair. “Can I sit on the floor too?”

Even from the back of the class, I could see a vein in the teacher’s brow twitch. “What do we do when we have a question, Sprout?”

“We raise our hoofs,” Sprout muttered glumly. “I’m sorry,”

“Hooves,” Aspiration corrected sharply. “But you are correct. And because you showed good manners with a timely apology...” The instructor paced over to a sidewall of the classroom and drew a tally mark in a small box, underneath letters that I would later learn spelled Sprout’s name. “It will be good for us all to remember that raising our hooves is important to keeping order and making sure everyone’s voice is heard, no matter how loud or quiet they might be. And no, Sprout; I’m making an exception for Mortal because— ”

“Morty,” I interrupted.

Aspiration winced and turned away from Sprout. “Mortal, I understand you are new, but what lesson did Sprout just teach the class?”

“You’re serious?”

“I am absolutely serious, Mortal. I am always serious.” She once again raised her eyebrows at me, and I couldn’t resist rolling my own eyes before raising my hoof. “Thank you. Mortal, what would you like to say?”

“I go by ‘Morty’.”

“In this class, we call ponies by their names,” Mrs. Aspiration told me firmly. “We do not use nicknames, and we do not call ponies other names, because that could be rude. It is only fair.”

“I’m assuming nopony else’s parent’s named them hoping they would die,” I told her.

This time, cooler heads prevailed in the war council of Mrs. Aspiration’s eyebrows, as they maintained their present borders to give me a flat stare.

I waited a solid few seconds for further comment, then sighed and held my hoof in the air to repeat myself. “Am I incorrect, and somepony else in this class has a name like ‘Bucket Punt’ or ‘Six Hooves Under’? Maybe ‘Daisy Pusher’? ‘Worm Buffet’?”

“In addition to raising your hoof, Mortal, you need to wait to be called on before speaking. I see I should have made that portion of the rule clear. But I will answer your question. It is irrelevant what a name means, if it is your name. If you dislike your name, I suggest you take it up with your parents. I also expect you, as an older member of this class, to refrain from speaking on topics that impressionable young minds might not be ready to handle in a mature fashion. Do. I. Make. Myself. Clear?”

Each punctuated word of that sentence was accompanied by a stride between the rows of desks until the mare, barely my elder and certainly my shorter were I actually standing up, leaned to glare over my seated form.

Not wanting to offend her, I raised my hoof.

“You may answer when you are questioned directly, Mortal.”

“You’ve made yourself very clear, Aspiration,” I answered, gritting my teeth.

“Mrs. Aspiration.” She placed a hoof onto my fallen chair, and pushed it aside. It grated on the floor, and my stomach writhed at the unpleasant noise. “You are here to learn,” she explained, continuing the grating sound. “This means you are a student. All students are equal. Is that clear?”

“Yes, it’s clear!” I hissed through gritted teeth.

“Excellent!” The mare smiled rather suddenly; not very widely, but with the sort of genuine enthusiasm I had briefly observed when I first opened the door. “Now, you and Graargh have both joined in the middle of a lesson, so if you have questions, please hold them for after class, and I can help you two catch up on whatever you haven’t followed.”

Mrs. Aspiration returned to the front of the room, picked up a piece of chalk in her green magical grip, and lifted it to the chalkboard. “Who can sound out this sentence?” she asked as she scrawled out what were, at least to me, an archaic and arcane series of indecipherable sigils and glyphs.

A filly near the center of the class with a bobbed pink mane raised a hoof. Mrs. Aspiration nodded in her direction, and the filly spoke. “Thuuuh… the. The!” A smile broke out on her face as Mrs. Aspiration nodded. “Cuhhh… aaaah… tuh… Um… cat?” Another nod, a slight jumping in her tiny seat from joy. “The cat… ruh… aaah... n. Ran. The cat ran.”

“Excellent, Festive!” Mrs. Aspiration nodded in the filly’s direction. “And what are the vowels in those three words?”

“Umm… ‘e’? Or, ‘the’ sort of makes a ‘u’ sound… but there’s no ‘u’?”

“‘The’ is a trick word; you wouldn’t guess how you say it looking at the letters, would you? But you were right, Festive. Keep going.”

“Cat, um, has the ‘a’? And ‘ran’... oh, that’s the same.”

“A commendation for you as well,” Aspiration announced with a smile. Then, walking toward the chalkboard of commendation and its sacred records, the teacher produced a stick of chalk from somewhere I can even now only assume must have been some kind of magic, and drew a single white line beside runes that I would only later learn to read as Festive's name.

Once the deed was done, with far more solemn reverence than a chalk tally mark deserved, Aspiration returned to the front of the class and tapped gently on a pile of stacked slates. “Now, students, you have an hour for lunch and play in the yard, as usual.”

Immediately, perfect discipline erupted into screaming, frenzied chaos. Chairs rattled as their former occupants lunged out of them, desperate for the salvation of an open sky and fresh air, or more likely to escape the oppression of the scholastic dictator who stood before the commendations board, drawing a single chalk tally mark.

Cherry Tomato, ever the sickening image of a perfect young pony, progressed not to the door but over to my side. “Mortal, would you and Graargh like to play four squares with me?”

I couldn’t help but raise a brow at the young stallion. “Wizards don’t play foals games, Cherry.”

Aspiration interjected into my conversation without the slightest shred of hesitation. “Mortal, I understand if you do not feel inclined to play with the other students at your age, but it may be good to step outside for a moment and consider what it is you hope to accomplish here.” The mare glanced over her shoulder, staring at me with just one visible eye. “I strongly encourage it.”

I sighed, rolled my eyes (to myself, not at the teacher I was quickly growing to hate), and gave a swift nod to Graargh, who seemed to have been left behind confused in the rapid departure of the other students. Graargh, however, stubbornly refused to be anything but the most supportive version of a walking teddie bear imaginable, and after waddling over to my side, headbutted me in the back of my right front leg. “You come play, Morty.”

“Graargh…” I sighed, though I did start walking. “I’m eighteen. Or something. Apart from the fact that I can’t fly like the pegasi, there’s not a conceivable competition I couldn’t destroy anypony in this class at… well, except you.”

“Playing doesn’t have to be a competition,” Cherry Tomato noted as we stepped out into the yard, before somewhat more quietly adding. “But if it is, I want you two on my team.”

The schoolyard was a dirt field pockmarked with notches dug up by hundreds of sprinting hooves; from the edges nearest the fences, I suspected there had once been a sort of rough field grass, though it was hard to say if it was deliberately planted there by the ponies of the palace district or simply been left behind when the city was first built. A group of the youngest ponies ran in a riveting game of tag, while the more middle-aged… that is, in the middle of the available age ranges foals enjoyed themselves trying to keep a sort of lumpy bag in the air using only their hind hooves. I found myself wondering whether it was easier or harder for the hovering pegasus in their number.

“So, you wanna play squares?” Cherry asked, indicating a series of four shapes—calling them squares would be both generous and actively dangerous to a real wizard—and a vaguely orb-ish ball of what looked somewhat like fabric. “We’ll have to get somepony else, but we’re three—”

“Do you really not care that I killed your master?” I asked Cherry, perhaps abruptly.

Graargh looked up at me with very wide eyes. “Bad pony Winshimmer teach him too?”

Cherry seemed to ignore that question completely, perhaps out of a lack of comprehension, and instead answered mine. To my astonishment, the little red earth pony answered with a potently apathetic shrug. “If it was supposed to happen, it was supposed to happen.”

“It good!” Graargh cut in. “I help!”

“We’re not talking about Wintershimmer, Graargh.”

Graargh cocked his head. “Morty be kill somepony else?

“Killed, past tense,” I gently corrected. “That means it already happened—hence the ‘ed’ sound on the end. And it was only for a few seconds, but yes. At Gale’s birthday party. Uh, the one at the palace, not the one you were at.”

“Ah.” Graargh nodded. “Good. Ponies at birthday are friends. Make Gale smile!”

“Made,” I gently corrected. “Past tense again.” Then I turned my attention back to Cherry. “You have an awfully… laissez faire attitude for somepony so young.”

Cherry nodded, before cocking his head just as Graargh had. “At least… I think so. Does saying ‘lazy fair’ funny mean that I trust things to work out? Because that’s what I do.” Cherry wandered over to the red ball thing, picked it up, and demonstrated to my absolute bewilderment that it was both airtight enough and shapely enough to bounce on the dirt. “Sometimes, I just get a sort of funny feeling and I know what I’m supposed to do. And it always works out, so why bother worrying about it.” Cherry pointed to Graargh and I in turn with the hoof that wasn’t holding the ball, and then to two of the squares. “Here, I’ll show you how to play.”

“I really don’t think—”

“Play, Morty!” Graargh demanded. “We have fun!”

I made no secret of rolling my eyes, but if you have ever had the experience of being subjected to a literal puppy’s ‘puppy dog eyes’, then you have just the vaguest inkling of the power of Graargh’s ‘teddy bear eyes’ to invoke a mighty guilt trip. So, grudgingly, I took my space, noting only “I don’t know if this is going to be fair.”

“Maybe not,” Cherry noted. “But I have a funny tingle in my ear, so I’m sure we’re gonna have fun. Wanna play, Sprout?”

What followed were about ten minutes of an extremely unfair game.

Graargh and I were utterly destroyed by Cherry Tomato, and to a lesser extent, Sprout. I won’t bother transcribing the dialogue, given its utter inanity, but at some point in the process of those short few rounds and those foalish taunts, I somehow missed an odd transformation that I have rarely seen an adult pony form so quickly: when we paused to take a breather (at my behest, for which I was teased by Sprout for ‘getting old’—the audacity of foals!), Graargh rushed up to Cherry and bestowed on him a crushing bear hug. “We play again later, Cherry! I win next time!” Graargh announced.

Cherry just nodded. “Sure, Graargh. Did I say that right?”

Graargh grinned and nodded. “Yes, is right. Like Morty.”

“I think you’re supposed to call him ‘Mortal’,” Sprout observed. “Mrs. Aspiration said.”

“But it hurt Morty’s feelings. He get very mad at Gale when she call him that name; that why she be call him ‘Morty’ in first.”

At about that time, the pegasus filly playing with the lumpy bag had dropped it near us, and when she landed to pick it up, she quirked a brow. “Who’s ‘Gale’? Sounds like a pegasus name.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle when I answered the question. “Princess—er, I guess now Queen Platinum.”

“You know Her Majesty?” the filly asked, completely forgetting about her game.

She had directed the question at me, but it was Graargh who answered before I had a chance. “She good friend; like big sister. And Morty like big brother.” Graargh grinned when he got wide eyes not only from the pegasus, but also Sprout. And a moment later, the other foals who had been playing with the lumpy sack, and were wondering why it hadn’t returned, sooned joined the growing crowd as well.

“Are you and Her Majethty thpecial friendth?” asked a unicorn filly with a pronounced lisp (in case you somehow missed that in the dialogue).

I chuckled at the implication, raised a triumphant hoof for the beginning of a sort of subtly smug ‘why, yes’ gesture, and then caught myself. The absolute fastest possible way to ruin Gale and I’s secret was to spread it to a bunch of random foals whose parents I didn’t even know.

Graargh had no such compunctions. “Very yes!” he exclaimed (hence the punctuation) before I had a chance to do anything about it. “They gross; kiss in front of me and—” the abrupt pause came from me lunging forward to press Graargh’s muzzle closed with both of my forehooves.

“Graargh has a very active imagination, foals; Gale—er, Her Majesty is just our friend.”

Have you ever tried to lie to a large group of foals who already have a motivation—in this case, sheer amusement—to disbelieve you? It’s almost as difficult as holding a grizzly bear’s mouth closed with your hooves.

Graargh wriggled free of my grip without the slightest display of difficulty, took a moment to wrinkle and unwrinkle his muzzle to get his fur lying right or something like that, and then turned to the rest of the students. But by then, he didn’t even need to speak up for himself.

“Mortal’s coltfriend for the Queen!” somepony called out, before another child picked it up in a sort of idiotic ritual chant.

“Mortal and Queen Platinum, sitting in a tree…” another sing-songed in my direction.

I stomped my hoof and turned around, and took two solid steps away from the group of taunting foals, and though they at first moved to follow me, my peripheral hearing found that they were stopped by something—or somepony.

“Mortal is telling the truth,” said Cherry. “Her Majesty has lots of suitors, but he isn’t one of them.”

“Aww…” the filly with the lisp muttered, and from the vague but audible deflation of the class, I gathered the mood was generally matched in their postures.

But then one punkish little shit—technical term, in this case, cut out from the disappointment. “Cherry’s right, obviously. It’s not like the Queen would be special someponies with a grownup who has to go to school with us.”

A couple chuckles escaped the group, but it was Cherry himself who actually brought the next words to the conversation. “Mortal, how come you’re here?”

I let out a very tired noise as I turned around. “Look, kids… When I was your age, I had a very mean teacher. He was very good at teaching, but he never taught me to read. That’s all I’m here for.”

“You don’t know how to read?” a teal pegasus colt held a wing over his mouth, and let out a sputtering sound as he failed to hold in a laugh. “A grownup doesn’t know how to read!”

I groaned when another pony started to laugh, and then another, and soon the entire class with the exceptions of Graargh and Cherry was rolling in fits of brutal hysteria, all at my expense. Graargh looked up at me with a curious expression and asked in perfect innocence “Morty, I laugh too?”

“You might as well,” I muttered back, rubbing my brow.

Of course, I hadn’t meant that. Graargh actually joining in, though, certainly did not help my mood. “Look, kids, there are a lot of things I do know that you probably don’t. I can do all kinds of magic.”

That claim got me a few curious eyes, though it died pretty quickly when the teal pegasus foal sputtered again. “But you can’t read!”

“Which makes two of us.”

The teal pegasus—whom I had identified as the owner of the aforementioned miniature punkish voice—took the lead by cutting in again. “Nuh-uh! We can read great! The cat ran! That’s what the chalkboard said!”

In between the laughs, it took on the qualities of a tribal chant. “The cat ran! The cat ran! The cat ran!” I can still hear those words in my ears when I sleep. “The cat ran!”

For the record, I am not proud of this reaction, but that particular day in the yard outside the small school room, Wintershimmer’s voice in my head was a great deal stronger than my conscience (which had, oddly, already started to sound like Celestia).

“I may not know how to read, but there are more than a few things I could teach any of you. Things even high-and-mighty Misses Aspiration couldn’t explain. For example,” I led as I lit my horn, letting it flare up despite the drain on my body and Mage Meadowbrook’s warnings about my health. “Respect.”

Star Swirl the Bearded is considered the Father of Transfiguration thanks to his Omniomorphic Spell, allowing a pony to change their form without losing higher brain function. Unfortunately, I did not know how to cast the Omniomorphic Spell.

I did, however, know more than a bit of transfiguration magic.

The teal pegasus colt whose name I hadn’t even learned went from chanting to struggling as my magic lifted him a foot of the ground. And then, just on the verge of screaming, his body began to change. Legs retracted, growing slimmer and more sharply angled. His ears grew pointier, his muzzle shorter and its tip much darker. On and on the changes went until, before he could even scream, he was replaced by a small calico kitten, which promptly plopped back onto the grass.

I should have known it was coming. It was just my luck, really. But as the fillies and colts around me grew silent in awe and fear and curiosity, the inevitable happened almost immediately.

The cat ran.

As the calico kitten rushed away, I briefly considered trying to snatch it with my magic, but two facts rushed to mind to stop me. The first, since it has only come up once in this story, is that I had a natural tendency, due to the coiling of my horn, to use up too much of my magical energy (‘mana’ for you wizards out there) and pass out after three spells in a day—at least, without a large break and usually a meal in between. I would need at least one spell to undo what I had done, and ideally I would like not to be left completely unconscious for casting it. Secondly, when I used these huge sums of magic, my spells were preposterously powerful, even for a trained wizard—which, while handy for hurling corrupt crystal guardsponies through solid crystal walls back in my former home in the frozen north, was less than suitable for snatching a moving kitten without… well, not to put too gorey a point on it, but without ripping the poor creature in half. Thus, when my pitiful hoof lunge failed to catch, I was left to watch as it sprinted across the yard, scrambled up the side of a rainspout, and made off up the roof of the schoolhouse.

“Morty,” Graargh observed, pointing with one hoof. “You fuck up.”

I didn’t have it in me to scold his language, and so despite standing in the middle of at least a dozen impressionable minds, all I could think of for a reply was a terse correction. “Fucked,” I observed with a certain hollow finality. “I fucked up. We use the past tense, Graargh, because it has already happened.”

Sprout, who had apparently been standing close enough to hear our little conversation, asked “Mr. Mortal, what does ‘fuck’ mean?”

And, of course, taken by surprise, I channeled Gale and responded with the one word that could magically make the situation worse.

“Shit.”

4-2

IV - II

The Dim Deception

“Umm… Mithter Mortal… when ith Theagrass gonna turn back?”

I glanced down at the filly standing beside me, and then back up at the calico kitten that had formerly been a teal pegasus colt. With each passing second, he grew further away, making an impressive show of scrambling across the palace district’s uneven rooftops.

“When I go get him,” I answered sadly, adjusting my jacket’s collar. “That spell would take a couple days to wear off otherwise, and somehow I doubt he’d survive that long on the streets.”

Graargh nodded eagerly. “Cats very tasty.”

At least one foal began to cry, and when I looked down to see that Graargh was looking back up at me with profound confusion, it was only the magnitude of my own staggering mistake that kept me from laughing. “Well, buddy… Can I count on your help again?”

Graargh beamed, and his grin… well, since I was still quite a bit taller than him and knew him longer than quite possibly any other living being in the world, I found it quite endearing. But to the smaller foals, he was decently sized for a bear cub, and showing quite a lot of teeth.

I guess the point is that even though the crying got louder, I appreciated his enthusiasm.

“I grow big?” Graargh asked.

I glanced past the fence of the schoolyard nervously. “No… I think you had better not. Somehow I don’t think an adult bear running on ponies’ roofs would go over well with the guards… Come on.”

As I walked toward a gate on the fence around the schoolyard, I discovered very quickly that not just Graargh (whom I wanted), but the entire class was following me.

“You can grow?” Cherry asked. “That sounds very useful! Sometimes I wish I could grow big; it would make my tabard fit better at church.”

“You’re still working at the church?” I wondered idly, before refocusing myself on the immense problem rapidly getting worse as the little kitten got further away. “Look, everypony… just, go back to playing your games or whatever. I’ll be back with Seagram before you know it.”

“Seagrass,” one of the other students corrected.

“Can we come?” another small voice asked.

I looked at the foal, and then up at the roof. “You honestly think I’m going to try and drag…” A quick count gave me “...sixteen foals onto the roof with me?”

“Misses Aspiration says if not everypony can do an ac-tiv-ty, then nopony can do it.”

At that point, I’d had enough. “Misses Aspiration is a foalsitter with delusions of grandeur.” When I got blank stares from all seventeen of the foals around me (one of whom happened to be a shapeshifting bear in disguise) I dragged a hoof down my face. “No. I am not putting any more of you in danger. Come on, Graargh.”

The bubblegum pink pegasus filly of the group frowned, tugging at my hind leg as I tried to leave. “I’ll tell Mitheth Athpiration! You’re a meanie!”

I glared back over my shoulder at sixteen pairs of puppydog eyes. And while ‘you’re a meanie’ wasn’t the height of a rhetorical threat, unfortunately, telling the teacher—or any adult, really—was. While I was sure the pink filly was imagining time facing the corner or repeating phrases on a chalkboard, my mind wandered to the Everfree palace dungeons, or the trio of flung icicles from Commander Typhoon’s wing that had struck frighteningly true blows on a fountain in the gardens outside.

And then an idea struck me. A wonderful, awful idea. I’m still rather quite proud of it.

“Alright, fine; just Graargh is going to leave.” I patted Graargh on the shoulder. “If you’re willing to help.”

Graargh donned a massive toothy grin. “What I do do, Morty?”

“Haha, he said ‘doodoo’,” one foal helpfully added.

Another contributed with “Mrs. Aspiration says—”

“The next pony who brings up one of Mrs. Aspirations’ rules to me gets to join Seabiscuit on the roof as a cat.” Thankfully, I was at least self aware enough to realize in the pregnant pause that followed, that there were a great many foals in that moment mulling whether or not being turned into a cat would be fun, and before their respective infantile thought processes could run to fruition, I swiftly added an addendum. “And since I only have enough magic to turn one of you back, I’ll let Graargh eat the other one.”

Immensely helpfully, Graargh asked “Promise?” And it should be read to the little bear cubs credit that, when I sighed and massaged my temple with a hoof, he muttered “Aww…”

I made a mental note to ask Mage Meadowbrook about the throbbing of that particular vein in my temple; it seemed to be throbbing and bulging with growing regularity.

“Now, everypony, I have a deal for you." Reaching just one hoof into my left side pocket, I produced the envelope Queen Platinum I had provided me over breakfast. “These are letters of credit,” I explained. “Which basically means they’re money. Ten thousand bits, in fact. I’m somewhat wishing the Queen had given me a bag of coins for effect, but I hope you all understand anyway.”

“That many coins would weigh about a hundred and fifty pounds,” Cherry Tomato happily told me. When I raised a brow, he added “Or way, way more if she gave you anything other than gold bits.” When I raised both brows, he smiled. “Sometimes I had to carry trunks of gold for Sir Halo and the Church. A chest of a thousand gold bit coins weighs exactly seventeen pounds, but that’s counting the box.”

“Why do I even ask?”

“...Morty didn’t?” Graargh contributed.

Somewhere, a dentist turned in his grave at the sound of my teeth grinding. “Well, class, here’s the deal. I will buy each of you a whole candy apple, and all you have to do is go back to playing and promise not to talk to anypony about this. Deal?” I did not wait for an answer, turning toward the exit to the yard.

As those of you familiar with foals will know, not waiting for their agreement should have bitten me. Foals are insidious and treacherous creatures, and will gladly break any agreement not made explicit (or even some that are) if it serves their immediate, short-term interests. In that regard, one might note they are rather like fey. Still, I got a few solid nods, and it was enough for me to return my attention to Graargh.

“Alright, Graargh. Do you remember what Gale’s big sister looks like?”

“Miss Com-ander,” Graargh replied with a nod.

I shook my head. “‘Commander’ is her title, Graargh. Her name is ‘Typhoon’.”

“Oh!” Graargh nodded. “Miss Commander Typhoon. Graargh understands.”

“Good. Now, I want you to try something. Can you…” I nervously glanced over my shoulder, and noted the entire class was still staring at us. Still, there was nothing for it. “Can you pretend to be her?”

“Graargh do!” Graargh agreed. “Easier than S’lestia. Miss Commander is much smaller!” No sooner were the words finished than my bear cub friend was engulfed in green flame. It took scant more than a second to pass, and produced no heat, but I winced back at the light just the same, and when I recovered myself, the spitting image of Commander Typhoon stood in front of me.

Graargh’s impersonation was uncanny. I’d seen him make a more than passable copy of me, of a crystal guardsmare, and even a decent stab at Celestia (though she came across both without the magic of her mane, and far far smaller than the genuine article). But what most surprised me about Graargh’s riff on Typhoon was that she came clothed—or rather, armored. Wrapped over the tan mare with the tri-tone autumn mane was the jet black crystal-coated cuirass most well known for being worn by her father. I knew its coating as void crystal, always hungry for unicorn magic and, to a unicorn, massively painful to the touch. Still, a part of the back of my mind whispered that it couldn’t really be; I expected on touch that it would feel like some kind of flesh, or maybe dense keratin like the claws he had as a bear.

On contact, it was neither. It felt like a gemstone, but it certainly didn’t hurt me on contact.

“Huh. Can you feel that?”

“Morty push me,” said Typhoon’s commanding voice, and I quietly took note of how unfair it was that even in Graargh’s ridiculous excuse for Equiish grammar, the leader of Equestria’s military could still sound so powerful. “But not feel touch; it armor, not fur. How this help catch kitty?”

“Hmm? Oh, right.” I shook my head. “No, I want to try something with you. Can you, uh, flap your wings?”

Graargh nodded. “Sure, but not see how thiiii—!” the abrupt, slightly nauseated screaming of a fully grown pegasus military mare as he launched into the air told me my guess had been correct, albeit in the worst possible way.

“Oh…”

To elaborate on my thought process: Graargh had briefly been able to hover when he had taken the form of Celestia, in open violation of everything that I knew about the laws of morphic transfiguration. Therefore, my hope was that with larger wings and a fully-sized pegasus body, he would be able to more effectively use whatever magic let him fly. If so, while I didn’t expect him to fly the way a real pegasus could, the combination of full-length legs and wings to help with jumping and gliding should have been enough for him to catch the kitten.

Rarely have I been more immediately disheartened by a hypothesis being proven correct.

“What was that?” Cherry asked, stepping up beside me and craning his neck toward the sky. “Did you cast a spell? I didn’t see your horn light up.”

“I’m very fast,” I lied.

Cherry chuckled. “Master Halo said the same thing. Is… is Graargh going to come back down? It will be very hard to play squares if he doesn’t land.”

“I would assume he’ll land eventually. It would be weird if he were better at flying than Typhoon.”

A pegasus youth from the class body stepped forward. “Um… sometimes when pegasi are very little, and they don’t have control of their flying yet, they do things like this. Just shoot off somewhere.”

“And they usually land safely?” I asked.

The foal shrugged. “I mean… they usually aren’t all the way big yet. So they don’t go that far.”

Overhead, in the figurative distance, the sound of a grown mare screaming began to grow audible again. “Ah… perhaps we should all take two big steps backwards?” I suggested, only taking a single stride myself due to considerable height advantage.

Commander Typhoon, or rather Graargh, plunged out of the sky directly towards where we had been standing, and landed with a rather disconcerting crunch. Foals screamed at the sight of Typhoon’s obviously broken legs—especially the one jutting off at a right angle to…

Well, leave it to your imagination.

What matters is that Graargh seemed not especially troubled by this turn of events. That isn’t to say he wasn’t hurting, judging by the expression the mare’s face, but Graargh maintained far more composure than a rather permanently crippled mare ought to have in such a situation. A moment later, I learned why: after a burst of green flame, Graargh was still to all appearances the leader of Equestria’s military, but he was no longer a rather sickening pile of her broken bones on the school yard ground.

“I fly!” he announced, before rather casually adding “It kinda hurt, Morty.”

“You… can regenerate?”

“I play good pretend,” Graargh answered. “I pretend ouch not hurt, and it not hurt.”

I blinked in shock. “On our trip… you could do that the entire time?”

Graargh nodded. “Many time try tell Morty ‘I protect’, ‘I keep safe’. But always Morty say Morty be one who go in front, who get hurt, get punched by bad fuck or Winnershimmer or Tempest or…. well, everypony Morty meet. Never let,” and then he roared, which sounded even stranger than usual out of Typhoon’s throat, before continuing “be one who get hurt, even though it not hurt me bad. I strong. Er, I is strong. Remember, I carry Morty and Gale in tunnel under Morty’s house. I fight Winnershimmer too.”

Typhoon’s prosthetic hoof—which felt to all the world like metal to me—came to rest on my shoulder as Graargh looked me nearly square in the eye (I was a good bit taller than Typhoon, but the height difference was far less than I enjoyed when he was a bear cub) and offered me a smile. “I help. Morty trust. We family, remember?”

“I… yeah, sorry Graargh.” I shook my head, trying to force down a note of worry in the back of my mind. “Um… so the point of you being Typhoon was that she’s the first pegasus I thought of who actually has two wings. Hopefully if you sort of… maybe not fly like that, but jump and glide and run, you can catch Seabiscuit before he gets away, and bring him back?”

“Seagrass,” Cherry Tomato corrected.

“I try,” Graargh agreed, before turning around and giving a much more hesitant pump of his new tan wings; the force propelled him flying probably higher than was strictly necessary to jump from the ground onto the roof, but it wasn’t so out of control that he was likely to disappear into the wild blue yonder, as it were.

With my friend gone from sight, I paced over to the schoolhouse wall and glanced in a window. For just a moment, my heart stopped to find Aspiration completely absent from the building, but then I let caution and good sense pull me back; the teacher surely needed a break to eat too, and likely had only stepped out of the front of the building or something. After all, if she had seen what happened, surely she would have shown herself immediately. I chuckled at the thought of her trying to fix it herself—what was some schoolteacher going to do against magic as powerful as mine, even if she had some way to catch the kitten? No, I was certain, she couldn’t have possibly seen anything. Which meant, as long as Graargh and Soybeans were back before her, everything would be fine.

I was staggeringly wrong, of course, but that doesn’t make the assumption less rational with the information I had on hoof.

With a sigh of relief, I turned my back to the wall and collapsed to a seat against it. I thought I might have a moment to collect my thoughts in peace, but Cherry Tomato, ever the persistent optimist, refused to give me such a chance.

“Graargh said you were family; are you his dad? Or just something like a brother?”

“I’m not his dad,” I muttered on instinct. “So… big brother, sure, why not?” Then I chuckled at the irony. “He’s more my sibling than any of my real siblings, that’s for sure.”

“He’s not your real sibling?” Cherry asked.

“Cherry, it’s not like we’re different breeds of pony; he’s a bear.”

“The scriptures teach us love comes in many forms, and Her Holiness is happiest when we don’t judge,” Cherry recited to me.

I found myself gritting my teeth. “No. He isn’t my real brother. I don’t have any real full siblings, but I have a couple of half-siblings back in the Crystal Union. I barely know them though.” I leaned my head back fully against the wall of the schoolhouse and let out a tired sigh. “I met Graargh three months ago. He fished me out of a river to save me from drowning. I tried to help him find his real parents, but… well, I’m pretty sure either they abandoned him or they’re dead. I brought him to a group of bears, but he decided he’d rather stay with me, and we’ve been together since.”

“Oh. So you basically are his dad, then?” Cherry asked. “You look out for him, and keep him safe, like he said?”

“If we’re being honest, Cherry, I mostly put him in danger, despite my best efforts. Although apparently he was in a lot less danger than I assumed, if he can just heal all his wounds whenever he wants.”

“Well, sometimes we have to have a little bit of danger to grow, and we trust our parents to know what we can handle.” When I pulled my head up from the wall to look askance at the sudden wisdom passing the young stallion’s lips, Cherry only offered me a smile for an explanation.

“You’re a strange kid, Cherry. Is that from spending so much time at the Church?”

“Oh, I don’t really think the Church is that important,” Cherry noted. “But being a squire to Count Halo seemed like the best way to find an adventure, and that seems like the best thing for me to be doing. After all my special talent is that I’m special.”

“I… wait, what?” I cast a quick glance to Cherry’s hindquarters, where I found he wore the symbol of a gold star—not a magical six- or seven-pointed star, but more like the sort of five-pointed shape, colored gold, that might be attached as a sticker to the work of a foal who succeeded in class. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know,” Cherry answered with a shrug. “Good things just happen around me because I’m special. So I have to be where the most important things are happening, because that way the most important things will turn out good. That’s how you are too, right? Since you’re Her Holiness’ Chosen One?”

“I…” I frowned as my instinctual objection failed under the realization that what Cherry had presented was not, in fact, a foal’s complete misconception, but rather a potentially sophisticated philosophical conundrum. “Um… I wouldn’t use those words, but I guess so?”

Cherry nodded, making a mockery of the word ‘sagaciously’ by applying it to a thirteen-year-old head, seemingly against the word’s own will. “It must be hard balancing that with taking care of Graargh, whether he’s your little brother or your foal.”

“I… to be honest, I hadn’t really thought about it until now.” I swallowed. “When we were on the road, it was obvious he was better off with me than me abandoning him and making him go off on his own. But now we’re in the city, and… Tartarus, I don’t even know what I’m doing with myself now, let alone Graargh.” I scowled, shook my head, and then let my eyes fall on Cherry. “Why am I even telling you any of this, kid?”

“Ponies tell me things because I’m special,” answered Cherry. “It’s part of the talent, I think. Or maybe not; who knows?” He shrugged, then apropos of nothing in particular, fixed me with big puppy dog eyes that should never have existed on a teenage face, yet somehow managed to work for him. “Can I join your party?”

“I beg your pardon, what?”

“You know, your party? Your friends that hunt monsters and save Equestria? In the church, a group of knights who go out to hunt monsters is called an ‘adventuring party’ - is that the wrong words?” Cherry cocked his head, making the wide-eyed effect even more sickening. “I read some about you and your friends in the newspaper, and it was all the talk in the city for a while.”

“I… What are you, twelve?”

“Thirteen,” he replied. “And you have to start somewhere, right?”

I slammed my hoof into my brow, painfully catching the base of my horn. He was right, of course; I’d been five years younger when Wintershimmer first began to bring me along on his journeys to the edges of the Crystal Union, dealing with the various magical threats that crop up on the fringes of civilized society. “Do you even know how to fight?”

Cherry took no offense at the frankly dismissive question; instead, he nodded eagerly. “I’ve been Count Halo’s squire since I got my mark; I know how to wear armor and use a sword and a mace and bladed hooves. And I’m really fast, and pretty strong too. Like how I beat you and Graargh so bad at squares.”

I winced, in part at the memory of my recent humiliation, and in part because he was unquestionably right again. “And you’d rather run around with me than Count Halo? Even though he’s already teaching you?”

“Oh, he retired. He said he lost his honor as a knight, and he was going to go live in a farm up north, and he’d be very happy there, and that I shouldn’t worry about him.”

I stared for about ten very long seconds as I wondered whether or not Cherry knew what the idiom ‘moving to a farm up north’ meant, and then feeling enormously guilty over what had happened.

“It’s a nice farm; he took me once. I think it’s his family’s noble domain. They grow sweet potatoes.” When I breathed out a sigh of relief, Cherry added “Why were you holding your breath, Morty?”

“Nothing,” I answered far too quickly to be believed. “It’s nothing, really. I swear.” Then, desperately searching for literally any other topic in the world, I returned my attention to Cherry’s question. “Assuming I thought you were able to keep up with Graargh and Gale and I, why do you want to be putting yourself in danger?”

“Well…” Cherry’s eyes ran away from my face. “Like I said, I’m special. So I need to be where things are happening. And you’re going to be where things are happening. I can feel it. Like, in my ears and stuff.”

I raised a brow. “So you feel like you’re obligated to follow me around? That’s it? There’s nothing in it for you?” Cherry was very obviously avoiding my gaze at that point, so I pressed. “You’re not looking to get paid, or get famous or something? Not looking to have your name in the newspaper?” I jokingly cast my across the sky as if framing a headline (not that I could have read it): “Cherry Tomato, hero of Everfree City?”

To my surprise, when my accusation was done, it seemed a weight was lifted off of Cherry’s shoulders. “Oh, is this one of those temptations of glory like Count Halo used to warn me about? No, you don’t need to worry about me. I don’t need anypony to know me; I just need to know that I’m doing everything I can.”

Perhaps the reader should be reminded that, for all the casual dismissal Cherry gave that temptation, it was still something of a fresh struggle and an open wound for ‘the Hero of Platinum’s Landing’. So perhaps you’ll understand, if not forgive me, when I snapped what could have been stated in far gentler terms. “I’m sure that’s very easy for you, Cherry.”

“Did I say something wrong?”

“I’m not looking for an apprentice,” I noted. “And I may be one of the best wizards who ever lived, but even I can’t teach magic to an earth pony.”

Cherry Tomato’s expression soured in an instant. “I thought you’d be different,” he muttered as he stood up and walked away. And for all that I decided I hadn’t liked the colt, maybe it was something about his talent that made me feel worse about what I’d said to him than what I’d done to Seagrass.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

Auditoris Frostfall was not the second-in-command of the Cirran Legion, nor even the third or fourth, but I will hypothesize that she was perhaps the second most powerful pony in the military organization regardless. This power didn’t come to the white mare with the frosty mane by way of magical powers, hurling icicles or breathing fire like Commander Typhoon or her father. As already mentioned it didn’t come from rank. The power stemmed from two far more mundane reasons. Firstly, she was Commander Typhoon’s Auditoris (that is, essentially, her secretary). And thanks to Typhoon’s spite for paperwork (a quality no doubt inherited from her father and predecessor, Commander Hurricane), Frostfall, like her predecessor Pansy before her, was trusted with the immense responsibility of deciding what major decisions were even worth the Commander’s time.

The second reason Frostfall held so much power was that in addition to Typhoon’s secretary, she was also the Commander’s lover. And lest anypony worry that I’m telling you this to demean either mare or their relationship, I’ll make two notes: firstly, she achieved the rank of Auditoris first. And secondly, that concern almost certainly colored Frostfall’s reaction when, while walking down the streets of Everfree city carrying a messenger’s bag full of the day’s groceries, she overheard two Legionaries speaking in hushed whispers.

“Was that…? No, it couldn’t have been.”

“It certainly looked like Commander Typhoon eating a cat.”

“Hopefully just carrying it in her mouth.”

“Hey, I’m not one to judge. And you shouldn’t be either; she’s the Commander for a reason, no matter what she likes putting in her mouth.”

“What? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, you’ve heard the rumors about her Auditoris, right? Cause if anything, this looks like proof that the Commander likes licking pussy.”

Frostfall walked quietly up behind the two armored guards—though her present occupation was clerical, as evidenced by her quiet hoofsteps, she had once been a decently proficient scout—and coughed once. Not a real cough, mind you. More like a well enunciated “Ahem.” Then, when the soldiers jumped, she said “Legionaries.”

“Mobius have mercy…” one of them muttered as he snapped a salute. “Auditoris!”

“...for I shall give you none,” Frostfall completed with a bladed wink. “But I might, might forget what I just heard if you point me in the direction of the Commander. You said she was carrying a cat?”

“Uh… well, sort of trying to carry it, or catch it, or something,” the more forward of the two legionaries answered. “I don’t think it wanted to be caught. She was heading toward the palace.”

Frostfall groaned. “She doesn’t need another scar.” Then the Legion officer nodded to said guard and unslung a bag from her shoulder. “I’d better go help her. You can take these groceries home for me; it’s the red house on the north end of the Via Dioda in Cloudsdale.”

“You… want me to go into your house, ma’am?”

“It’s a friendly neighborhood. And I know nopony respects it, but Auditoris is an officer’s rank,” she answered as she set the bag down. “So that is an order, legionary. And you, cunning linguist: I still need a two bottles of marelot; you can expense them in my name.”

“You want us to do your grocery shopping?” the young stallion asked.

“Since you seem so invested in the Commander’s personal life, I thought you’d be honored. She and I usually prefer to drain a bottle after she’s had a trying evening dealing with her younger sister. And now that Gale’s the Queen, I thought two bottles might be necessary.” Her shoulders unburdened, Frostfall stepped forward between the two soldiers and patted each on their shoulders with a wing. “So the rumors you’ve heard are true. But if they stop being rumors, I’ll have you both crucified. Officer, remember?” And with that, Frostfall took flight.

There’s a reputation amongst former scouts that persists even to this day—that is, the day of writing—that pegasus scouts are universally hot-headed stunt-fliers. And while the stereotype is based in reality, like most stereotypes, it is hardly universal. Frostfall’s talents on her wings were less a matter of swift and agile flying, and more a tolerance for long, quiet glides. So when presented with the problem of pursuing Typhoon—a mare who absolutely had been a hot-headed stunt flier in her youth, and who was still known to outfly most of her subordinates into the increasing approach of middle age—was to gain altitude as quickly as possible, and then to simply glide, and look, and wait.

I could have, had I been so inclined, looked up and seen Frostfall adopting this position, had Cherry not still been holding my attention at that point in the schoolyard. And similarly, Frostfall had no particular reason to be focusing on the little school in the palace district when her eyes could instead focus in on the palace proper.

From there, it wasn’t hard to spot her quarry; magic-eating black armor and a tri-tone mane do tend to stand out even from a bird’s-eye-view. And sure enough, rather than flying like the genuine article surely would have in the face of such a threat, ‘Typhoon’ was sprinting and jumping in a sort of cat’s play, albeit with the actual cat filling the role of the prey in this particular exchange. Their battle had moved fully from the streets and into the gardens around the palace by the time her eyes found them, with the cat in question scampering up onto the dryer parts of a fountain depicting Private Pansy, Clover the Clever, and Smart Cookie—probably in hopes that the water would scare off the much larger predator. And, hilariously, it seemed to be working.

It really wasn’t like Typhoon at all, in Frostfall’s reckoning; something was obviously wrong. And when something was wrong with Typhoon, well, there might as well have been a spotlight in the sky with Frostfall’s quadruple snowflake talent mark shadowed across it. Angling her wings forward, the Auditoris let herself fall into a dive.

The cat never stood a chance. Frostfall’s hooves were swift and her wings were quiet, but her real advantage was that she actually owned a cat of her own, and knew the great secret of all skilled feline slaves—for what else could truthfully describe somepony with the hubris to claim that they are the owner in such a relationship?—that is, the fact that one can safely squish the cat without harming it.

“Oooh! Thank you nice pony! It hard catch.”

If there was any lingering question as to the invalidity of Graargh’s disguise, his grammar and distance to Frostfall cemented him as an impostor. “Who are you, and why do you look like Commander Typhoon?”

“I—” and then, of course, Graargh roared. “But can call ‘Graargh’; Morty say ponies not can—er, not is can make that noise.”

“Morty—the wizard kid from Platinum’s Landing?” Frostfall sighed. “I’m going to ask again: why do you look like Typhoon?”

“Hmm? Oh, I play pretend.” Graargh grinned with Typhoon’s face. Judging by the disgusted reaction that earned from Frostfall, his double-wide foalish bear grin was not an expression native to the pegasus leader. “You want I play pretend with—”

“Graargh!” Both Frostfall and Graargh turned as, panting and sprinting across the palace gardens, one Misses Aspiration approached. “Oh Celestia! I’m so sorry, ma’am. This isn’t really Commander Typhoon.”

Frostfall rolled her eyes. “I had gathered, Miss…”

“Aspiration; I’m Graargh’s schoolteacher.” Finally having reached Frostfall, Aspiration extended a hoof for a hoofshake.

Frostfall glanced down at the cat struggling in her forelegs, then raised a single eyebrow. “I know I’m out of uniform right now, but I’m an officer of the Legion. Auditoris Frostfall. Can you explain why this… foal, apparently… is impersonating Commander Typhoon?”

“Graargh help,” Graargh offered, and then—surely much to Typhoon’s continued embarrassment, despite her physical absence—bit down on the scruff of Seagrass’ neck to hold him like a mother cat. “Mmow oo cnn shk Mmph Affrtunf hff.”

Frostfall’s brow climbed higher. “Did you make that out?”

“He said now you can shake my hoof,” Aspiration noted with a sigh. “Look, I’m extremely sorry. Um… where do I even begin? Lady Celestia sent me two new students today: this little creature, who’s actually a bear cub under that magic—”

“You’re Morty’s bear cub?” Frostfall asked. “I heard about you. That makes a bit more sense.”

“‘Morty’ is the other student,” Aspiration noted. “I think he cast whatever spell did…” With her horn, Aspiration gestured to… well, all of Graargh. “This.”

“It does explain a few things,” Frostfall noted. “It also raises a number of further questions. The first of which being why?”

“Mm! Cnn Unnfwer.”

“What?” Frostfall rolled her eyes. “Hold him with your wings… if they’re real. Just squeeze him.”

Graargh in a body that wasn’t his own (not that bear form was technically his own either, but it was at least infinitely more familiar) was less effectual at holding a desperate kitten than Frostfall had been. Still, despite his discomfort (and the subsequent discomfort of its claws visibly drawing blood from ‘his’ wings—a pain he seemed completely able to ignore) Graargh held onto the little creature. “Morty say I need pretend pony with wings. Um… pegsus.”

“A pegasus,” Aspiration corrected.

Frostfall shot the teacher a glance out of the corner of her eye. “Is this really the time for a lesson?”

“Sorry,” Aspiration answered. “Go on, Graargh.”

“Need wings to catch cat. And Morty ask what pegasus pony I know. Papa Cane best, but not have two wing. Um… guess Morty could have say ‘Blizzard’, but maybe Morty not think that. Or Tempest.”

“Blizzard? ‘Papa Cane’?”

“Commander-Emeritus Hurricane, and his… a friend of Her Majesty’s,” Frostfall clarified. “Irrespectively. And Tempest is the Commander’s son. I had heard Morty and his friends were staying with the family, so I assume that’s who he means, anyway.” Frostfall sighed. “So Morty chose the single most high-profile pegasus in Equestria, turned you into a perfect copy of her despite lacking any kind of tact, and sent you to chase a stray cat through the streets?”

Graargh, bless his heart, may not have had a firm grasp of Equiish grammar, but he realized that, just perhaps, admitting why he had been sent to catch a street cat in front of both Miss Aspirations and a mare he would later describe to me as “scary friendly pegus” mare” would have been a terrible idea.

So he just nodded his head.

“That…” Frostfall sighed. “Sounds entirely believable. I’m guessing you have to go back to him to stop looking like that?”

“No,” Graargh answered, before offering Seagrass back to Frostfall. When the soldier took hold of the kitten (failing to notice that, just behind Frostfall, Miss Aspiration was fiercely cringing, shaking her head, and even gesturing a hoof back and forth across her throat), Graargh erupted in a quick burst of green flame. A moment later, he was back to his tiny ursine self. “See? All better.”

“Huh.” Frostfall shrugged. “Alright, I’m going to make a note to have a strong word with… Archmage Coil? Mr. Coil?”

“Morty,” Graargh suggested. “Everypony who call Morty ‘Coil’ mean. Like Winnershimmer or bad fuck.”

Frostfall snorted as her best effort at keeping a straight face for Graargh’s preferred way of referring to the leader of the Crystal Union’s military. “Not touching that one. Just ‘Morty’ works. Graargh, for now I’m going to have to ask that you not use whatever magic he cast on you. Just stay as yourself. Can you do that?”

Graargh nodded.

“And Misses Aspiration… well, I guess all I can say is that I’m sorry you’re having to deal with this. Maybe keep a closer eye on those two?”

“I will be certain to, um… Adu… Adi…”

“Auditoris,” Frostfall completed. “Now, why don’t you two run along?” Frostfall handed Seagrass back to Graargh. “Um… don’t lose your cat again?”

“Not lose first time,” Graargh answered. “Morty lose.”

Frostfall nodded, turning toward the palace. “I’m just going to go set aside a drawer in our records room under ‘M’ now. Have a good day.”

“We’ll be sure to,” Aspiration answered, shuffling Graargh away from the Palace.

The first few dozen strides teacher and new student took were in total silence. It only ended when they had passed the walls around the gardens, and were back in the far less formal streets of the palace district.

“Are you insane, grub? What do you think you’re doing?”

“Nnmn Grb.”

“What?” Aspiration then glanced to see Graargh was still holding Seagrass in his teeth like a mother cat. Picking up the transformed foal in her magic, she glared toward Graargh. “Well?”

“Name ‘Graargh’, not ‘grub’.”

“I don’t give two…” Aspiration’s irate dismissal faded as some indescribably alien intellect crackled behind her green eyes. “I’m sorry, Graargh. Having to talk to the Auditoris was embarrassing for me, but I shouldn’t take it out on you. Before we go back to class, though I need to ask you a few questions. Is that okay?”

Graargh nodded. “That okay. What ask?”

“That isn’t really Morty’s magic changing your shape, is it?” Aspiration led.

The question put a nervous expression on Graargh’s ursine muzzle. “Morty not get in trouble, right? You not hurt him?”

Aspiration chuckled. “Your guardian is a wizard, Graargh. I’m just a schoolteacher. I don’t think I could hurt him even if I wanted to. But if it makes you feel better, I promise, Morty won’t be in any trouble. I’m asking because I’m worried about you.”

“Oh.” Graargh nodded. “It… not really Morty magic, no. Um… when I pretend hard, make green fire. Mom say green fire bad, not make. Very not make… not be make in front of ponies, she says.”

“You knew your mother? Were there many other gru—er, Graargh’s with you?”

Graargh cocked his head. “That my name. There not be more of me. That silly… well, no, I guess there more of Morty one time, so could happen.” Then he chuckled. “Moon pony make me good Morty. Talk just like him too!”

“Moon…” Aspiration’s expression shifted from confusion to worry. “You can’t mean Luna?” Graargh nodded enthusiastically, which only made the teacher’s expression more worried still.“You changed in front of her and you’re still alive?!”

“Of course! Why not? Moona mean about it, not like Morty much, but she help.”

“Because her Night Guard eat—” Aspiration cut herself off with a sharp breath. “Graargh, do you know what you are?”

The question, as usual, soured Graargh’s mood. “Why ponies always ask this? Am bear! Can big bear or small bear, sometimes play pretend when Morty ask, but am bear. Ponies not have name like,” and then, of course, Graargh bellowed out a roar that in no way matched the size of his body.

Aspiration cast a rather nervous glance around the streets of the palace district—for in the course of their discussion, the duo had passed the walls that separated the palace’s extensive gardens from its surrounding streets. A few ponies had turned at the noise, to no surprise, but nopony seemed inclined to stick their muzzle where it wasn’t wanted.

“Alright… What I was trying to ask about before: did you have any brothers or sisters?”

“No. Just mom and dad.”

“You knew your father?” Aspiration asked incredulously.

Graargh nodded. “Why you ask like weird? Lots of pony know dads, right? Gale know dad; Papa ‘Cane very friendly, make good fish.”

“I… nevermind, Graargh. I’m just wondering if you have a proper guardian besides Morty. Somepony who looks out for you?” Then, that same grim intellect behind Aspiration’s eyes faltered for a moment. “This ‘Papa Cane’ is Commander Hurricane?”

Graargh nodded enthusiastically. “He good.”

“Perhaps,” Aspiration answered. “But I’m not certain he’s a good fit for a little… bear… of your life experiences.”

“Well, have Morty; Papa Cane just nice.”

“You seem quite attached to Morty. You… do understand he’s barely an adult himself?”

“Morty save world!” Then, with some momentary hesitance, Graargh added. “I help!”

“Yes, I have read the newspaper,” the schoolteacher observed. “And it’s obvious he loves you, in his own way. I can smell it on you, and you certainly aren’t starving.”

“That silly!” Graargh chuckled. “Love not smell. Not eat it either!”

“Ah, no, I suppose not.” Aspiration then looked away from Graargh to see her own schoolhouse fast approaching in their path. “Before we go back in, two last things, Graargh: where are you actually from?”

“Graargh and mom and dad live in cave by river. At least, before they leave.”

“A river,” Aspiration repeated flatly. “Do you know which river?”

“By where Morty come from. He say… um… Oh! Crystal Onion!”

“The Crystal Union?” In a quieter voice, very much to herself, Aspiration noted “There’s no hive near the Crystal Union anymore...” Then the teacher’s eyes slowly widened. “Wait, so you… you really don’t know anything about who you are?”

“Am,” Graargh offered before a roar that caught a few eyes of ponies on the street who had otherwise not paid much mind to the unicorn leading a bear cub at a distance. “Morty family. Gale family. That all.”

“Right…” Aspiration sighed. “I’m going to need to have a word with Morty in private about how best to make sure you’re being taken care of. But for now, can you keep a secret?”

Graargh nodded. “I keep secret good. Why?”

“Well, I promised you that Morty won’t get in trouble for any of this, right? Well, in order to keep that promise, I need you to make a promise too. I need you to promise not to talk about what we just talked about—not even to Morty.”

“Why not tell Morty, if Morty one in trouble?”

“Because if Miss Frostfall that we just talked to knew that Morty had turned a foal into a cat—” At Graargh’s wince, the teacher chuckled. “You didn’t think I wouldn’t notice a student was missing from recess, did you?”

“I… not think of that.”

“Well, I can keep a secret for both of your sakes. You can trust me. But only if you keep it secret too. Got it?”

“Graargh understand.”

“Good.” Aspiration patted Graargh on the shoulder, and then handed over the still-transformed Seagrass. “Now, you take this one back to Morty so he can get changed back, and I’m going to go in the front door and pretend I didn’t notice anything was wrong. And then we’ll teach you some math; does that sound fun?”

“Graargh not know,” the bear answered enthusiastically. “Can eat ‘math’?”

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

When Graargh came marching back into the schoolyard alone, I was left to assume our plan had succeeded with perfect subtrefuge, and seeing that Graargh was carrying the subject of his mission in his bear teeth, I took it as a small miracle that he’d managed to catch Seagrass without harming the foal-turned-kitten—or, stars forbid, eating him. I didn’t even bother to question why Graargh wasn’t still wearing Typhoon’s form. I just took Seagrass aside, restored him to his natural form (with an unusually deep twinge of pain in my horn), and made him the promise of two candy apples in exchange for buying his silence.

The little runt bartered me up to three, but I got what I wanted. We returned to the mass of the other students just as Mrs. Aspiration announced our recess had ended—a timing which, at the time, seemed like another spat of good luck.

The class returned to our seats (or in my case, the floor), and looked at the board to see not Equiish prose, but a list of basic arithmetic equations. Addition, subtraction, even a set of multiplication problems involving fractions for the older students. “Now, students, this afternoon we’re going to be working on some basic exercises…” I tuned the teacher out as she described the full directions.

My mind wandered for some time as she set out wood framed slates and small pieces of chalk in front of each student. I recall reflecting on Wintershimmer’s method of teaching arithmetic when she reached my desk. “Am I boring you, Coil?”

I shook my head out of my daydreaming recollection, and then my mind caught up with my ears and my momentary interest, by virtue of shock, fell away. “I’m illiterate, not completely uneducated.” Then I glanced over Aspiration’s shoulder at the board. “Three. Twelve and a half. Three thousand nine hundred—”

“I will ask that you not spoil the lesson for the rest of the class,” Aspiration interrupted. “But point taken.” She gently nodded to the slate on my desk. “I’m curious; can you read the last one aloud?”

“The circle one?” I asked, earning a nod from the teacher. “Not really, given most of it’s a diagram. But I can describe it.”

“Go ahead,” Aspiration prompted.

“Given an isosceles triangle whose base is overlaid on a circle of radius three… uh, arbitrary units?” Aspiration nodded encouragingly. “Such that the arc of the circle intersects the height-line of the triangle. And the triangle’s leg length is five of those same units. I’m supposed to find… well, I’m guessing ‘X’ with the line to the shaded area means you want me to find the area of the triangle that isn’t covered by the circle?”

“That’s correct,” Aspiration noted. “The ‘ticks’ next to the numbers is a shorthoof way of indicating that the units are hooves of length. But more importantly, you know what X is.”

“Well, not quite yet...” I did a bit of brief mental arithmetic, and nodded. “It’s a little less than eight. The triangle has total area of twelve square hooves, and the arc of the circle we’re subtracting is about fifty-three degrees.” When I earned a look of astonishment, I decided to slow down. “Divide the triangle in half and you get a three-four-five right triangle, and then you can do the inverse sine of the height of the triangle over the three units of radius that make up half the base of the given triangle, or the full base of the divided right triangle we’re using.”

“Uh…”

“So… Seven and eight-hundred-seven thousandths should be the answer, I think. That’s as close as I can get without a quill and ink anyway, and if it’s good enough for magical work it ought to be sufficient for this exercise that’s devoid of any practical purpose.”

If you aren’t a wizard, that probably reads like I’m trying to brag about how smart I was most of a millennium ago. If you are, what you just read is a stupid parlor trick you can probably repeat, if not best. But that was hardly the point to Aspiration, who actually staggered back.

“You did that in your head?”

“When you’re a wizard and you screw up your math, ponies die. Well, usually that pony is you, but occasionally it’s somepony else. Did you have a point, or did you just want me to go through the ordeal of playing along that the rest of my academic skills are on par with a bunch of foals ten years my younger?”

Aspiration glared. “Mortal, I’m sorry I can’t drop my entire class to tutor you, but frankly, you’re nearly an adult, and of everypony here you ought to be the one pony I can trust to look after himself.”

“Nearly?”

“Be happy about it; life’s all downhill from where you are.” Aspiration, who didn’t seem that much older than me, shook her head dismissively. “Play along with my rules until the end of the day, or excuse yourself. Either way, when class is over, we’ll talk. You are not my priority.”

Given the choice, I saw no point wasting any more of my or Mrs. Aspiration’s time, and let myself out of the classroom entirely.

The summer air didn’t exactly leave a native of the Crystal Union comfortable, but open air, and more than a bit of wandering just for the sake of stretching my legs, cooled my temper a bit. I cleared three city blocks in the palace district, just listening to the city, before I realized my usual trick—a habit I hadn’t learned from Wintershimmer, for once—wasn’t going to cut it for my current mood.

Fortunately, the palace gardens offered a calmer and more solitary place yet for those with boiling tempers. And as I glanced through the open gates in the tall stone walls and took in the sight of the gravel-lined paths and wide greens, dotted with topiary, my memory flicked to a hidden grotto in the southwest corner of the wall. And, with a slight smile of fondness for the memory of a shared kiss with Gale, I set hoof.

At the time, you may be amused to note, I assumed that the reason the guards let me through the open gate was because literally the previous day I had ripped a stallion’s soul out of his corpse and showed it off in a room full of the city’s rich and powerful. In fact, the reason the guards let me through was because the gardens and most of the ground floor of the palace were open to the public most weekdays, barring major restricted events like diplomatic meetings with foreign governments. Still, since I didn’t actually talk to the guards (and to be fair to my assumption, they did glance at me nervously, only to look quickly away when I met their gazes), I might well have been right regardless.

When I passed the gardens’ hedge maze, whose walls were made the more beautiful and the more interesting by interweaving flowering plants in the trellises that guided the growth of the hedges to form the walls, I plucked a purple hydrangea flower that reminded me of Gale, much as the lilac I had chosen on my last visit. It tucked nicely into the lapel of my jacket, and though the gently toned flower clashed with the utter black and the harsh red lining, I hardly cared what it looked like to anypony else; it was the thought that mattered. Finally passing the wall of the hedge maze, I came upon a statue of Hurricane and the divine sisters; I scowled at the marble expression on Celestia’s face, so benevolently joining the older soldier in their return to equine society, and wondered if perhaps she was just as cruel a would-be god as her sister, merely playing a longer game than Luna. Still, the point of the statue was not to stand and talk to stones, but to mark the hidden entrance to a private grotto.

The rose bush behind the statue, already growing up to entangle Celestia’s legs, was a thorny problem, at least until I remembered that Star Swirl had enchanted my jacket for my fight with Wintershimmer. If the garment could stop a blade, it could no doubt withstand a few flowery thorns. That, at least, would spare me the need to use more of my magic. And indeed, it worked; the fabric held like steel armor, letting me brush aside the branches of the bush with my foreleg and slip through into a quiet place, filled with gentle birdsong and the bubbling of water.

Though I wished for her presence, Gale was nowhere to be found—not that I had expected her. She was off becoming Queen, or being recognized, or whatever little else I could say I knew about the system at the time.

I walked up to the little pond in the grotto, lowered myself to sit, and then laid down fully on my belly, even resting my chin on one of the wide stones beside the water. And there, not to put too fine a point on the issue, I fumed for the better part of the afternoon.

4-3

IV - III

The Awful Adoption

Water rose from the grotto’s pool in the shape of a sphere, wrapped in icy blue arcane energy. The hoof-width orb held for nearly a second before it splashed down into the ripples of the pond. I sighed, ignoring the twinge of mild ache in the core of my horn, not so much a proper pain as the discontent of an overworked limb, and lifted the water again.

Wintershimmer hadn’t taught the ritual to me as a way to find calm. Rather, it was a lesson tailored to my particular manner of horn; a way to try and develop some control over my magic without my horn flaring up. As a little foal, Wintershimmer sat with me as I raised marble-sized drops of water, listening as he lectured me on magical theory, or history, or whatever other subject struck our fancies.

“Why did you have to try and kill Celestia…” I muttered to myself as I remembered those days by the springs. They’d been one of the subjects of his lessons, the original reason the Crystal Spire had been built in the frozen north, long, long before the city was protected by a magical shield that kept out the worst of the winter storms. I’d asked him about shield spells, and over the next weeks he taught me not one or two, or even five or six, but a dozen variants on the common dueling shield.

I still remembered all of them.

“...unlike anything Aspiration tried to teach me…”

My bubble popped again, and I rubbed my temple as I made another. I couldn’t even convince myself that was fair; Aspiration was a pony with a job she was trying to do, and she’d been put in an incredibly awkward situation having to deal with me. Not that she’d handled the affair well at all. “Who expects a wizard to follow foals’ rules?”

This time, when my orb began to spill, in rage I flung it over my shoulder. I could practically hear Wintershimmer’s chiding voice at my lack of control over my emotions, but my mind kept coming back to the real problem: that behind this entire stupid affair, I couldn’t fairly blame Aspiration, and it certainly wasn’t my fault. No, the fault here lay with my new teacher.

And though it felt strange to think of the veritable goddess, Celestia was nowhere near a match for the standard Wintershimmer had set as a teacher.

A hoof gently settled on my shoulder, and I jerked at the presence. “Woah; no need to sneak up on a stallion like that. I thought I was gonna have this place to myself.”

“Perhaps if you had better control of your emotions, you would not have need to beg that others announce themselves to you.” The voice was instantly familiar, and in a lifetime of learning its forceful dry tones, I found my chest seize with impossible fear.

“M-master?!”

Where I looked, Wintershimmer stood, his hoof only slowly lowering back to the ground where I had lunged away from it. “Something wrong, Coil? I taught you better than to stutter from something as simple as surprise.”

“You’re dead!”

“True,” Wintershimmer agreed. “And yet not an especially useful observation. Would you care to elaborate? Or are your emotions too heightened to understand?”

I scowled and lit my horn. “I ought to kill you.”

“As you just reminded us, you already have. But since I must evidently remind you, Coil, you have already cast two spells today: one, amusingly more according to my instructions than you would likely allow yourself to admit, was an attempt to frighten a group of foals into obedience and respect. The second was likewise wasted undoing that mistake.” Wintershimmer lowered himself to his flanks slowly; when not literally fighting for his life, it seemed he was still willing to indulge his sore, ancient joints with deliberate, controlled movements. “At the risk of rehashing a point you ought to remember, even if you did best me in our duel: if I had intended to kill you, and I had the advantage of my magic, and I was able to get so close to you silently as to make you jump by touching your shoulder, I would not have bothered announcing my presence before cutting you in half.”

“I dispersed your soul!” I snapped, but I let the magic fade from my horn regardless; this… whoever, or whatever this was, was right. “You can’t be standing here.”

“Ah, now we reach a useful observation.” Wintershimmer nodded. “Though I will observe that I’m seated now. Yes, you did disperse my soul. And yet, despite what you claim I cannot be, your eyes tell you that I am.”

I cocked my head for a moment at the pure logic my dead mentor’s mouth delivered, and then frowned. “I’m going insane,” I muttered. “I’ve lost my mind.”

“I taught you better than that,” Wintershimmer chided. “And, since it seems you require a hint, I know with certainty that you remember it. Insanity is a term so broad and reductive as to largely be unhelpful. Would you care to be more specific? Shall I ask you for three more intentionally chosen terms?”

The reminder of that exercise deepened the frown on my muzzle. “Psychosis?” I offered. “What difference does it make to you, if you’re just a hallucination?”

“Hmm… perhaps.” Wintershimmer nodded. “For now, it will suffice for an explanation. And tonight, when your curiosity has kept you lying awake, I welcome you to ponder if that reductive of an explanation is sufficient to explain your… symptoms, shall we say?”

“You’re claiming you’re not just a hallucination?”

“I have made no such statement,” Wintershimmer countered dryly. “Do not put words in my mouth, Coil. Now, since you are clearly having a moment of distress, and if your own hypothesis is true, it has shaken you enough that you are hallucinating your dead mentor, perhaps I can be of some assistance—real or otherwise.”

I rolled my eyes and lifted an orb of water from the pond, again ignoring the ache deep in my horn. “If you’re a hallucination, you can’t tell me anything I don’t already know.”

“True,” Wintershimmer agreed, having the audacity to wander over and sit at my side by the pond, as if his real body hadn’t only mere weeks earlier been actively plotting to frame me for murder. “And yet, as you will recall, hearing what you already know from an outside voice, even in slightly different language, can spur new ideas or new approaches to problems. Even great wizards benefit from apprentices.”

“That’s a roundabout way to compliment yourself,” I noted, just before my magical orb again leaked out its water. “Stars, why can’t I do this today?”

“Because you are taking an exercise that is intended to be performed while you are already calm and in control of your emotions, and perverting it in an attempt to reach calm when you are far from it. Stop hurting your horn and speak to me, Coil.”

“Look for a comforting talk from a hallucination? And a hallucination of you of all ponies?” I scoffed. “Even with present evidence, I’m not that crazy.”

“And I, as you have observed, am not really Wintershimmer,” said Wintershimmer. “But I am the teacher you are longing for, and you are clearly in need of advice from somepony whose advice you trust. Humor me, Coil.”

It occurs to me, in writing out these words, that my figment of Wintershimmer might have come across as paternal, even comforting. But while I do occasionally refer to Wintershimmer as being like a father to me—and he certainly was the closest of anypony in my youth to a parental title, simply by the scarcity of the field—that isn’t to say his tone of voice was in any way comforting or conciliatory. As it had been through nearly all of my youth, any comment he offered that, in a friendly or comforting tone of voice might have been well-taken as a friendly or loving gesture, he preferred to state in the same tone with which he taught the mathematical lessons I had demonstrated a mastery of in Aspiration’s classroom. His voice was not a monotone; he spoke eloquently and with a mastery of the Equiish language in terms of both vocabulary and grammar, but whenever he spoke it was with the distance of a formal teacher and a deadly wizard; never the comforting rises and falls of the voice of a beloved friend or parent.

“Fine,” I grumbled. “But you already know what’s bothering me.”

“State it regardless,” Wintershimmer ordered. “Your piecemeal mutterings while playing with water haven’t forced you to put your objections into words. And the act of picking words—”

“—forces you to order your thoughts; given that you know it and you’re my hallucination, I obviously remember.”

“You can present yourself as only one of a wizard or a petulant teenager, Coil. Do not think killing me excuses that kind of tone.”

I grit my teeth. “At least you recognize I’m a wizard.” Then I forced myself to suck down a deep breath. “Even when you were trying to kill me, you at least respected me. Today, because I wanted to learn to read, I was sent to a school for foals, and expected to act like I was one of them—completely lacking an education or any kind of title or respect. Nevermind that I literally saved Celestia’s life!”

“I do recall, Coil; I was there,” Wintershimmer noted dryly.

Though I would forgive anypony who didn’t know the bitter old stallion as well as I did for missing it, I caught in a slight twitch of his eyes that this was an example of Wintershimmer’s humor, and it broke through the hard outer crust of my fury with a muffled chuckle.

The old wizard gently dipped a hoof into the water beside him—completely failing to make any kind of ripple or splash, which struck me as a bit odd, given I ought to have been more than capable of hallucinating such an effect if I were hallucinating the attached stallion—and continued on. “Setting aside that refrained from using any kind of force to earn respect, in service to your ‘heroic’ persona…” I caught a scoff in my mentor’s voice. “...where does the blame for the disrespect you suffered lie? With the teacher who put you in this position?”

“No…” I noted, hesitantly, and dipped my magic into the pond again.

Wintershimmer lashed out with a hoof, not especially quickly given his age and general atrophy, and though it met my horn, I felt nothing at all—though the blur of violent motion got my attention back regardless. “Your horn is not healed, and you are being a fool ignoring its pain. Trading the momentary satisfaction of your mood for the health of the one thing that makes you a wizard will see you soon spoil both.”

“It’s a little ache from mana burn,” I countered. “I’ve lived with worse before. If something were wrong with my horn, I could hardly have cast something as complex as Fauna’s Feline Form.”

Wintershimmer actually coughed back a laugh at that—a rare show of amusement from the old stallion. “Forgive me my amusement, Coil, but even after I betrayed you and tried to kill you, that was what made you snap? A bit of schoolyard mockery?”

I glared. “It was a moment of weakness.”

“Indeed,” Wintershimmer agreed. “A shame it was not the realization of the path to strength.”

“This was literally the last thing we argued about before I dispersed you!” I snapped. “Do we really need to rehash it?”

“No, I suppose we do not. If the blame does not fall with Aspiration, then where do you assign it?”

“Well… I think Celestia.”

Grayed brows pinched together on a sickly yellow-green brow. “I did not teach you such indecisiveness.”

I closed my eyes and drew in another breath to keep from snapping. “Celestia knew where she was sending me; otherwise, she wouldn’t have prepared the letter that introduced Graargh and I. Either this was her misguided attempt at some lesson in humility by way of humiliation, in which case I suppose she didn’t last very long as my teacher, or there’s been some kind of mistake.”

Wintershimmer nodded. “And given the way you phrased that, I don’t need to ask you what plans you have for each possible answer.”

I chuckled. “Yeah… I guess not.”

“Let me observe something you already know, then, but may not have considered: Queen Platinum gave you considerable wealth; more than enough to simply purchase the services of a private tutor. And that is assuming you don’t know somepony who would provide such a service—which, in fact, you do.”

“I do?”

“Much as we both agree the mare is a sorry excuse for an archmage, Clover’s pupil’s school proves she may be a profoundly effective teacher of basic skills. Of which literacy certainly is, your special case notwithstanding. And you will recall if you think back, that when you first arrived in Everfree City and had to explain our Summer Lands’ portal ritual to her, she made an offer to the effect of mentoring you personally.”

“She did?”

Wintershimmer scoffed. “I—that is, the real Wintershimmer—was not present for that discussion. I pulled the memory from your mind, which it seems is my mind too. I am certain you will recall it if you focus. The only advantage I can claim to have is that, while your temper is still incensed from your day in the schoolhouse, I enjoy the objectivity of calm.” Then the old wizard stood up, slowly and rather achingly for a figment of imagination. “You could also tap your predecessor; Solemn Vow may not be a teacher of any particular talent, but even judging only by the fact that his home includes several libraries, the stallion was obviously literate, and his fate is quite literally in your hooves. But those are options for another day. Today, I would advise you to deal with the ‘changeling’ child you have been dragging with you on your adventures. And if possible, confront Celestia; that will settle your mood one way or another.”

“Where are you going?” I asked as he began to stride out of the grotto.

“Well, in a moment I imagine you will stop thinking of your late mentor, and the hallucination of me will fade; at least, I would be very surprised if it did not. So the strictly most truthful answer to your question would, I imagine, be ‘back inside your mind.’ Or, I suppose, your soul would be a more accurate descriptor.”

And with that, seemingly at his own behest, Wintershimmer faded away into nothing like a mirage in heated air as one approaches. And, wondering whether I would be considered less sane if I were heeding some real fragment of Wintershimmer that had survived his dispersal, or just a figment of my imagination and/or fading sanity made manifest, I too rose to my hooves to fetch Graargh and confront Aspiration.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

“Morty back!” I heard shortly before being slammed into the schoolhouse wall just beside the door by the weight of a young grizzly.

“You’re late, Coil,” Mrs. Aspiration observed drly from behind her desk, slowly lowering a quill into a pot of ink and letting it rest there. The rest of the classroom was utterly empty.

“You didn’t say when class ended, in my defense.” Not that I could have known regardless, given the pocketwatch had not yet been invented.

Aspiration’s temple throbbed visibly. “In this case, I would have been asking for more time to catch Graargh up to where he ought to be in his education anyway, so the time wasn’t wasted… but in the future, I endeavor to end class three hours after lunch. If you choose to return.”

“Well, I’ll need to pick up Graargh regardless.”

“Yes…” I watched Aspiration’s expression turn gentler as she turned toward my friend. “Graargh, could you step out in the yard for a few minutes? Mortal—” When I visibly winced, the teacher sighed. “Mr. Coil and I need to talk privately.”

“What you talk about?” Graargh asked with a pronounced frown.

After a moment’s hesitance, Aspiration answered “The future.”

“Oh, can see future? Use magic? Like Morty? What happen tomorrow? I can have good honey?”

“What?” Aspiration asked with less confusion than worry. “Coil, you can’t actually—”

“I can, in theory, but doing so is walking a fine line between useless and incredibly dangerous magic. That, and at least if you believe the legends, the reason the royal family is diseased with the Scourge of Kings is that Celestia punished King Electrum for his hubris overusing that kind of magic.” I chuckled. “So no, Graargh, not like that. She just means we’re going to talk about plans for the future. It’ll be boring, I promise.”

“Oh.” Graargh’s face fell. “Well, call if you fight with eel; not want miss funny.” And with that somewhat bizarre comment, Graargh pushed his way out of the room.

“Fight with eel?” Aspiration asked. “Do I want to know?”

“Some guardsponies in Lubuck were… well, I didn’t know Gale was the Princess at the time, I just knew they were basically trying to foalnap her. One of them came at me with a sword, and the first weapon I could find on hoof was a barrel of fish.”

“You got in a fight with Legion guards?” Aspiration pressed.

“Well, that was hardly anything compared to being accused of murder by Commander Typhoon, but I suppose so. It’s all water under the bridge now; they figured out I was right, and everypony learned their lessons.”

“Their lessons?”

I nodded. “Don’t get in the way of wizard trying to save the world,” I explained. “Which, I believe, brings us to the point you’re about to make. Let me make this less painful for both of us: I’m not coming back tomorrow.”

A look of mild relief washed over Aspiration, and she nodded. “That… certainly makes things easier. I would be willing to tutor you privately in the evenings, after class lets out, but—”

“Can I go get Graargh now?” I interrupted, making my position quite clear in my tone.

“Actually…” The same relief that had swept over Aspiration was in turn swept away as her shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath. “The other future we need to talk about is his.”

“Graargh?” I asked, and a sudden wave of nervousness found my belly as well—what did Aspiration know? Had she caught on to his part in our misadventure during the lunch break? “Is something wrong?”

“Presently, no.” I watched the mare’s throat tense as she forced herself to swallow what was surely about to be a painful topic—I suspected, perhaps, more for me than for her. “From what I understand, while Graargh may view you more like a sibling than a parent, he is currently your ward. Is that correct?”

I nodded. “I meant to find his parents at first, but…” As memories of our encounter with the bears north of River Rock came to the fore of my mind, I realized there was no real way to explain their rejection (or my suspicion that they had killed Graargh’s real parents—possibly even justifiably) without giving away his secret. “I’m almost certain he’s an orphan.”

“Then before I continue, let me say: if what he says about living alone in a cave is true, it was admirable of you to take him under your care, Mr. Coil. I’m concerned about the amount of danger your care put him in, but given he is alive and safe now, he’s obviously better off than he would have been alone. So when I say that I don’t think it is responsible for you to continue to be his guardian, it isn’t because I condemn the job you’ve done.” Then the mare sat down behind her desk, and gently steepled her hooves.

“I know,” I answered with a heavy sigh of my own.

“You do?” Then, with a shake of her head, the teacher smiled. “I’m sorry; it’s just that you’re defying the expectation I had built up of you this morning.”

“I think you’ll find I function better when I’m not asked to pretend to be an ignoramus or a foal.” A hint of an edge snuck into my tone. “Beyond my age, the life of a wizard is by definition dangerous.”

“It is?” Aspiration asked with more curiosity than confusion. “I thought most of the wizards were higher academics.”

“If you don’t use your magic to defend ponies from magical threats, you’re not a wizard,” I answered. “At best, you’re a hedge mage with delusions of grandeur.” When that comment prompted a raised brow, I nodded. “It’s a catch-all term for self-taught mages; unicorns who practice magic as a trade unto itself, but haven’t been through the formal training and apprenticeship process with a proper wizard or archmage, and who wouldn’t be expected to use their magic if, say, a monster attacked their city.”

“I see…” Aspiration answered in slow reply. “Regardless, it seems we’re in agreement about finding Graargh a more suitable guardian.”

“I was considering asking Hurricane,” I told her as I wandered over to the classroom’s windows. Outside, Graargh had found a dragonfly, and was chasing it rather more like a predatory cat than a bear. He paused for a moment to wave at me through the window when he noticed me watching, then went back to his stalking and pouncing.

“Commander Hurricane?” Aspiration asked, incredulous.

I nodded. “He’s, uh, been hosting us. I know it sounds strange if all you’ve heard about him are the stories from the Weather Wars, but he’s rather friendly—especially with Graargh, and—”

Aspiration cut me off with a lifted hoof. “I’m quite aware that the… shall we say venerable ex-Commander is a friendly stallion. But… well there are two problems with his guardianship.”

“Oh?” I raised a brow, before letting out a small chuckle at the sight out the window: Graargh had caught the dragonfly, and managed to do so gently enough that when he opened his paws to check, it darted away again. “I didn’t see anything wrong.”

“The first is that Hurricane isn’t…” Aspiration visibly bit her cheek in hesitation before she found words she was satisfied actually uttering. “Hurricane’s track record as a statestallion and a soldier are both legendary, but as a parent? He leaves something to be desired.”

I rolled my eyes. “Because Cyclone turned out to be a problem, what, twenty-five years ago?”

“That is one example, yes.” Aspiration then sighed somewhere behind me. “You aren’t from Everfree, are you?”

“No. Why?” I turned at the question, leaving Graargh to his hunt.

“It’s easy to forget; you don’t have much of a crystal accent except when you’re upset. If anything, you sound like you’re old enough to have been born in River Rock, before Equestria was founded.”

For just a moment, in my mind, Wintershimmer faded into view over Aspiration’s shoulder, staying manifest just long enough to offer me a sardonic wink before fading from my view again.

“Something wrong, Coil?”

“Hm? No, no; I was just remembering. My, uh, my late father-figure was almost one hundred when he passed, and that’s where I got most of my diction.” I waved my hoof dismissively, as if warding off a foul smell. “Is there something I should know that I don’t because I wasn’t born in Everfree?”

“They’re just rumors,” Aspiration explained hesitantly. “But… Well, suffice it to say, Commander Typhoon’s youth wasn’t exactly happy either.”

“Even if we assume they’re true, I’m inclined to argue Gale turned out alright, and given the other two were foals while the old stallion was still running the army, I’m inclined to say she’s a better example.”

“She may be, but that raises the second of my objections: Her Majesty has just ascended the throne. She will likely want all the support she can get from family, and I fear… well, no, I shouldn’t say it that way. Hurricane would be right to focus his attention on Her Majesty’s growth as a ruler over a surrogate foal dumped on his doorstep.”

“Okay,” I nodded. “I don’t know if I buy that Gale’s going to magically take up all of Hurricane’s time, when it’s Queen Platinum—the older one, I mean—who’s actually running around everywhere with her. But for the sake of argument, let’s say I’m convinced; who do you propose?”

“I don’t know, yet.” Aspiration answered. “Let me be clear: I’m not trying to steal him for myself. School keeps me too busy for a foal of my own in the long term. But in the short term, I think having him stay with me would be the best option. That will let me keep overseeing his remedial lessons, and address any social lessons he’s lacking as well, in a more natural context.”

“You think I can’t teach him manners?”

Aspiration shook her head at that. “You are his friend, Coil. You would have to give that up to be his teacher.”

“Why?”

“Friends don’t discipline one another. Friends look past one another’s mistakes. For a simple example, consider how you would feel if Her Majesty corrected you any time you used a contraction. For a foal of Graargh’s… I suppose ‘equivalent development’ would be the best term, since I don’t know how bears age in comparison to ponies… regardless, for a foal like Graargh, adapting to see you as a teacher or a proper, parental guardian instead of a friend who happens to provide some basic needs could be damaging, both to your relationship and to his development into a young stallion. Or rather, a young adult bear.” Grabbing her quill from her inkpot with magic, the teacher took a quick note that, I only later learned, read ‘look up terms for bears by gender and age’.

“So you want him to stay with you?” I asked.

Aspiration again nodded, once and with pronounced finality. “If you’re willing. Not tonight; I wouldn’t have anywhere for him to stay set up even if I did bring him home. But more to the point, I wouldn’t want to spring that on him. Can you explain the situation to him tonight?”

I took a deep breath, and then offered a curt nod. “I will.”

“He’ll likely have questions and concerns; remind him that you aren’t abandoning him. You’ll still be welcome to see him, of course, and I’ll ask you to make a point to do so, daily at first. It’s important a foal feels stable, so however you choose to explain our decision, I urge you to be honest.”

The irony was lost on me at the time, thick as molasses though it may have been; I nodded once and turned toward the door. “What time tomorrow morning?”

“Seven. By the city clocktower, in case you have a clock that isn't set to match it. Please ensure he isn’t late.” Then, with a short breath in, she found final words. “Thank you for being understanding, Mr. Coil.”

“I do my best,” I answered, and opened the door. “Thank you. For… caring, I guess.” And with that delightful, painfully uncomfortable parting thought, I stepped out and slid the door shut behind me.

The dragonfly was not very smart, it seemed; Graargh was still chasing it, to the point that he didn’t see me leave. His rear claws dug into the rough, occasionally grassy dirt of the yard, and then he hurled himself at the insect. And, much to my surprise, he snatched it.

I spoiled the scene with a laugh when, bringing his paws up to his muzzle, Graargh moved to bite down on the thing. My distraction gave the little insect time enough to fly away again, and Graargh donned a pout on his broad brown muzzle. “Morty! Why laugh? I hunt!”

“You clearly did; I’m surprised you caught it twice. But it wouldn’t have tasted very good.”

Graargh shook his head. “Like bugs; they tasty! You done talk teacher? We go home now?”

“We’ve got a couple stops,” I told him, pointing my hoof to Equestria’s skyline, and more particularly to Diadem’s academy.

“What that?”

“It’s…” I paused to consider my phrasing, and then explained “Wizard school.”

“Oh! I learn be wizard?”

“You’d have to pretend to be a unicorn most of the time,” I answered. To which Graargh promptly erupted in green fire, and I found myself staring my own face. “Not…” Damn it, he was so distracting… “Do you have to be me?”

“When be pegsus, Morty pick best pegsus for flying. Well, Morty best unicorn for magic, so I pick him,” said my own soothing, dulcet tones in Graargh’s broken grammar.

“Just go back to being a bear, Graargh. We’re not going to the Academy for you. I need to ask Archmage Diadem to teach me to read. And you wouldn’t want to learn to be a ‘wizard’ there anyway.” I gestured down the road and started on my way, making a point to look away from myself as I did. “They’re not real wizards; they don’t protect anypony.”

Graargh—in my voice—scoffed. “So not good friend pony like you? You right; I want learn help. Be like Morty!”

“You… seriously? I mean, I suppose I can understand; I’m sure most ponies want to be like me. Speaking of which, can you stop? Go back to being a bear, please.”

“No, it fun!”

I briefly grit my teeth and kept my eyes pointed dead forward, trying not only not to stare at myself, but also to ignore the discomfort of all the ponies staring at the two uncannily handsome, uncannily identical twins walking up the street. At least, mercifully, because my coat covered my talent marks, nopony was likely to notice that we impossibly actually matched even in that truly unique regard.

“Where we go after wizard school?” Graargh asked.

“Well, we should grab some food.” Then, after a moment of horrified imagination of what ponies would think seeing ‘me’ (that is, Graargh) using his rather ursine table manners while ‘wearing’ my body, I let out a shudder. “Maybe see if we can take food back with us to my house.”

“Morty has house?” Graargh asked. “But… not from here?”

I chuckled. “No. Gale’s mom gave me a house for dealing with Wintershimmer. You remember the key she gave me at breakfast? It goes to the house we went to when we were hunting Wintershimmer.”

Graargh nodded. “Graargh save Morty and Gale! Run fast in tunnel.”

“You sure did.” In blind instinct, I reached to pat Graargh on the head and only narrowly to miss punching my much taller alternate self, whose head was well above the height of a grizzly cub’s ears, square in the face. Instead I lowered the hoof to take another step toward Diadem’s academy. “Well, that’s where I’m gonna be living now.”

“Ooh! I get cave?”

“What?” I asked as I pulled open the yard’s fence with my hoof.

“Well, bear not live in house; but I help fight Winnershimmer. I get cave?”

“Where do I even start…? Graargh, the bears we met north of River Rock had beautiful houses. You remember that log cabin we stayed in when we met… Smokey?”

“Her name—” and then Graargh belted out a slightly different roar than his usual. “But yes, I remember. Er, I am remember.” Graargh beamed a smile. “I is learn!”

“Stars…” I muttered, but I couldn’t help wearing a bitter smile as I did. Graargh looked so proud of himself, (mis)using the word I’d taught him. “Graargh, there’s something we need to talk about, and I don’t want to put it off, okay?”

“Okay?” Graargh answered, with that upward tilt in his tone that suggested maybe a hint of worry; they learn so young.

“For at least a little while, instead of living with me or Hurricane and his family, you’re going to go live with Misses Aspiration.”

“Why?” Graargh asked rather suddenly and forcefully.

“Whoa, buddy, easy. I’ll still be around, you’ll still see… well, honestly I don’t know how much you’ll see Gale anymore since she’s busy being Queen, but I assume you’ll run into her some. And it’s not forever. It’s just, there’s some things you need to learn about how to live with ponies if you’re going to stay here with me and… well, everyone.”

“Family,” Graargh agreed. “But why Morty not teach?”

“Because I don’t know some of them myself, like how to read,” I answered off the cuff; the answer sounded funnier in my head than it landed on ‘my’ expression. “Aspiration is a teacher; I… well, I didn’t actually take a good look at her talent marks, but I assume it’s her special talent to teach young… well mostly ponies, but young creatures of all kinds. I’m a wizard, and if you want to learn magic someday, we can talk about teaching you that. But for just one example she’ll know how to teach you to talk better than I can… well, better than I can teach you, anyway; I doubt you’ll come out with quite my practiced diction or vocabulary even at the end.”

“But… I want Morty,” ‘Morty’ said; it really was getting quite distracting that he wasn’t the little bear cub I’d been imagining having this talk with.

“I know. And I promise, I will be around to see you and check on you and spend time with you, Graargh. You can come over to my house, we’ll go get food… whatever else young ponies who aren’t wizards do for fun… but it’s like you said; I’m like your big brother, right?”

Graargh nodded enthusiastically with my face.

“I can’t be your dad too.”

After a moment’s thought, and to my considerable surprise, Graargh just… nodded. That was his agreement, and though it was obvious he wasn’t happy, neither was he heartbroken over the decision.

If anything, I felt worse. “Look, Graargh, you wanna ride on my back? Like we did when we were traveling?”

Graargh cocked his head. “But… all morning Morty grumpy about it. ‘I hurt’ you say, ‘I fight Winnershimmer, not all feel better yet’. You okay now?”

I shrugged. “Maybe I’m just feeling sentimental. But it didn’t hurt me this morning. You just have to be a bear again if you do; I can’t carry me around.”

“Pppfff…” I rolled my eyes at the especially undignified noise leaving ‘my’ lips. “You try trick me, but it not work! I too smart! More fun be Morty! Two Morty! We play game! Get eels and fight!”

That was about the level of conversation that occupied our journey to the academy, across both of Everfree’s rivers on wide bridges covered in carts. We passed the wide open booths and wide greens of the Market Garden district. We passed a few blocks whose streets were covered in wide glass canopies, two stories above our heads, where the barrier between ‘outside’ and ‘inside’ storefronts was completely lost. On a whim, I bought Graargh a bag of rock candy from a hawker who’d been offering the goods to another foal about my guess of Graargh’s age, shopping with her mother.

I nearly cried when he cracked one of my teeth on the treat, though he quickly and casually re-generated the injury before it could cause him anything more than momentary pain.

Finally, we reached Lighten Heights, with its tall skinny buildings and fascinating storefronts, where casual enchantments were common. And though, compared to the enchantments Wintershimmer and I had wrought in our quarters of the Crystal Spire, the magic on view was quite pedestrian, each bauble and cantrip enchanted Graargh, and I found more than a bit of joy in explaining the enchantments and how they worked.

I’m certain my friend had next to no understanding of the nuance behind what I was saying, but he pressed me with questions just the same, trying question after question to really deeply understand how the little illusions that danced on signpoles worked without somepony’s horn to keep them moving, or how the water in the fountains at the intersections of the streets stopped and started in such elaborate controlled displays—at least, he pressed until some new minor wonder distracted his admittedly short attention span.

And then, altogether too soon, the wonders of Horntown ended at the edge of the wide green that marked the Academy’s property. Still, Graargh seemed optimistic at seeing some grand feat of magic in the ‘wizard school’.

I was more pessimistic.

Unlike a primary school like Aspiration’s, Diadem’s academy of magic did not simply let out—while lectures might have largely stopped as the day progressed toward a late summer evening, the magically insulated workshops and laboratories were still filled by the countless aspiring apprentices and journeymages not only well into the evening, but through all hours of the night. Thus, it was no trouble to find a student not much younger than myself (who, thankfully, only looked twice at the fact that there were two of me) before offering directions to the Headmistress’ office, as Diadem had styled herself.

Diadem gave us a triple take when I entered her office (completely unbarred by any kind of secretary or assistant, or even a good old-fashioned sentient door to provide some line of defense against distractions). Her first look up was to see who was entering after a knock. The second was when she realized it was me, given how openly skeptical I had been (and even now, centuries later, continue to be) about her approach to education. And the third, perhaps most justifiably, was when I entered a second time without having exited first.

“Um…”

“It’s Graargh; you remember him, right? He thinks it’s ‘fun’ to be me today.”

“Ah.”

I do so love dealing with other wizards; at least they don’t respond to such a simple explanation with slack jaws and failing sanity.

Diadem’s office was, as if taunting me, lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on literally every wall save the door I had come in through, and a pair of windows set on the tower’s exterior wall that could provide her light while reading and writing on her desk. And even those windows were framed, both above and below their panes, by further bookshelves. The room even smelled like parchment and ink and burnt wax, in a way even a library doesn’t—I’ve always found a strong but oft unmentioned scent of a library is the scent of the stain or shelves, and in Diadem’s office it was completely stifled by the weight of the paper.

Diadem herself had set her namesake—which I was certain was enchanted, because otherwise why wear something so profoundly tacky?—on the desk beside a massive pile of parchment, one page of which had been pulled aside to live under her quill’s attentions. I couldn’t read the text, of course, but I did recognize some of the symbols.

“Well, Morty and Graargh, it’s convenient you should drop by; I was just transcribing some of my notes from the Summer Lands ritual you taught me into a more academic format.”

I raised a brow. “Coincidences like that make me a bit nervous…”

“Ah, Skeptic’s Third Law.” Diadem chuckled gently to herself; whatever I might have felt about her fashion, she had quite a pleasant voice (and lest I give the wrong impression, that is a much older, wiser, and more honest Mortal Coil talking; not only was I too prejudiced against her philosophies in my youth to see her beauty as a mare, but she was also about a full generation older than me, and beyond even that, in virtually every conceivable way she was the opposite of Gale, and so quite removed from any sense of infatuation that might have befallen another similar young stallion). Unaware of my future self’s commentary on the sound of her humor, Diadem continued. “Does it make you feel any better if I tell you I’ve been working on this every evening since your confrontation with Wintershimmer, and that I probably will be for another few months before I’m satisfied?”

“Considerably,” I answered.

“I not understand,” interjected Graargh.

I could see Diadem preparing to explain, but I beat her to the punch. “Don’t worry about it, Graargh. It’s just an old wizard’s saying.” Then I (barely) managed to pull my attention away from my own perfect jawline and onto the archmage in the room. “You had offered to teach me to read and write when we were going through writing that down the first time. I was hoping I might take you up on that offer.”

I admit, I was a bit surprised at how enthusiastically Diadem’s expression brightened from that simple request. “Of course!” Then, with a moment of confusion she added “Not that this is me objecting, but just out of curiosity: I had heard you were going to be studying with Lady Celestia. Why not ask her?”

I tried to control the active twitching of my eyelid, to at least not give away my fading sanity in my very expression. “Celestia seemed to think it was a reasonable idea for me to learn to read by wasting my time in a classroom with a bunch of foals half my age. So pending a strongly worded conversation I might be between mentors right now.”

“I can’t believe Lady Celestia…” Diadem grimaced. “My apologies, Morty. I don’t mean to doubt your word. Stars know you’ve been disbelieved enough. I’d be glad to tutor you—privately, of course.”

I nodded as I reached into my jacket with a hoof. “Is a thousand bits suitable payment?”

Diadem actually frowned at that. “One of my most fundamental beliefs, Morty, is that education should be free to anypony who pursues it. That might even be the meaning of my talent mark. And while that usually involves teaching in groups instead of one-on-one like the apprenticeship system, in your unique situation I do think an exception would be appropriate.”

I shook my head as firmly as I could manage. “I insist, Archmage, on paying something. If you would prefer some sort of magical debt, I’m not completely unwilling, but I do have a preference for payment in currency.”

Diadem raised a brow. “May I ask why? Is this something Wintershimmer taught you?”

“If I accept your lessons freely, that makes me your apprentice,” I explained.

“Ah.” Diadem sagaciously dipped her head and behind her glasses, held her eyes closed for just a moment in some sort of moral conundrum. “Well, now I’m torn. On the one hoof, unlike what Wintershimmer apparently taught you, I’m not an adherent of the lessons in The Isolation of Tutelage. Frankly, I think the world would be a much better place if those ideas died out. On the other hoof, I’m already making an exception for your very unique case, and those funds would go a long way to finishing off repairs to the grand lecture hall… So to ease my conscience, let’s say you’re offering some compensation for the damage your duel caused.”

I rolled my eyes. “I literally died in the process of saving the world; I think a few broken benches is a small price to pay. But if it lets you sleep at night, fine. I guess we’re both compromising a little.” I glanced down at the bills of credit I had pulled from my pocket, and passed her a note Queen Platinum had made out for one thousand bits from the treasury.

“How did you know this was the right amount?” Diadem asked.

I scoffed. “I can read numerals, Archmage. And, as we discussed, I’m quite familiar with magical notation. It really is just Equiish. Now, when should I join you?”

“Tomorrow at…” Diadem’s horn ignited and she pulled out a little booklet that I would later learn was her personal planner. “I don’t appear to have any lectures in the afternoon, so perhaps just after lunch you can join me here?”

I offered a flourishing bow. “I will speak to you tomorrow then, Archmage Diadem.”

“There’s no need to be so formal, Morty.”

“Yeah,” Graargh added helpfully. “Like you say, she not even real wizard.”

You could have heard a pin drop. Diadem sighed and steepled her hooves as I drew in a deep breath and slowly let it out.

“I suppose I should not be surprised that Wintershimmer the Complacent was an adherent of the Complacency of the Learned—do I remember correctly that his archmage’s epithet comes from that old… doctrine, I suppose?”

I briefly bit my tongue when Wintershimmer—or at least my hallucination of him—materialized standing behind Diadem and peering over her shoulder. “Do you remember my stories?”

“Yes,” I agreed. “Though it wasn’t as if Wintershimmer was actually ‘complacent’ in the sense that he didn’t know how to fight. When his research trying to cure the Scourge of Kings by grafting new horns onto earth ponies was unearthed, Star Swirl went to face him. Wintershimmer plead ‘complacency’ to avoid the duel, and rather than forcing Star Swirl to push the issue—knowing if Star Swirl lost, Wintershimmer would probably usurp the throne—King Lapis issued banishment instead.”

“You tell the story as if I feared Star Swirl,” Wintershimmer offered, a hint of a snarl sneaking into his normally unflappable tone before he vanished. It was an odd comment, I thought at the time, since I didn’t know—or at least, didn’t remember—any evidence to the contrary.

Diadem nodded. “You made quite clear in your meeting with Grayscale that you feel I ought to be teaching my students here how to deal with magical threats and spirits. And, though I strongly disagree, I do respect your opinion.” I found myself honestly wishing the mare had just gotten mad as she spoke. It would have left me less on edge. “I propose that, at least for now, we agree to put that debate aside and focus only on your literacy. Is that acceptable?”

I offered a single nod.

“Then I will look forward to beginning your lessons tomorrow. Hopefully, if my recollection from speaking with Master Star Swirl is right, you should be getting a clean bill of health tomorrow morning, and I can teach you a few charms to help you pick things up quicker.” With a final smile and a wave to… well, ‘me’ again, she added “It was a pleasure to meet you again, Graargh.”

4-4

IV - IV

The Somber Seance

After my day at school and its subsequent dealmaking were done,, I set about finding food for Graargh and for myself. I won’t bore you with what served to, ultimately, be a rather routine evening—and, for that matter, one I have already described back in our second Tale. I made my way to my house at Twenty-Four Ridgeline Road, grinned as the doors opened of their own accord to allow me entry, and proceeded to eat a sloppy meal atop a pristine grand piano until Gale arrived from her own eventful evening. And after our escapade seancing the home’s former owner, the damned soul of Solemn Vow, we ventured back to Hurricane’s villa to make use of mattresses that had not been left to rot for the better part of twenty years.

Without delving too far into unwanted and unwarranted detail, suffice it to say that when a knock came on the doors that Hurricane had offered me in the middle of the night, I was left in the unfortunate position of opening the door on the opposite side of the hallway—that is, the door to Gale’s room—to answer.

Queen Platinum the First did not turn as I rubbed my eyes sleepily, having achieved perhaps half an hour of real sleep before the interruption. Instead, with her back to me, she simply observed “I’m going to pretend you came out of a different door, Mr. Coil, so that I don’t have to have you beheaded.”

“I was looking for the restroom, and Gale seemed like the best pony to ask for directions.”

“Ah.” Obviously not believing me, Platinum nodded. “Well, Coil… I trust my daughter is asleep and not eavesdropping us?”

Despite having ostensibly asked me the question, the Queen-Mother directed her words directly at Gale’s bedroom door. I reclaimed her focus with a slight chuckle. “She’s asleep. She had a tiring day.”

“I will have you killed, Coil.”

“One, who are you imagining can do the deed? Two, of that incredibly small pool, who do you think will? And three, that isn’t what I meant—which, frankly, you ought to know, given you were the one with her for the part she found tiring.” I gestured a hoof down the hall, but couldn’t resist adding. “She finds my company quite relaxing by comparison. Since I’m assuming you’re wanting to keep secrets from Gale, should we step downstairs?”

Platinum answered my question by directly beginning to walk away. “I’ll put on a pot of coffee.”

“Caw-fee?” I asked.

As I followed the aging ex-queen down the stairs of the villa, the silver mare nodded. “A gift from the Pharoahnate of Mahrdina—you’ve met Somnambula, right? One of the pegasi among Star Swirl’s companions. It’s her nation of birth. They’re beans that one grinds in a mill, and the resulting grounds are brewed with boiling water.”

“So it’s some kind of… bean tea?” I asked.

“After a sense,” Platinum agreed. “Not unlike tea, it also helps one to avoid the need for sleep. But its effects are far stronger.”

I swallowed. “Ah, so it’s more akin to Luna’s Bane.”

It was Platinum’s turn to speak up in confusion as we entered the kitchen of the villa. “Luna’s Bane?”

“It’s technically a poison; it keeps the victim from sleeping. With a large enough dose, or repeated smaller doses, it is one of the most useful ways of inducing temporary insanity in another pony without outright killing them. And because it is entirely undetectable in a corpse, it’s an especially useful mechanism for assassinating the elderly, or victims with weak hearts, where a lack of sleep could easily push such poor health over the edge while passing off their passing as natural illness. But when it’s properly diluted, it allows one to maintain consciousness well past their natural limit.”

Platinum used her hooves to place a metal kettle beneath a sort of stone cabinet, and then opened its door to reveal what looked to my eyes like a cloud of mist or steam compressed in a glass case. Pressing on the face of the glass, she squeezed out a steady trickle of steaming water, which bubbled and boiled as it began to fill up the kettle. As her practiced hooves worked, she spoke over her shoulder. “Someday, Coil, we shall have a conversation that does not make me concerned for the health of everypony in your proximity. But once again, it seems tonight is not the time.”

I rolled my eyes. “I doubt it makes you feel any better, but in my defense, I’m nowhere near talented enough at alchemy to brew Luna’s Bane. Wintershimmer just wanted me to be able to diagnose if I were being poisoned before it was too late.”

“Ah,” Platinum chuckled dryly, pouring from the kettle into two porcelain teacups. “Such a delightful, selfless stallion, your late mentor. Teaching you how to take care of yourself like that.” From another pitcher, withdrawn from some sort of cloud-cooled icebox, she poured cream into each of our cups, before sliding it toward me.

I made a point not to look down at my cup and to blindly take a sip of good faith—caught off-guard though I was by the smooth sweetness of this strange new beverage—before I answered the Queen-Mother’s sarcasm. “I didn’t take it quite so kindly when he was the one doing the poisoning.” Then I donned my best impression of the commanding but raspy voice of the old wizard. “Academic knowledge of poisons is of no practical value without the self control to administer the antidote to oneself while one is under pressure. Do hurry, Coil; I’m not young enough to replace you.”

“You’re joking,” Platinum whispered.

“Well, it was only six or seven times; he didn’t make me memorize them by taste or smell or anything. And he certainly never used anything immediately deadly like Manticore venom or… what’s the pegasus flesh-eating one called? Grabber-something?”

“Galm’s Elixir,” Platinum corrected. “And it doesn’t so much ‘eat’ flesh as reduce it to a liquid.” When I raised a brow, she chuckled. “My turn to sound like I know too much about poisons? Hurricane had a run-in with the stuff decades ago, had to burn it out of his body with his magic. He blames his bad heartburn on it, though personally, I think he just overspices his cooking.”

I chuckled and took another sip of my drink. “Well, as much as I appreciate the small talk and the… caw-fee, you said?—I’m assuming this is about our agreement, since there’s nothing else you would want me for that you’d be keeping secret from Gale.”

Platinum nodded. “I’d like to request an early seance.”

“I don’t have a clean bill of health until tomorrow morning,” I noted. “I could teach you—”

“No, Coil.” The Queen shook her head. “I appreciate the offer, but in this case I have to insist it be you. I’ll need my attention for my late father.” When I raised a brow, she sighed and glanced out the kitchen door the direction Gale would presumably have come from, had she not already been sound asleep when I left her company. “Her recognition by the Stable today went worse than I had feared. And I had considerable fears going in.”

“That explains her mood over dinner.” I sighed, and then cautiously lit my horn. There was a sting to be sure, a sort of dull throb, but compared to the cracks and burns I’d suffered through my youth it was hardly something that troubled me. “Alright. It’s probably fine. But I’ll need candles for a stabilizing glyph.”

“That won’t be a problem—assuming you don’t need some sort of special wizardly candles.”

I shook my head. “House candles will do just fine. I more meant it to warn you that it will make a bit of a mess of the floor.”

“Ah.” Queen Platinum nodded. “We can pull the rug aside in the sitting room.”

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

Once we had finished our cups of coffee, the Queen and I retired to her sitting room, where, after a moment’s hesitation, we two unicorns both set about rolling up a rug with our hooves. Once the floor was clear, I invited Platinum to take a seat while I set out the candles she had provided—though she offered to help, mages amongst the readers will sympathize that the geometry of even a simple stabilizing glyph is not something left to a laymare.

“To explain,” I told her as I worked, “What you’re going to see is King Lapis’ soul. It isn’t solid, so you cannot hug him or anything like that. And he likely won’t look the way you remember.”

“He won’t look… rotten, will he?”

I chuckled at the thought. “No, if he did, he’d be perfectly huggable. Not that you’d want to.” My humor died with a shudder from the monarch. “A soul takes the shape of the way that pony pictures themself in life. To put it another way, if you imagine what you look like without checking a mirror for reference, what you imagine is what your soul looks like when it’s seanced. You can tell a bit about a pony’s level of confidence by whether or not they’re more attractive in death, though it’s rarely a major change. For most ponies, that’s a few years younger than their actual age at the time of death, and almost always, it’s without any sign of the wounds or decay that killed them.”

“That’s a pleasant comfort,” Platinum noted idly. “I won’t have to see those wounds again…”

“If the late stallion’s age was impacting his mind or his memory, you’ll also find him more lucid,” I continued just before I took a lit candle and deliberately dribbled out a line of wax on the floorboards of the sitting room, the sixth of my seven pointed star. “However, if you ask him any specific academic-type knowledge—trivia, exact dates, that sort of thing—you may find his recollection sluggish, unless it related to his talent mark or had some sort of emotional meaning to him.”

“Hmm? Why?”

“Some part of who we are and how we think comes from the brain. When we memorize things by rote repetition, it’s the brain holding on to that. And even if I were to go dig his up—which I assume we are in agreement would be an unpleasant thing to do—twenty-whatever years of decay mean we won’t get much out of it. The soul remembers things, and it learns, but it does so a lot differently than the brain does. So if you’re going to ask him about ruling, or how to teach Gale to be more like you as a ruler, he’ll probably be just as sharp as he was in life. But if you provide him with an arithmetic test, I wouldn’t hold your breath.”

Then the last candle was placed, the last line and curve drawn, and I found myself a comfortable seat about a stride away from the border of the septacle. “Now, I’m going to cast the spell, and then I’m going to refrain as best I can from interrupting. I’ll let you know if my horn begins to get sore, so that you can finish up your conversation before I get too worn out and drop the spell—though in all honesty, the odds of me dropping a seance are next to nonexistent.”

“How humble of you,” Platinum quipped.

“It’s how I got my marks,” I answered. “But so that you can feel at ease: the variant of a seance I favor doesn’t risk any damage to the soul even if the spell is interrupted or the glyph on the floor is damaged or anything like that. So even if something does happen, from your father’s perspective, he will simply ‘snap’ back to the Summer Lands, with nothing more than a momentary hint of vertigo.”

“That does offer some comfort, yes. Thank you, Coil.”

“I assume you’ve given some thought to ‘catching up’ with your father like I advised in the carriage?”

Platinum nodded somberly. “I am grateful for the warning, and it was well received, but please, do me the honor of not assuming I am a coward because the enemies I face are not as… shall we say overt as yours?”

“My apologies,” I answered.

“Then before you begin, the only thing I have to say is to remind you of your oath—nothing you are about to hear leaves this room.”

“How could I forget a cold iron vow?” I asked as my horn burst to light with blue magic.

The nearest candle burst to life with a blue flame that was no flame at all, jagged-edged and nearly electric in its abrupt jumping and flickering. The candlewax lines I had drawn on the floor began to glow the blue of my magic as my power spread, forming into a simple but powerful glyph that, like a scaffolding for a mason, would support my work without constant strain on my body. But to the Queen it must have been an impressive showing; violent and potent, the candle wax popped and spat and crackled as the magic traveled, and whenever it reached an upright candle at one of the vertices of the star, that candle flared to life with an almost serpentine hiss.

King Lapis IV’s ghost appeared with a bit more grandiosity than Solemn Vow had, fading into being slowly before our eyes instead of abruptly snapping into being without warning. That was less a requirement of the spell and more a matter of personal preference, lending appropriate weight to the act of raising up a soul from beyond the pale. The stallion who appeared looked to be perhaps forty or so, and I suspect he had been blue in life, though the fact that his ghostly form was wrapped in the glow of my own blue magic made it hard to discern just what shade. He was neither the bulkiest of stallions, nor the tallest—I knew from Wintershimmer’s stories that a rotten horn plagued by the Scourge of Kings had kept him from the battlefield or the mage’s tower, and he had instead dedicated his life to a mastery of diplomacy—but he stood with a regal posture that more than made up for his limited form.

“How dare you?!” the dead king snapped at me, having appeared facing in my direction. “Has Wintershimmer stooped to defiling—”

“Father, please,” Platinum interrupted gently.

King Lapis halted at the sound of his daughter’s voice, and though I’m not certain he recognized its tone, aged some decades beyond when his ears had last heard it, the word ‘Father’ was enough to give him pause. And when he turned to take in a look at his matured daughter, the ghostly figure visibly staggered back.

“Platinum?” he asked in disbelief. “It’s really you?”

“Yes, Father. It’s been some time, hasn’t it?” Platinum smiled; there was a hint of sadness in the corner of her eyes. “That young stallion there is Mortal Coil; I’ve asked for his help to speak to you.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Majesty,” I offered, along with a full formal bow. “And if it’s any consolation, while Wintershimmer was my mentor, he’s dead now.”

Lapis nodded slowly. “I suppose it was bound to happen eventually… Platinum, if you’re that grown, he would be, what, a hundred?”

“Oh, he would have lived forever if I hadn’t killed him,” I interjected, with a hint of a grin. When Lapis looked at me disbelievingly, it evolved into a full smile and a light chuckle. “You don’t have anything to fear from me. In fact, you’re welcome to ignore me; I’m just here to cast the spell, by royal commission.” And, before I took a seat in what I would later learn was Hurricane’s favorite chair (a stout wooden thing with a bit too much bulk to fairly be called a rocking chair, despite its rounded rocking base), I offered a hoof to point to Platinum, passing off the late King’s attention.

“I see.” Lapis turned fully to his daughter then. “Platinum… Goddesses, how long has it been? I’m so happy to see you’ve grown into a fine Queen.”

Platinum answered with a smile. “Thank you, Father. It’s been something like twenty four… perhaps twenty five years now?”

“I hope your rule has treated you well,” Lapis noted. “Though I suspect you wouldn’t have arranged to speak to me like this if there weren't something wrong. And I assume since you’ve lasted this long, it isn’t some cruel comment one of the other noblemares made behind your back.”

At the comment, Platinum let slip a small chuckle. “No, nothing like that. Celestia knows sending me off to find our new land was the best thing you ever did for me, Father.”

Though she’d meant it as a sort of joke, Lapis’ expression fell. “Yes… Thank the goddesses you weren’t there when the pegasi betrayed us.”

“When Cyclone betrayed us,” Platinum corrected. “But yes. I had rather meant that it taught me rather a lot about what it meant to rule, but I suppose that is another point we ought to be grateful for…” The metallic queen let her shoulders rise and fall, and I caught a rare glimpse of a wrinkling on her brow, normally so well hidden behind her makeup. “I suppose I ought to explain what you’ve missed. We’re currently in Everfree City, the capital of our new nation, Equestria.”

“I have heard some stories from the souls that have come to the Summer Lands since I passed,” Lapis noted, nodding and for a moment extending a hoof as if to pat his daughter on the shoulder, before seeing the fact that the limb was transparent. Instead, he settled for adding “I’m so proud of you for what you’ve accomplished here, Platinum. But please, tell me about you. Have you married? Are you happy?”

“Twice, alas,” Platinum answered, “But yes, Father.”

“Twice?”

“My first husband was… you’d remember him as Count Creme, of House Menthe. He was a good stallion, a loyal ally, and a friend, even if our marriage was born first out of securing the support of his family in the Stable. We had a beautiful little filly…” Platinum let out a sigh. “The Scourge took root fast in her. She never saw her third year.”

“I’m sorry,” Lapis told her with a heavy, understanding nod. “Losing a foal so young is hard. Were you able to bear another?”

“I would have, if Creme wasn’t taken from me.” Platinum’s eyes briefly flickered in my direction, though I am nearly certain she was more concerned with my jacket than my face. “We nearly lost Equestria after his murder.”

“He was murdered?” Lapis asked.

Platinum nodded. “An upstart baron thought he could rise in power by driving a wedge between the unicorns and the pegasi. But… forgive me for indulging in a fairytale, but the power of true love saved us?”

“Oh?” the dead king pressed. “Your second husband? Wait… are you implying you married a pegasus?”

“Oh, it was just as scandalous as you’re imagining,” Platinum continued, and I got the hint from her voice that she was toying with her father. “But you’d like him.” Then, her grin widening as she took her eyes away from his ghostly visage to inspect her fetlock trimming with faux casual disinterest, she added “In fact, as I recall, you did.”

“I… no. No… You’re joking me, right, Platinum?”

“You disapprove?” Platinum asked.

Lapis’ jaw hung open for a moment, and then he shook his head. “I just can’t believe you would ever tolerate Hurricane, much less marry him. You loathed him, Platinum.”

“Well…” Platinum opened her mouth, and then shut it as she glanced to me. I raised a brow directly at her hesitance—in my mind, I had already sworn her cold iron vow, and there was no point being cagey, but I felt no need to interrupt. So instead, she concluded “Time changes ponies, Father. Especially time spent in five years of committee meetings, building a nation from the broken husks of three completely incompatible governments.”

When Lapis answered with a raised brow, Platinum let her poker face break into an uncharacteristically youthful chuckle. “Alright, fine, I admit it—at first it was a political marriage. But we’ve been married for almost nineteen years now, and I really am happy. He’s an excellent husband—especially now that he’s retired and Typhoon is leading the Legion.”

“Typhoon is alive?” Lapis asked. “I had thought she was killed before the uprising…”

“I imagine you would rather we not dwell on those events,” Platinum interrupted the dreaded memories that accompanied her father’s voice fading. “But yes, she survived—though not unscarred. She’s an able peer, and a good friend now.”

“I see.” Lapis nodded. “Well, it makes me so happy to hear you’ve made a family for yourself, Platinum. I… do you have any foals?” Then Lapis’ eyes widened. “Oh… is that why you wanted to speak to me? You have a pegasus?”

“Thankfully no,” Platinum corrected. “We just have one foal: another unicorn filly. Or rather a young mare now. Queen Platinum the Third.”

“Queen?” Lapis asked.

Platinum nodded. “Yesterday was her eighteenth birthday. I announced her regency. Officially, it was to give her a chance to learn the weight of the crown while I’m still alive to teach her.”

At that last thought, taken aback by the implication, I slipped into speaking up without thinking. “Officially?” When both royals turned to me, I raised my hooves frogs-out placatively. “Apologies.”

“It’s fine,” Platinum muttered. “It was the point I was building to.”

Lapis nodded. “Interruption aside, I share the young wizard’s question. Surely you could have taught her how to rule without… well, if you’ll forgive me the pegasus metaphor, without throwing her off a cloud.”

Platinum chuckled as she shook her head. “Hurricane said almost the same thing.” Then, gently, she lifted her hooves to her horn. And, to my astonishment, when she pulled her hooves away, her horn came with them.

Or rather, the surface did. What she actually removed was something like a fabric cone, and as the fringe pulled away from the flesh of her brow, its edge sparked with traces of magic—illusion I guessed at the moment.

That was little concern, though, compared to the horn beneath. Platinum’s metallic gray horn was cracked and pock-marked, marred and crumbling; in at least a dozen places I could see the soft tissue beneath, including one particularly unsettling crack that reached from the tip nearly to its base where her horn met her skull. Some of the tissue had visibly been trimmed away by a surgeon’s scalpel, likely where it had grown infected or necrotic. A few cracks showed a buildup of some kind of cream-orange mixture of pus and blood.

All in all, even at a simple glance, I knew what it meant. And so did Lapis’s ghost.

“The Scourge of Kings…” I whispered.

Lapis’ question was simpler, more direct. “How long?”

Platinum swallowed. “Star Swirl says at this point, it’s more a matter of luck than time. A bad infection will be the end, whether that comes in months or years. By his best guess, I have two years, so long as I avoid using my magic too much. But one does have to keep up appearances.” Then she glanced my direction. “We—Star Swirl and I—thought I had longer, Coil, before the birthday party. I only learned that very morning how dire the diagnosis was. That’s why I sprung the regency on everypony. I had meant to wait a few months longer.”

“You trust the colt?” Lapis asked.

“He can’t betray me,” Platinum answered. “We made a magical oath. And though we don’t see eye to eye, he’s loyal enough to my daughter that I assume he agrees with my choices now that he knows.” Then she swallowed again and re-covered her horn with its enchanted disguise. “Platinum—my daughter, not me, of course—is in an unusual position. In some ways, her position is more secure than any monarch since King Electrum. Hurricane is beloved by the ponies of Everfree, so to the masses, being our foal comes with considerable popularity among more than just the unicorns. Somehow, half-pegasus blood spared her the Scourge completely. And she has Celestia’s direct support—hard as it’s been to get her to lean into her role as a goddess, even for Gale’s sake.”

“Gale?” Lapis asked.

“Hurricane insisted she have a pegasus name too,” Platinum replied with a frown. “Aura, in Cirran, after his father Thunder Gale. She favors it too much, even when she’s acting as Queen.” The Queen-Regent adjusted her posture and visibly centered herself, bracing her hooves together. “That’s just one of the ways being half-pegasus causes problems. As you can imagine, her parentage has caused some problems in the Stable. At least most ponies were kind enough not to voice their objections aloud, and I suspect her show today will have bought her an end to most open discussion of that question, nevermind its cost…”

I didn’t say anything, but when I couldn’t help cocking my head in surprise, Platinum acknowledged me. “Did she not tell you, Coil? She volunteered your services and proposed that if the Stable didn’t like her, she would have you resurrect my prior daughter.”

Souls cannot choke, but nevertheless judging by noise I heard, Lapis made an admirable attempt. For my part, I placed a hoof on my brow and shook my head. “I’m hoping that was a rhetorical suggestion. I don’t raise ponies, and you can’t actually bring somepony back to life.”

In the interest of purveying accurate information, the correct word is now ‘couldn’t’, but one cannot fault my younger self; it was true at the time.

“Nevermind that, it’s breaking one of the royal vows!” Lapis sucked down an unnecessary breath (which is to say, he made the noise) to calm himself, and then swallowed heavily. “Tell me you aren’t seriously considering helping her by practicing necromancy in public… Coil, was it?”

“Necromancy is the magic you’re worried about? The kind of magic that’s making this conversation possible in the first place?” I admit, a hint of my usual ire at misplaced fear of the pale arts rose up in my voice as I pushed on. “Nevermind that I might solve any number of Gale’s problems by enchanting the minds of her political rivals, you’re afraid of necromancy? Not that I’m going to follow up on Wintershimmer’s medical research?” That last jab I accompanied by gesturing rather harshly toward Platinum’s horn. “Stars know now that Gale chopped his horn off, it would be nothing short of poetic if I saved her life with it.”

In another of Hurricane’s lounge’s chairs, my recurrent hallucination of Wintershimmer faded into view, shaking his head with disappointment. “While you are in both the moral and logical rights, Coil, I would not push this point with Lapis. Even from what little I’ve—”

And then, to my shock and utter astonishment, the seanced soul of Lapis whirled in place and sneered. “Wintershimmer!”

“Father, what are you talking about?” Platinum asked nervously, glancing between the vague direction her father was glancing (obviously not actually seeing the hallucination herself) and upstairs toward where the rest of the house were surely sleeping before Lapis had let out an outright shout. “Coil, is something wrong?”

“That little bastard betrayed us, Platinum! Look, he’s seancing Wintershimmer!”

“It’s not…” I sighed.

“You can see me?” Wintershimmer asked, before looking down at himself briefly, and then letting out a snort of faint amusement. “Well, Coil, the plot thickens.”

“What’s wrong, Morty?” Platinum asked. “Why is Father seeing things?”

“He isn’t,” I explained. “Or rather, I am, and he’s along for the ride. Where do I even begin to explain this?”

Platinum frowned. “Perhaps I misunderstood Star Swirl, then. I had thought when you destroyed Wintershimmer’s soul… what was the word?”

“Dispersed,” I supplied. “And yes, that means he cannot be seanced, or raised, or what have you. This has nothing to do with the real Wintershimmer, I promise.”

“Don’t I?” Wintershimmer asked.

“You’re just a figment of my imagination,” I retorted, mostly saying it aloud so Platinum could follow along—though I took a little bit of joy in the frown it put on Wintershimmer’s face. “It’s likely my own soul took a bit of superficial damage fighting him; I did literally die and go to the Summer Lands, after all.”

“I beg pardon,” said King Lapis, “you what?”

“He’s abusing the truth to tell a story, Lapis,” Wintershimmer answered before I could. “I suppose I should be proud. But his soul was out of his body for all of a few seconds.”

“You’re undead?” Lapis pressed.

“No, I—look, you’re dead when your soul is outside your body, but that doesn’t mean your body is actually dead…” I sighed. “Saying a pony is alive is a lot different than saying a tree is alive. If your soul is out of your body, you’re dead, but your body is still alive in the same way you’d say your garden rutabagas or your pet dog are alive. Breathing, but not anything we’d call sapient.”

“Decently summarized, Coil. However, though we both know better, I doubt the royals are aware that plants ‘breathe’ in the sense your or I do.”

“You’re either a rotting corpse or a figment of my imagination, master, so either way you don’t breathe either.”

“Hmph.”

“So you’re addressing… some kind of hallucination, Morty?” Queen Platinum frowned, but it was more an expression of worry than disapproval. “Something I can’t see, but evidently Father can?”

“I can certainly see him,” Lapis agreed. “And I’m not certain this isn’t the real Wintershimmer; he speaks too much alike—”

“Lapis, I raised that colt from the age of three. He is, in every conceivable metric, my rightful heir. I assure you, he knows my mannerisms, my nature, my very thoughts better than you ever did. So when he hallucinates me—if, indeed, we accept that is what you’re seeing—his memory of me will be quite accurate.”

“What did he say?” Platinum asked me quietly, walking over to my side.

“I knew Wintershimmer better than your father did,” I summarized, before shaking my head. “I’m sorry; I had no idea this was going to happen, Queen Platinum. Before we have one of these seances again, I’ll have to look into what’s actually going on. For now… Master, I don’t suppose you’d be kind enough to fade away for now?”

“I can oblige you, Coil,” Wintershimmer answered before he vanished.

Lapis glared distrustfully at me as he turned back to face us. “You’re certain Wintershimmer is actually dead, Platinum?”

“Either he is, or this colt has managed to fool Star Swirl and both of the divine sisters.” Platinum chuckled. “His only subterfuge around Wintershimmer’s death is that he went behind our backs to finish the deed himself.”

“It’s… it was my responsibility,” I explained briefly. “It’s a wizard thing. I fought him in the duel, I beat him, I had to finish it.” I quite neglected elaborating on how, even despite his attempts to kill me, I felt like I had owed (and still did owe) my probably unambiguously evil mentor; as he himself had truthfully told Lapis, he may as well have been my father.

Lapis sighed. “Where were we, Platinum?”

“Discussing Gale’s rule, and why I had given her regency when I didn’t think she was fully ready for it. I want to head off any question of her legitimacy by ensuring she’s well entrenched in her title before I pass. I—and I don’t blame you, Father, obviously—I had a terribly hard time adjusting after the uprising, with the entire Diamond Kingdoms looking to me for leadership in the middle of a crisis. I had to make compromises and bargains that I didn’t like just to hold on to enough power to keep the crown stable. And I want to leave my daughter in a better place than that. Keeping the state of my illness secret, at least for now, means ponies aren’t inclined to make desperate grabs for power at my daughter’s expense.”

Lapis sat back and nodded slowly. “It seems like you’ve already thought this out quite well, Platinum. And I think you’ve developed a wise plan. The only thing I have left to ask is why you need to speak to me. Not that I’m unwilling to help, of course, but there’s very little I can do to help you in my…” He chuckled slightly. “...current state.”

“I have no intention of asking you to rise from the grave for a speech, Father. I only ask for your advice. You prepared my older brothers for the throne, may Celestia bless their slumber—”

“You could just ask her,” I noted with a hint of amusement. “Or me, if you like.”

Platinum sighed, resisting the urge to respond to me directly. “And since I never had the chance to meet my grandmother, you were the only pony I could think of to ask for advice on raising a young mare to rule.”

“Ah.” Lapis nodded. “I’m at your service, my daughter.” Then the old king steepled his hooves and closed his eyes in focus. “I assume you gave her a Queen’s education?”

“Everything I was taught and more,” she answered. “I had Gale tutored in pegasus and earth pony law and history as well as our own—naturally less focused in those areas, but since Equestria is a multicultural nation, I knew I could not let her be ignorant of the other tribes. Unfortunately, while I can say I provided her with an education, it would be quite a lie to say she accepted it or took to it willingly. She preferred to spend her days gallivanting off playing at swordplay with Hurricane’s subordinates.”

“In her defense, she is quite talented,” I noted.

Platinum shot me another icy glare, but I noted some amusement on Lapis’ expression as he turned to me. “You’ve seen your Queen wield a blade, young wizard?”

“A few times; she was the one who actually cut off Wintershimmer’s horn when push came to shove.”

Immediately, Lapis winced. “You let the crown princess fight Wintershimmer?”

“In Coil’s defense—and let it be said, Coil, the term ‘Tirek’s advocate’ is at the forefront of my mind at this moment—one does not simply ‘stop’ my daughter from doing anything she gets into her mind.”

“She is quite resolute, isn’t she?” That voice belonged not to any of the three of us, nor the figment of Wintershimmer, but a firmer stallion’s tinged by fatigue. “I’m sorry for interrupting, dear, but I got worried when you didn’t come back to bed. Hello, Lapis. Morty. I hope I’m not intruding.”

“How long have you been listening?” Platinum asked her husband as the stallion in question stepped fully into the room.

“I heard King Lapis shout something and I saw the blue glow through the door, so I was worried Morty was up to something. Apparently, I was right.” Hurricane frowned at me; I expected some chastisement about his apparently dim view of necromancy (something he had scolded me for on more than one occasion in my misadventures dealing with Wintershimmer, but which he had never fully explained); instead, what I got were three surprisingly simple words: “That’s my chair.”

“Oh? Apologies.” I stood up and stepped aside, only for Hurricane to wave away the offering with his one remaining wing.

“Don’t bother. If I stay up long I won’t fall back asleep, and my doctor will be furious with me. Someday you’ll get older and you’ll understand, Morty.”

Forgive me while I step away from writing this to laugh.

King Lapis let out the loudest chuckle at Hurricane’s comment, donning a sad grin. “Goddesses, Hurricane, to think you’d marry Platinum… I still can’t get over it. What happened to your wing?”

“I lost a fight,” Hurricane answered. “And then I got a lot older.”

“I hear you’ve been treating my daughter well,” Lapis observed.

Hurricane was obviously biting back a devious grin as, for a moment, he stood silently contemplating his next words. “Does this mean I get to call you ‘Dad’ now?” It took me a moment of memory and quick arithmetic to remember that in life, Lapis had been ten years Hurricane's elder; death had been far kinder to Lapis' appearance than life had been to Hurricane's.

Lapis let out a chortle of his own, and then sighed. “There’s no need to call me ‘King’ anymore, but I think ‘Lapis’ is just fine, don’t you? Dare I ask what happened to your late first wife? What was her name? Spear something?”

“Swift was killed in the uprising.” A complex mixture of emotions swept over Hurricane’s expression in mere moments.

“I imagine you could find her in the Summer Lands if you wanted to talk,” I offered. “Gale had wanted to—”

“No.” Hurricane accompanied the single word by heavily placing one hoof down on the floor, and I suspect there must have been some pegasus magic in the motion by the way the room seemed to grow cold and hot and claustrophobic all at once. “You should not have put this idea into my wife’s head, and you most certainly—”

“This was my idea, Hurricane,” Platinum interrupted her husband with a frown. “I may not be a wizard, but I still understand it enough to ask for it when I need it as a tool. And right now, our daughter needs aid if she is going to succeed as a queen.”

Hurricane’s brow wrinkled in a way I rarely got to see, not so much angry or disapproving as… tired, perhaps? “What do you think is going to change with his advice that you haven’t already tried? Gale has a good heart; the rest will come with experience.”

“And how many ponies get hurt in the meantime, ‘Cane?” Platinum asked, a similar fatigue on her face. “This is bigger than just her. How many ponies grow poor and suffer and die under a bad Queen?”

Hurricane swallowed and with his eyes close, his face curdled. “And at what cost to—” The blue-black stallion shot a fierce glance my way, though I suspect he was not mad at me in that moment so much as he was reminding himself of my presence. “Nevermind.”

“No, Hurricane,” said Lapis. “Platinum assures me the colt is under magical compulsion to keep our secrets; please, speak your mind.”

“I would rather not have this conversation in front of him all the same,” Hurricane said. “Or in front of you, for that matter, Lapis. Morty, let him go back to his rest.”

“You will do no such thing, Coil,” said Platinum. “Hurricane, I take your meaning without you saying it, but the day our little filly was born a unicorn, we agreed she would be my heir and my successor.” The silver mare walked up to her husband and fiercely pressed a hoof into his chest. “And as we agreed, I gave her the chance to turn the crown down. She accepted this burden,” Platinum accentuated the word ‘accepted’ by pulling back her hoof and knocking it into Hurricane’s chest as if she were rapping on a door. “A ‘good heart’ might well be a liability to good rule.”

“It was all either of us had,” Hurricane countered, lowering Platinum’s hoof from his chest with his wing. “And I have no doubt it’s what is right for a young mare of her age. If Equestria can’t survive a naive leader or a few foolish mistakes, that failing is ours, not hers.”

“Perhaps, Hurricane,” said Lapis hesitantly, “you might consider that of the present company, you aren’t the foremost authority on good parenting.”

The room grew some twenty degrees colder in the span of a single heartbeat, and lines of frost traced their way up Hurricane’s side. His eyes seemed to glow just as bright as my own magic and the candles we had lit in the sitting room. Memories of stories about ‘Hurricane the Butcher’ flooded back to me from a youth in the Crystal Union. “Goodbye, Lapis. Coil, this conversation is done.”

I nervously glanced to Queen Platinum, only for Hurricane to shoot his faintly glowing gaze in my direction. I swallowed nervously and turned my attention to the late unicorn king. “Um… you may feel a slight sense of vertigo as you go back to the Summer Lands, Your Majesty; I promise it’s normal. Farewell.”

“Goodbye, colt. Farewell, my daughter.”

“We will speak again soon, Father,” Platinum replied with a nod.

I waited for just a moment, but neither Hurricane nor Lapis spoke up, and it seemed my waiting was only making the situation more awkward, so I let my seance fade. The throbbing of that strange deep pain in the core of my horn pulsated for a few moments as the light in the room settled to merely the glow of the candles once again, and continued to make my brow twitch as I found my mouth suddenly parched.

“Morty,” Hurricane told me, once more fixing me with a deadly serious gaze. “I neither can nor will forbid you from this magic. I’ve warned you; beyond that the choice to continue meddling in the affairs of the dead is your burden to bear. But let me be clear: you will never, never practice that magic under my roof again. Do I make myself clear?”

“A…” I swallowed air in a pitiful attempt to soothe my parched throat. “Absolutely, sir.”

“Good. You of all ponies ought to have enough faith in Gale not to go behind her back like this.” Hurricane then sighed, and turned to his wife. I suspect a great deal went unsaid between their eyes as I watched in the quiet of the sitting room. I could have heard Hurricane’s chest rise and fall as he forced himself to slow his breathing even had I closed my eyes, I’m certain. Platinum was less visibly emotional, but I had to suspect there was some pain, visible in the flecks of candlelight in her eyes like shards of glowing glass. Still, she wore her emotions tightly; her face showed not a wrinkle, her nostrils not the slightest flair. Finally Hurricane broke their silence. “No matter our disagreements, Platinum, I love you. I’m going to go back to bed now. We can speak more tomorrow when we’re rested and calm.”

“I love you too, Hurricane. I won’t be long after you. I just need to clean up.”

“I’ll take care of it,” I offered. “Wouldn’t want you to overuse…”

Platinum cast a quick glance to the room’s main door, then shook her head. “Hurricane knows about my horn, Morty. I doubt I could have kept it secret from him even if I had wanted to. But thank you.”

And with that, though some tension still sat in the air, the room grew calmer, and I was left alone with my candles, late enough in the night that it had become the early morning of the next day: the day history would remember as Queen Platinum’s Folly, and the day I was sentenced to death.

4-5

IV - V

The Dread Diagnosis

I didn’t get much sleep with what was left of the night after I finished cleaning up from my seance of King Lapis; that throbbing in the core of my horn never really settled, and whenever I seemed to be on the verge of sleep, I was dragged back to groggy consciousness by a shooting pain in my brow. The ghost of Wintershimmer, as I had increasingly let myself think of the figment (mostly so I could pretend I wasn’t losing my mind) observed that I had cast a full three spells that day—albeit with enough hours between the second and third that I hadn’t passed out from the flare , and I’d been holding the seance for a not insubstantial few minutes. It was really no surprise I was in pain.

Unfortunately, there also wasn’t much I could do about the feeling; Hurricane wasn’t an alchemist or even an apothecary, and even if he were I would have been hesitant to wake him after such an unpleasant parting asking for medicine. And while even my meagre talents with alchemical practice could produce a simple painkiller, that called for ingredients and equipment I didn’t have—I made a mental note to retrieve Wintershimmer’s elaborate and priceless set from our lab in the Crystal Union.

Wintershimmer’s ghost observed that I was now quite entitled to call it ‘my’ lab, which left me feeling very strange indeed… at least until such a nuanced emotion fell away in the face of a new spike of pain.

Ultimately, I knew by the time shops opened in the morning, I could just ask Mage Meadowbrook for a salve or some willow bark tea. Until then, I resolved to try the suggestion Solemn Vow’s more real ghost had given me: to ice my horn from his—or rather, as Wintershimmer again corrected me, my—home’s icebox. So at some forsaken hour in the morning I dare not hesitate to even guess at, I took to the streets of Everfree City en route for my private home again.

To be certain, even in those days there were parts of Everfree City that did not sleep, but the streets I followed between the riverside district and the Ridge were certainly what one expects of an orderly and peaceful night. A few guardsponies in Legion armor on unenviable patrols flew overhead or passed me on the streets—far more the former than the latter—but none bothered to interrupt me. Whether that was a matter of good faith or that I had already built up a reputation, even I cannot say. Regardless, by the time I reached my home, I was more than content to stumble into the kitchen, rip open cabinet doors until I found the icebox, and then plunge my face in like a bear diving for salmon. And while the experience was not as totally refreshing as I had imagined, what with the force of smashing my own face into a pile of ice cubes leading to some not insubstantial discomfort, the fact that it was still a net positive perhaps reflects on the quality of the morning I was having.

I left my home when the sun was just coming up—quite early, it being the tail end of summer—with no particular directions for Mage Meadowbrook’s personal quarters, but an obvious awareness of where the palace was, since it was one of a very few buildings in the city more than three stories tall, and so could be located nearly anywhere in Everfree simply by inclining one’s chin.

The palace guards were helpful enough once I arrived, pointing me to Meadowbrook’s chambers not far from Celestia’s bedchamber where I had spent so much time under her care recovering from my duel. Just the thought of Celestia put a scowl on my face (I’m certain sleep deprivation didn’t help either, but at eighteen one tends not to be quite so metacognitive) and I was grateful not to be returning to that room in the interest of my own attention.

Neither Meadowbrook’s door nor her quarters were terribly remarkable from the exterior. Apparently, she lived behind just another door in a long line of identical wooden doors punctuated by ponyquins clad in decorative armor; there wasn’t even a plaque with her name. Wintershimmer would have been disappointed, if not disgusted. Thankfully, that idle thought was not enough to summon the figment of my imagination once more. I knocked three times, and announced myself. “Mage Meadowbrook, it’s Morty. Sorry if I’m early, but...”

I let my voice trail off when the door opened with a visible glow of golden magic, which perhaps should have concerned me, given Meadowbrook was an earth pony.

Inside, I first set my eyes on Meadowbrook, present in her usual bronze collar and green dress, just as I had expected. She was in the process of turning away from a rather large cauldron set into a hearth in the wall to address me as I stepped inside. Beside her, resting in a seat he had presumably transmuted from the floor of the room itself, was perhaps Equestria’s most famous wizard, Star Swirl the Bearded. The old grouch was regal and well postured despite his centennial age, and the staggering volume of hair covering his face—not just the namesake beard, but his puffy eyebrows and overflowing mane as well—made any read on his face impossible.

“Archmage Star Swirl,” I nodded. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I would imagine not,” Star Swirl agreed, before lighting up his horn with golden magic again and conjuring up another pair of seats from the stone of the floor—in the process shifting aside a rather plush rug Meadowbrook had set in the middle of the room. Meadowbrook was ultimately offered a cushioned armchair, while I was provided with a down-stuffed chaise lounge, complete with down-stuffed pillows and what appeared to be gold filigree. (I suspect that trained mages are, at reading that sentence, gaping in awe at Star Swirl’s mastery of transfiguration, even as any other readers skipped over it with nary a thought).

“I didn’t give you any reason to expect me,” Star Swirl grinned, though it faded quickly. “Please, have a seat. No, you aren’t too early; Meadowbrook and I were just finishing up double-checking our results.”

In those days, a chaise hadn’t yet become synonymous with psychological counseling, or I might have been as worried as, frankly, I ought to have been. I let myself collapse onto the seat just as Meadowbrook took her own seat, and I suspect my first sense something was wrong came when the blue doctor steepled her hooves.

“Morty… do you prefer good news or bad news first?” her far more friendly voice asked.

I chuckled. “Well, if Wintershimmer were here, he’d tell me that I need to know and deal with any threats before I enjoy myself. So let’s do the opposite, shall we?”

I thought that would garner a laugh at least from Star Swirl, who had actually known my bitter old former mentor, but instead I got flat looks from both older ponies. It was Star Swirl who spoke up first, at least. “The good news is you’ve solved a mystery that’s been plaguing the unicorns since the dawn of the Diamond Kingdoms.”

“I… what?” I cocked my head. “Uh… alright, you’ve got me; medicine was never exactly my specialty. Care to explain?”

Meadowbrook sighed. “What Star Swirl is trying to say, Morty, is that you’ve discovered the real cause of the Scourge of Kings.”

“Hmm?” At that, I sat up a bit more stiffly. “Horn Rot, you mean? I thought you had to inherit it from somepony who had it—that’s why it’s the Scourge of Kings, right? Because the Royal Line has had it since King Electrum the Omniscient.”

Star Swirl nodded. “But then where did Electrum get it?”

“Celestia cursed him for his hubris for trying to see the future and prevent his own death, right?” Mentioning her name put me back into my foul mood, and I derisively added “Seems about right for her.”

“That is the legend,” Star Swirl replied flatly, certainly hearing the implication in my tone, and therefore demonstrating the substantial difference between being a wizard and possessing wisdom, given that he more-or-less directly commented on just that. “Though in addition to it being somewhat out of character even for the version of Celestia ponies worshipped before most of us had actually met her, your new mentor has flatly denied the story.”

“She might not…” I shook my head as my tired and distracted brain hooked itself onto a more pressing question. “How does that relate to my horn?”

It wasn’t that I couldn’t guess; rather, it was that I couldn’t believe it.

Star Swirl shot Meadowbrook a very sad glance, and she nodded gently before turning her eyes on me. “Morty, you’ve developed the Scourge of Kings.”

My ears heard the words that followed, and I’ll record them for you here, but my mind hardly processed them. Instead, an altogether different set of thoughts rushed into my ears, carried on Wintershimmer’s voice. They were old memories, memories I had enhanced with magic, of lessons in unicorn history and somber warnings about the role of a wizard in the world.

“The Scourge of Kings is incurable,” I heard Wintershimmer say in my mind. I could nearly hear his skeletally slender hooves pace around me. “Every king and queen of the Diamond Kingdoms who didn’t die to violence in the past thousand years was killed by it. The rotting of the horn starts out just crippling magic, but eventually it opens the body to infections that, invariably, travel from the horn, through the skull via the arcane foramen, and into the brain.”

Meadowbrook gently tilted her steepled hooves forward. “Most unicorns pass out when they overuse magic; that’s both a form of physical exhaustion and the body’s defense mechanism against hurting the horn permanently. As an earth pony, I don’t know a lot about how that feels, but as a doctor I have treated ‘mana burn’ in plenty of young ponies who tried to cast magic on each other.”

Wintershimmer stepped into view, and the figment of my memories looked just as real as Star Swirl and Meadowbrook, even conjuring up a third seat—an armchair he’d favored in life. His horn gently set his dragon spine staff against the wall, and then he returned his attention to me with his most gentle, instructional expression (though he still looked to all the world like a skull). “Someday, Coil, when you and I travel to Everfree City, you’ll see the Queen almost never uses her horn, except for the absolute most personal tasks. Other unicorns open doors for her, move things for her, even help her climb into and out of her carriage. It may seem like it’s merely some sort of ceremony or a show of respect, and I have no doubt the Queen and her forebears cultivate that idea in the public, but it is a lie. They do so to spare her horn, and thus extend her life.”

Star Swirl nodded to Meadowbrook. “Morty, possessing your own body and continuing to cast while you should have been unconscious inflicted mana burn on the marrow in your horn. And when mana burn interacts with the mana you use casting even more spells… I assume Wintershimmer taught you about Allright’s Principle of Interference?”

“Uh-huh,” I answered without really hearing him. Wintershimmer still had my ears.

“On its own, the disease progresses at a different rate for all its victims. Some die young, when the rot cracks open the horn before their body is strong enough to fight off such an illness in the brain. Others who refrain from casting magic live to be seventy, even eighty before the rot spreads broad enough to finally take their lives. But with every spell cast, every lighting of their horn, the rot spreads faster.”

Meadowbrook’s eyes fell as she continued. “I tested all the potions and cures I knew on a sample of your horn marrow we drew while you were unconscious; some of them regrew the damaged marrow, but they also spread the rot. It appears you’ve actually changed your body on a fundamental level, so much that it ‘remembers’ having the disease now. Even if Lady Celestia were to cut your horn off and regrow it, we fear the damage would still be done.”

“It’d make it worse,” Star Swirl added glumly. “Her magic around the horn would spread the rot just as much as yours.”

Wintershimmer gently tapped his sickly-colored yellow-green horn. “The old saying is that ‘a king’s spell is worth a day’. I doubt it’s quite as poetic, or that all spells are equal—the long line of archmagi who studied the condition before us knew it related to how much mana a spell required. But the principle is right. It’s why King Electrum, after he was ‘cursed’ if you believe that sort of thing…” My old mentor snorted in some kind of personal disgust. “Why he was the last king to also hold the title of the Kingdoms’ greatest archmage. For his foals to have kept up studying magic would have killed them and ended his lineage.”

“Morty?”

Wintershimmer vanished when I shook my head at the sound of my name. “Huh?”

“I can only imagine you already know about the Scourge of Kings from your studies,” Meadowbrook told me. “And I don’t want to make you suffer listening to us talk about things you already know; this has to be hard enough on you already. Do you understand what having the Scourge of Kings means?”

I swallowed, and found my mouth suddenly barren and dry in the search for words. “It will kill me, someday. Hopefully when I’m already old, since I’m only starting with it as an adult instead of being born with it.”

Star Swirl chuckled, and with a more good-natured smile than I expected from his normally curmudgeonly expression (something I had derived from only speaking to him perhaps three times before—but it was more than enough). “I have a hard time believing Wintershimmer raised somepony so optimistic.”

“Oh, he was quite the optimist in my later years. He was always bringing out the best in other ponies. Usually, just after asking if their necks feel cold.”

Star Swirl’s amusement vanished. Meadowbrook cocked her head. “I don’t follow—”

“The only warning sign before he ripped another pony’s soul from their body,” Star Swirl explained flatly. “As young Mage Coil demonstrated quite aptly at Her Majesty’s birthday a few days ago.”

“Ah…” Meadowbrook visibly bit her cheek; the flesh pocked in visibly even from the outside. “I don’t know anything about souls, I’m afraid, but—Morty, um, not to put too blunt a point on it, but the long term effects are only part of what this condition means for you. Do you—”

“I don’t know when I could have given you the impression I’m some kind of imbecile, and if I have, I’m sorry.” Looking back, I’m ashamed at how I treated Meadowbrook, and even more disheartened to remember how she winced back at the venom in my voice. Still, in the moment she might as well have been another figment of my imagination, for all the thought I spared for her feelings. “You’re going to tell me that I need to limit the use of my horn, and tell me the old mare’s tale about ‘a day for a spell’. But assuming I’d live another eighty years without casting, that still gives me almost thirty thousand spells to try and fix this.”

“No,” Star Swirl interrupted harshly.

“What, you think I can’t do it?” My blood felt like it was on fire; I pulled myself out of the lounge chair and stood up to my full height—which, in all honesty, didn’t make a young stallion of eighteen or so much of a threat to Star Swirl the Bearded, but in my mind there wasn’t room for such self critique past my fury. “How old were you when you wrote the Omnimorphic Spell? I killed Wintershimmer the Complacent.”

Star Swirl glared. “I’m not doubting you, Coil; I’m informing you of reality. Listen. It won’t be ‘a day for a spell’ for you. The old saying is about kings and queens feeding themselves, clothing themselves... trivial telekinesis, parlor tricks, cantrips. But no monarch of the Diamond Kingdoms ever had a horn coiled as tightly as yours.” Then even Star Swirl hesitated a moment, closing his eyes, taking a slow breath, and swallowing as if the apple of his throat had grown to block off his words. “Medicine is not like arithmetic, so I cannot give you some exact value, and I trust you are smart enough to understand that. But by our study and our estimates, each spell you cast when your horn flares up will accelerate the disease by the equivalent of about a year.”

The world stopped. The room cracked. Star Swirl and Meadowbrook vanished like mist, and in their place, the floor twisted and groaned and cracked into a spiraling ramp that descended down into a colorful void of memory. And when the floor lurched and I plunged downward into the abyss, I made no effort to stop.

“One year” echoed in my ears as I fell, and my body tumbled apart into memories.

When asked about the esoteric numbering scheme for the buildings at the Royal Academy of Magic in Canterlot (founded some years after this event), Archmage Booksmart would pithily reply “It makes sense for the ponies who are actually using the system to navigate. Wizards have a looser grasp on reality than the average pony.” Unlike most of my asides about common idioms and misconceptions of pony society, where I can offer a clever correction or explanation, that quote is just true, no errata necessary. I include it merely as a commentary on how I reacted to the aforementioned news.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

When I was nine years old, Ambassador Greener Grass was sent by Queen Platinum I to try and make inroads with the rather uncomfortable relationship between Equestria and the Crystal Empire. At nine years old, I had no meaningful frame of reference for the tension between Queen Jade the and non-crystal unicorn, and my concerns were much more for how uncomfortable I felt wearing not only a jacket, but the formal cravat, scarf, and tricorn hat that went with it.

“Master… why don’t you have to wear all this stuff?” I whispered as we watched the slow procession of diplomacy in the imperial throne room.

“Firstly, Coil, I know I have taught you better vocabulary than that,” Wintershimmer retorted out of the corner of his gaunt, skin-thin cheek, not even turning to look at me as he spoke. “Try again.”

I pouted just on the side of my mouth away from my mentor, thinking he certainly couldn’t see the expression without turning his head.

“I did not request you to make a face either,” Wintershimmer added idly.

“Yes, Master. Why do I have to wear this hat and scarf and… neck fabric thing—”

“The proper term is a ‘cravat’,” Wintershimmer explained. “Since you only heard that word today, I’ll forgive you for forgetting it. Go on.”

“I would understand if we were going outside the shield spell where it’s cold, but in addition to the spell, we’re inside. I’m boiling.”

“Hyperbole is the purview of the young,” my wiry old mentor answered with a hint of amusement that contained not even the slightest trace of a smile. “There are two reasons I make you wear the full outfit. The first is that I believe it is important you learn the traditions of our order. If you choose not to honor them in the future, I will accept that, but I will not stand for you doing so out of ignorance. The second reason is that Ambassador Grass is old enough to remember the full outfit from when I wore it as a young stallion in court at River Rock. And though I doubt she does recall, on the off-chance she does, I would not want her to think you were being rude.”

“But if you aren’t wearing it, won’t she think you’re rude?”

“No doubt she thinks of me far more negatively than mere rudeness,” Wintershimmer observed with dry humor barely audible in his voice, “given she was present the day I left the Diamond Kingdoms behind. To answer the question you clearly mean to ask, I find the full outfit just as insufferable and uncomfortable as you do, but discomfort alone is hardly reason enough to avoid something. Fortunately, I have a practical reason: as somepony of an age and a talent sufficient to be called on to do battle, both the scarf and the cravat give an enemy a simple way to choke their wearer. Star Swirl used that exact tactic against me when we were perhaps a few years older than you.”

“But if there’s a practical reason, why do I have to—”

“Nopony is going to duel a nine year old apprentice, Coil,” Wintershimmer interrupted. “And though I like to believe I have trained you well enough to surprise an opponent, I would not dream of putting you in such a position. So concerns about combat do not apply to you. Now hush.” And, again, without actually looking in my direction, he added “And stop fidgeting. The outfit suits you. I’m sure the Ambassador will call you ‘cute’.”

“If she does, can I blast her?”

Wintershimmer actually chuckled at that. “No, Coil. Regardless of what spell you mean by ‘blast’. But you have my sympathy.” Then he nodded. “And here is the mare of the hour now. Ambassador Grass, it has been a very long time.”

Ambassador Grass was a few years Wintershimmer’s younger, but both had enough years put away that it was, frankly, hard to tell much difference. What was dramatically different were how they wore their years. Grass was a grandmotherly mare, whose wrinkled cheeks denoted just as much a life of smiles and happiness as the ones on her brow suggested leadership and tough decisions. She wore a healthy weight, and although it is a bit of a cruel stereotype to link these two facts, I happen to know from other sources that, just as her age and weight might have hinted, she made exceptional cinnamon cookies.

Wintershimmer, in contrast, looked like he had died a week prior, and although I know he had a particular weakness for raspberry macarons, the fact that one could easily see the shape of his skull by looking at his face suggested he could not have found food on a map of a farmer’s market. Similarly, the profound wrinkles on his brow and stretching up to his receding maneline told a viewer that it had been so long since he had experienced a moment of real calm that it was his sheer blood pressure, rather than his osteoporotic skeleton, which maintained his overbearing posture.

“Wintershimmer the Complacent,” greeted Ambassador Grass as she approached, offering a slight tilt of her head in lieu of a real bow.

“Ambassador Green Grass,” Wintershimmer answered without bowing his head at all—no surprise there, given he rarely bothered to even offer a slight incline of his neck to Queen Jade, his ostensible ruler. “It has been a very long time, hasn’t it?”

“It has,” Grass noted, before glancing to me. “And who is this handsome young colt? I pray he isn’t your son, Wintershimmer.”

“You think I fathered a colt at eighty years old? I’m not certain whether I should be more offended you think I would stoop to bedding a barbarian, or flattered you think me so romantically capable.” There was no jest in Wintershimmer’s voice.

Ambassador Grass swallowed nervously and glanced over both her shoulders before dropping her voice to a mere whisper. “You still call them ‘barbarians’? Even when you’re sheltering among them.”

“You misunderstand who holds power in our relationship,” Wintershimmer retorted, not lowering his voice at all. “I’ve killed more of them than anypony alive… except now, I suppose, the pegasus emperor.”

“Hurricane.”

“The Butcher?” I piped up.

“The very same,” Wintershimmer noted. “Ambassador Grass, to finally answer your question, this is my apprentice, Mortal Coil.”

“Really?” she asked, raising a skeptical brow.

“The crystals don’t look fondly on ‘soft-coated’ foals,” Wintershimmer explained for me, before finally turning to look down at my still small form. “Coil, say hello to Ambassador Grass.”

“Hello.” I gave a perfunctory nod. “What does ‘complacent’ mean?”

“Hmm?” The grandmotherly ambassador raised a brow. “Well, if somepony is complacent, it means they’re happy with the way things are, and they aren’t worried about bettering themselves or changing things, even if maybe things ought to be changed.”

I responded to that answer by letting a little bit of a glow build up on my horn, which surprised Grass considerably. Wintershimmer, at least, was faster on the uptake. “No, Coil,” he warned. “I am more than capable of defending my honor when it needs defending, and this is not such a case regardless. When a wizard is said to be complacent, it is in reference to the ‘complacency of the learned’; it means they elected to yield a duel with another wizard.”

“Master, you gave up on a duel with another wizard? If you can just rip out somepony’s soul, how could anypony ever beat you?”

“Consider, my student, that just because one can win does not always mean one wishes to.” Wintershimmer then turned predatory eyes on Grass. “Perhaps since you’ve elected to expand Coil’s vocabulary, you would like to share the story with him.” Then, with an edge to his words, the old stallion added “I would hate for his education to be biased only hearing things from my perspective.”

Grass frowned. “Isn’t he a bit young—”

“Hey!” I interrupted. “I’m not afraid. Master and I have fought cragodiles and gibbering mouthers and—”

Wintershimmer calmly tapped me on the back and… I won’t say he smiled approvingly, because I cannot call his expression a ‘smile’ in good faith, but there certainly was a sort of paternal pride there. “I’m sure the Ambassador takes your point.”

“Fine,” Grass muttered. “Coil, something like sixty years ago, when your mentor was only twenty years old, he and Archmage Star Swirl had a fierce rivalry about who would succeed Archmage Comet as Court Mage once she died. In her fading years, both Star Swirl and Wintershimmer sought to impress King Lapis, who actually had the final say, but also their old master, since it was assumed she would advise His Majesty on the right choice.”

I nodded. “I’ve met Grandmaster Comet. I never understood why she was called ‘furious’, though; she seemed very nice to me.”

“How? Comet died decades ago!”

“Death makes for little restriction to a talented necromancer,” Wintershimmer replied. “And given it was that very spell that gave Coil his marks, to say nothing of his aptitude for it, I would be inclined to suggest someday that he might even surpass my talents.” Then, nodding to me, he added “In the distant future though that day may be.”

“Just what our world needs…” the ambassador muttered more to herself than to me, before shaking her head. “Not long before Archmage Comet passed, Archmage Star Swirl finished research into his amniomorphic spell—”

“Omniomorphic,” Wintershimmer corrected harshly. “Or just ‘omnimorphic’ if you aren’t as pretentious as Star Swirl. The distinction may matter little to the Ambassador, but for your sake, Coil: ‘amniomorphic’ could refer either to the womb, or something taking on the shape of a bowl or pot. Star Swirl’s spell is, amongst other accomplishments, the modern capstone of transformation magic because it can transform the shape of nearly anything into nearly anything else, without the need to learn a specific new spell for each target shape.”

“Really?” I asked. “Then why did I have to learn to turn all those birds into cats?”

“Alas, my old rival did not see fit to let me read his notes and learn that particular spell. Just as I never taught him to sever a soul. Also, I understand it to be a rather inefficient spell when compared to the more direct versions, and dramatically more complex as well. Even if you do someday claim the Tourmaline Grimoire and read his notes, Coil, you would not be able to understand them without a strong foundation in simpler transmogrifications.” With that elongated aside finished, Wintershimmer gave a single nod to Grass. “Do continue.”

“I hope this will not be a terribly long story,” Grass replied. “I wouldn’t want to bore either of you. Um… Apprentice Coil… the rumors around the court were that Star Swirl’s spell was a massive step forward in magic, that it would change how all transformation magic was studied for generations…” She waved her hoof as if indicating more such thoughts. “In short, that he had become the favored successor, just in time to win the title of the new Court Mage; only a few days after he first demonstrated the spell in court, Comet passed.”

“She didn’t die as peacefully as ponies believe,” Wintershimmer noted. “I’ll tell you later, Coil. But do continue, Ambassador.”

Greener Grass looked positively unsettled by that thought, swallowing heavily before she found her words again. “Well, as the stories around the court went, your teacher was completely consumed trying to one-up Star Swirl’s accomplishment in a way King Lapis would appreciate. He began spending all his time in the palace dungeons, moving his library and his… goodness, I don’t know what all the vials and things are called, but his magical tools, into a cell. He slept among them, ate among them, even asking to be given responsibility for caring for them in lieu of King Lapis’ jailers. The claim at the time was that the interruptions were disturbing him.”

“It was true; the guards were brutes who made undue noise teasing and talking with the criminals.”

The ambassador frowned. “Not even a hint of self awareness at the hypocrisy in that?”

“My work served a purpose,” Wintershimmer replied. “But forgive me, Ambassador, I was far younger when I last had to hear another speak of this subject, and the old habit of defending my honor dies hard. I should not interrupt.”

“I hope not, if you want me to finish,” Ambassador Grass shot back. “Archmage Star Swirl eventually grew worried about his friend, no matter how harshly the two were ultimately competing. So he ventured down to offer his assistance to Wintershimmer. What he found were the results of Wintershimmer’s gruesome experiments: dozens of earth ponies with holes bored into their skulls.”

Grass actually paused, glancing to Wintershimmer, but this time he offered no commentary at all; he only nodded to urge her on.

“Star Swirl went to King Lapis with this knowledge, but before anything could be done, Wintershimmer arrived in open court, leading a… well, I suppose an earth pony still; it was a prisoner Wintershimmer had grafted a horn onto.”

“Really?” I asked, before looking up. “Could he do magic?”

“I’ll tell you when the Ambassador is finished.”

With a cold nod, Ambassador Grass did just that. “He was half-starved, and either half-mad or just broken; his eyes were cold. He wouldn’t make eye contact with anypony. He winced and shuddered every time your master so much as moved. Wintershimmer presented King Lapis with his findings: a cure for the Scourge of Kings.”

“You cured Horn Rot?”

“Medicine must be taken for a disease to be cured, Coil,” Wintershimmer observed in response, before again nodding to the Ambassador.

“King Lapis was repulsed by what he saw; he refused to let Wintershimmer replace his horn, even if it would have meant saving his life from the Scourge of Kings. He called for your mentor to be arrested.”

“For curing a disease?” I asked.

Wintershimmer let out an amused snort. “It seems you have misunderstood the Ambassador, Coil. To be completely clear, I killed thirty-one of the Diamond Kingdom’s criminals before my work bore fruit. That was King Lapis’ objection.”

Usually, Wintershimmer would have added some comment like ‘shortsighted though it may have been’ or ‘a king of more vision would have understood my trade was worth ten times that toll,’ but this time he held his tongue.

“King Lapis’ order led to a problem, though: your teacher killed the first four guards who tried to arrest him, and—”

“Hmm?” Wintershimmer so rarely showed an expression of confusion that it briefly became far more interesting than the story of his actual violent confrontation. It took only a moment for his forced calm to return, however. “Apologies. Continue.”

“Seeing no other option, Star Swirl challenged a duel; no bystanders on either side, no aid. But… I suppose you’ll have to ask your teacher if this is really why, but as the story was told in the Diamond Kingdoms, he decided he would rather be banished than have to kill his friend. So instead, Wintershimmer plead the ‘Complacency of the Learned’—an old, basically forgotten rule about wizards fighting that says one of them can yield, and be spared his life, in exchange for giving up all titles, all claims, et cetera. And so, when Star Swirl explained to King Lapis that letting him go was wiser than forcing a confrontation, your mentor ended up here, with the Crystal Union.”

“They were still the barbarian tribes then,” Wintershimmer noted. “Tell me, Ambassador, why do you believe I yielded to Star Swirl?”

“Knowing what I know now from practicing diplomacy, I imagine you… perhaps not that you expected to lose, but that you feared the risk was large enough that you weren’t happy with the gamble.”

“Interesting.” Wintershimmer nodded, then turned to look down at me. “And Coil, would you like to offer a guess?”

“Well… It’s hard to imagine you losing a fight, Master. I mean, after what you did to the leshy at Eastwatch… maybe it really was just because you were friends with Archmage Star Swirl?”

Wintershimmer snorted derisively. “You give me more credit than I was due at something like a third of my current age, Coil. Understandable, given I was around triple yours, but ultimately incorrect. Fortunately, perspective is a lesson better taught by time than lectures. But let us assume, for the sake of argument, that I did duel Star Swirl and that I had killed him that evening in River Rock. Coil, where do you imagine I would be now?”

“Well, you’d have replaced Archmage Comet, right? I mean, that was the point of the fight, wasn’t it?”

“Unlikely. The seated monarch chooses their Court Mage, and that pony serves at the crown’s whim. Even if I had killed Star Swirl, I doubt Lapis would have tolerated me. Consider the face would lose letting me take a place at his side mere minutes after calling for my execution—that being one minor correction to an otherwise mostly accurate story from Ambassador Grass.”

“Oh.” I nodded, then tilted my own head down to think. “So… would you have killed him and become King?”

Wintershimmer actually let out a full strength snort at that, seeming genuinely amused, if in a grim and bitter way. “Coil, if I wanted to rule, do you honestly think I would not already be doing it now? The truth is that if I won against Star Swirl that day, I would have either been banished anyway, and come to the same outcome while denying the world his not inconsiderable life’s work, or I would have had to kill Lapis and make myself the tyrant overlord of the Diamond Kingdoms. Had I wanted to rule, I would have finished Star Swirl in his sleep, and the rest would have been easy. I could have killed Lapis any time the whim struck me, just as I could easily kill Queen Jade or Warlord Halite before her. In fact, I did kill his predecessor, Corundum.”

“I’m amazed Queen Jade tolerates you speaking so bluntly about her,” Ambassador Grass noted. “In Equestria, those words would be treason.”

“I have had this very conversation with Jade quite directly to her face on more than one occasion. She knows exactly where she stands with me. She also needs me, if she ever wants to see her beloved Smart Cookie awake from his coma.” Wintershimmer then smiled, entirely for show. “I wouldn’t want Equestria to think the court of their northern neighbor is divided by dishonesty or secrets. If anything, our court is the stabler of the two.”

To my far younger, less subtext-saavy self, that seemed an altogether innocuous statement, but Grass’ eyes widened, and the corner of Wintershimmer’s lip curled up ever so slightly.

“When you return to Equestria, you are welcome to tell Queen Platinum that she has nothing to fear from Queen Jade. She may not tug at her leash as much as Halite did, but I keep it just as tight.”

“I—I’m the Ambassador, Archmage.” Grass swallowed nervously. “And Equestria recognizes Queen Jade, not you.”

“Nor should they,” Wintershimmer replied. “Just see the message delivered, Ambassador. The Prince-Consort will be most interested to hear that I continue… how did he put it? Ah yes: to ‘pay the price of my loyalties.’” His horn briefly flared to life with golden magic, and the Ambassador staggered back.

“Are you going to kill her, Master?” I asked., pouting a bit. “You said I couldn’t—”

“I have not harmed a hair on the good ambassador’s head, Coil; I merely saw fit to help her remember my exact words. Good day, Ambassador Grass.”

The ambassador swallowed heavily. “And you, Archmage. Coil, it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“You too,” I answered.

Wintershimmer then gently tapped on my shoulder with the end of his dragon spine staff, guiding me to walk away from the party.

“I believe I promised you an answer, Coil. Yes, the horn worked on the earth pony. Not that he could use it any more effectively than a newborn; it mostly just sparked and flashed when I compelled him to try. But that is a failing of education and practice, not of the horn transferral itself.”

Then Wintershimmer stopped fully in his tracks, and the noise in the room grew very quiet as he turned to face me fully on his tired joints. “But you must have already known that, Coil, given you surmised that you would find me back in the Crystal Union after our confrontation at what is now your basement.”

“Master, what are you talking about?”

“Have you lost yourself in the memory? I know I never got around to teaching you oneiromancy, but I expected better of you, Coil. This is a memory of events ten years past; you do realize that, don’t you?”

“I… What?”

“Typical,” Wintershimmer muttered. “Lost in a dream.” Then, to my astonishment, Wintershimmer actually smacked me across the face with his skeletal staff. “Wake up, Morty.”

“Morty?”

“Wake up, Morty,” Wintershimmer’s lips repeated, but the voice belonged now to somepony quite different.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

“Wake up, Morty,” Celestia repeated as I slowly opened my eyes. I was laying on her bed in the palace again, rendered just as tiny in scale to her oversized furnishings as I had been in my memories, looking up at Wintershimmer from not much more than knee height. Star Swirl rested on a chair between the room’s balcony doors and a large wardrobe, smoking his curled pipe. His jangly, bell-brimmed hat hung from the corner of the wardrobe, alongside a bandolier of glass vials that I suspected belonged to Meadowbrook; the doctor herself was at Celestia’s side, both of them standing over me at the edge of the bed. When I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and let them focus on Celestia, radiant as always as her mane blew in imaginary wind, she spoke again. “Good, you’re alright.”

“I wouldn’t say that just yet,” I heard Star Swirl note from his seat. “In addition to his fatal disease—”

“Star Swirl!” Meadowbrook sighed. “He went catatonic the last time. Lady Celestia, now that Morty is awake, I need to ask that you leave us for a moment while we discuss Morty’s health.”

Celestia dipped her head in understanding, and then smiled at me—as if she hadn’t stabbed me in the back only the day before—and turned to the door. “Be well, Morty; I look forward to speaking to you in a few moments.”

“He’s fine;” Star Swirl replied as Celestia vanished through her own bedroom doors, matching my own response almost perfectly in time.

“I’m fine,” I told her rather dismissively. When my synchronization with Star Swirl met my ears, I let out a light chuckle (though it was a far cry from sounding like I was actually amused) and pushed myself up to at least a sitting position on the mattress.

“Wintershimmer was hardly gentle with hard truths when we were students eighty years ago, and somehow I doubt age made him any gentler,” Star Swirl noted, more to Celestia and Meadowbrook than directly to me. “So I have no doubt, now that his wits are about him and the surprise is settled, Morty is fine.”

Meadowbrook brought a hoof to her brow. “Remind me, Star Swirl, which one of us has marks about being a doctor? And which one of us just picked up enough to look after a couple royals?”

Star Swirl let out what I can only conscionably call a harrumph. “Very well.”

“Good.” Meadowbrook nodded, then held up a hoof in my direction. “Morty, can you follow my hoof with your eyes? Don’t move your head.”

I’ll spare you reciting the full procedures of her investigation; when it was done, Meadowbrook gave a short nod. “Going catatonic isn’t what I would call a healthy response to a diagnosis like what you got, Morty, but I have seen worse. I’m content that it really was just a reaction to bad news, at least, and likely not a symptom of something worse. I… well, I don’t want to push you, Morty, but I did want to offer you a chance to ask any other questions you might have.”

I opened my mouth to answer, and heard a yawn escape instead. “My apologies.”

“No apologies necessary,” Meadowbrook replied. “Have you been missing out on sleep though, Morty? You had some bags under your eyes when you woke up this morning?”

“I had a late night,” I offered. “I won’t make a habit of it.”

“See that you don’t,” the doctor replied, then smiled. “Well, please don’t hesitate to come speak to me. We’ll need to check up on your horn from time to time to see if the disease is progressing faster or slower than normal. And if you think of any questions later, I’ll be glad to answer them.”

“It won’t matter, but thank you.”

Meadowbrook frowned. “Morty, from what Star Swirl has shared, I know plenty of members of the royal family have lived long, full lives despite the Scourge. A fatalistic worldview like that isn’t healthy.”

“You misunderstand me.” I pivoted fully to look over Meadowbrook’s shoulder. “I do have one question, and then we can put this whole matter behind us. Star Swirl, what happened to Wintershimmer’s horn? And the rest of his skull for that matter?”

Few ponies can say in good faith that they have made Archmage Star Swirl the Bearded gasp in shock, but I did just that. It ended in something like a reverse spit-take; Star Swirl inhaled, unintentionally gasping down a lungful and change of his pipe smoke, and then with a wheezing cough, sent the pipe clattering across the floor, spreading a tobacco stain across Celestia’s rug that outlived some of the palace staff who tried to clean it. “Absolutely not!”

“Why not?” I pressed.

“Would you care to fill in the details?” Meadowbrook asked. “For those of us not in the loop?”

“The colt is proposing replacing his horn with Wintershimmer’s, with the same grotesque experiment that got his master exiled in the first place! An untested, unproven theory from when he was barely older than Coil is now.”

“Wintershimmer was planning on using it for his own sake. That’s why he kept Smart Cookie alive, and then failing that, foalnapped Silhouette. It’s why he needed Solemn Vow’s body. So it obviously works—”

“Or it simply wasn’t a concern if it didn’t,” Star Swirl interrupted. “You don’t get to try again if it fails, since you won’t be murdering some poor soul.”

“So I need to prove it with a couple corpses first,” I waved off Star Swirl’s objection quite literally with a raised hoof.

“And whose soul, Coil? Yours, and risk dismembering your own soul? Or will you drag up some victim from Tartarus and listen to their screaming? Stars, I still wake up hearing those poor ponies screaming sometimes! I won’t stand by and let you restart those horrors.”

I nodded. “It was certainly unethical when Wintershimmer first had the idea, I agree. But Wintershimmer is already dead, and in case the fact that I’d be doing the procedure on myself doesn’t make this fact obvious, I consent.”

Meadowbrook frowned. “I don’t know much about souls, Morty, but you’d be risking severe damage to your own brain. Wouldn’t it be better to live a full life, even without using your horn?”

“Absolutely not!” I snapped, right into Meadowbrook’s face. The blue mare winced back as I flung myself fully out of bed, leveraging my lanky height to loom over her as I did. “I’d rather die tomorrow knowing I tried. And frankly, Star Swirl, I don’t need your permission. I’m Wintershimmer’s legal heir. His corpse is just as much my property as his staff and his records and everything else he ever owned. I’m not interested in asking for permission. I wouldn’t turn down your help, but you’re welcome to withhold that. Just give me what’s mine and get out of my way.”

Star Swirl glared at me for a very, very long moment. Slowly, his horn ignited, and he picked up his pipe, which he indignantly thrust home between his lips, before slowly puffing up to a few rings of smoke. His eyes closed, his brow wrinkled, and he let out a final exhale of a massive cloud of smoke; enough to obscure his stern demeanor for just a moment.

“I like to think of myself as a pacifist, Morty. It isn’t my highest moral; there are other concerns that outweigh it. But there are also times it applies beyond the obvious meaning of refraining from outright violence.”

“A pacifist wizard?” I scoffed. “And now I see where the ‘school’ idea came from.”

Star Swirl’s brow fell until his wrinkles formed a spearpoint between his eyes. “Credit for the resurgence of magical study in the world belongs to Diadem, not to me. But it is a credit, no matter what Wintershimmer’s worship of dueling and death taught you to believe. Such as, apparently, that risking your own life for the chance to throw it away in another few years hunting monsters is somehow more noble or more worthy than the lives of everypony around you.”

I matched the old wizard’s scowl. “Even with everything he said about Clover and Diadem, Wintershimmer always spoke highly of you. But I guess he was wrong; you’re more of a coward than either of your students.”

“Morty, let me be clear. Right now, from where you are sitting, the idea of risking your life to get back what you think you’ve lost must seem perfectly reasonable. After all, you got away with it once. The young always think themselves immortal.”

“I’m not stupid,” I snapped back.

The comment earned me a shake of Star Swirl’s head. “You literally titled yourself ‘Coil the Immortal’. But lack of perspective aside, you are not neither immortal, nor are you Wintershimmer’s equal in this field. If you pursue this path, a lifetime of experience tells me it will end in your premature death. You’re a promising young wizard.”

“Perhaps you missed the part where if I don’t do this, I won’t be a wizard at all!”

“A wizard is more than their horn,” Star Swirl countered.

I took a step forward—not that, had I been thinking clearly, I would have expected it to frighten Star Swirl. “I don’t really care if you understand or not, old stallion; give me the damn horn!”

“No.” Star Swirl shook his head. “As for the rest of Wintershimmer’s things, do with them what you will, but I think for the time being, I’ll be holding on to his earthly remains and his last notes, for your safety and to ensure they aren’t used irresponsibly by somepony else. You’ll thank me someday, when you have seen how much you can change the world without needing to use your horn.”

“They’re my property!”

Star Swirl arched a brow. “Forgive me for channeling Wintershimmer, but in this case, I think it appropriate: there is a considerable difference between the legal right to something, and the power to enforce it. My life experience tells me that even if you have the former, I am in the moral right to exercise that I have the latter.” Star Swirl then stood up from his seat and telekinetically donned his jingling hat. “Meadowbrook will agree with me, and I have not the slightest doubt your new teacher will as well, if you ask her.”

In fury, I lit my horn a glowing blue. The throbbing pain at the core that I now knew was a sign of the Scourge growing in me made me wince, but I hardly cared as I reached out for Star Swirl. As much as a spell can have a ‘feeling’ to its caster, the shape of the Razor was altogether comfortable on my horn in a way it hadn’t been when I faced Count Halo.

The old stallion’s eyes merely narrowed, and instead of his soul, I felt his magic meet mine, swatting it away like a foal’s hoof from a cookie jar. “You’re strong,” he observed threateningly as his own horn cast a powerful glow. “But you’re not that strong.” And then, with a hiss and a pop, Star Swirl the Bearded was gone.

I heaved a heavy breath, and then walked over to one of Celestia’s windows. In the distance, a huge crowd of pegasi were hovering over some distant building I didn’t recognize at the time, but I hardly even noticed. I just wanted the fresh air.

“Should I send Lady Celestia in, or…?” Meadowbrook’s hesitance hung in the air like morning fog; I had forgotten she was even present until the question was asked, and then I whirled in shock at the sound. She must have thought me whirling in some kind of fury, taking a step back as I met her eyes, but she was a strong enough mare that, when she realized the concern was unfounded, she tamped the instinct down in favor of calm. “This will take time, Morty. I’m sorry; I’ve never known any other way. I encourage you to spend all the time you can with your friends, your family… do you have family?”

“I had Wintershimmer.”

Those three words killed any hope of conversation continuing. Meadowbrook simply returned to her bandolier hanging from the wardrobe, slipped it over her shoulder, and turned for the doors. I watched her go, and then discovered my mood could still somehow grow colder when the door stayed held open in a glow of golden magic, and in Meadowbrook’s place, Celestia stepped in.

“Hello, Morty.”

“Celestia,” I answered as evenly as I could force myself to speak to her.

“Are you well?”

“I suppose that depends. Are you willing to help me take back Wintershimmer’s body from Star Swirl?”

Almost immediately, Celestia frowned. “I suppose now is as good a time as any to confess I listened in when you started shouting.”

“I was shouting?” I asked, quite honestly. Then, before giving her even a moment to answer the self-directed question, I shook my head. “Should I take it from your lack of interference that you agree with Star Swirl? Or did you have some other reason not to step in?”

“Morty, I understand you’re agitated, but please don’t take it out on me. I don’t know what the right answer here is, so I’m not ready to take anypony’s side yet.”

“You know exactly what the answer is! Wintershimmer’s plan wouldn’t even make sense if he didn’t know the process worked!”

Celestia nodded. “But is it reliable? Wintershimmer was desperate enough and old enough that he had nothing to lose by trying. But you’re a young stallion, Morty. You have your whole life ahead of you—”

“For somepony bothering to eavesdrop, you obviously don’t listen very well.” Celestia was taken aback at my interruption, and I confess I could not have cared less. “I would rather die taking the chance than give up on my magic. Nopony felt like objecting when I took exactly the same risk saving you and Luna from Wintershimmer, but now suddenly I’m supposed to just accept that they know what’s best for me?”

“Morty, you know that isn’t true. Gale and I were both horrified when you went off to fight on your own. And Star Swirl may have respected your choice then, but I know with certainty he wasn’t happy about it.” Celestia stepped up onto her bed, then lowered herself down to lay on her belly. With a wing, she patted the disheveled blankets I had left when I freed myself from beneath them. “Here, lay down for a moment, and we can talk about something else until you feel calmer.”

“I don’t need a mother.” I fully turned my back on Celestia and her offer, walking once more over to her window. “I need a teacher. One who respects me, at that.”

“Morty? What’s wrong?”

“What do you think, Celestia? You sent me to a school for literal foals!”

Celestia gently massaged her temple with a wingtip. “Ah. I suppose I should have explained more fully: Morty, I learned to read and write before the Diamond Kingdoms were founded, thousands of years ago. And while I have kept up on the trends of language enough that I have never had to re-learn that skill, I don’t think that I have the skill to teach you my way, any more than you have the time that would take. I asked around the palace, and everypony recommended Mrs. Aspiration, so I saw an opportunity to help Graargh and teach two birds with one…” Celestia then sighed. “Slate, I guess?”

“That would have been well and good if you had bothered to give her the remotest scrap of warning,” I noted. “Or arranged me to not to have to sit through her lessons with a class comprised almost totally of literal infants.”

“I thought I had…” Celestia muttered to herself.

“Evidently not enough, given how surprised she was when she realized I was an adult. I don’t need remedial basic arithmetic or history or astronomy or whatever other subjects you prefer, nor do I need ‘playtime’ to develop my social skills. And even before I knew there was a somewhat urgent ticking clock on my remaining lifespan, I’m a wizard, which means I don’t have time to waste on that kind of childish… eeugh!” That last guttural utterance was accompanied by me pressing my forehead fully against the window, at least as much as my throbbing horn would allow, and briefly considering pulling back my head to smash against the glass.

“I’m certain I made clear to her that you were an adult, Morty.”

“Yes, well, I’m sure you can understand why I’m having a hard time believing that right now.” I rolled my eyes, not that she could see them with my face pressed into her window, facing away from her. “I’ve already made arrangements to have Diadem tutor me, privately. So I suppose you have that long to decide if you’re going to help me with my horn problem, or if you aren’t interested in having me as a student after all.”

“Morty!” Celestia sounded just a touch hurt by that, and when I pulled my head back from the glass just a few inches, I saw her worried expression in her reflection. “I… well, maybe it’s for the best we leave things there, then. Everypony needs time to process news like what you got, and—”

“Don’t demean me.” I stepped away from the glass, and turned around—not to Celestia, but rather toward the door out of the room. “I’ve identified a problem, I have a plan to fix it, I know exactly what I want out of my life. There’s no need for emotion to get involved. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m late for my appointment with Diadem.”

4-6

IV - VI

The Beastly Burden

As I have mentioned in describing Gale’s entrances and exits to the Stable of Nobles, Everfree had almost a dozen competing newspapers in its early years, with the intelligentsia of each of the three tribes using them as a way to thrust their political and social perspectives into the common square. While Everfree’s mayor did employ a ceremonial town crier, the odds of one receiving news from said vociferous young mare were terribly low; instead, if you walked the streets as I did that day, and you happened to find yourself being shouted at by a pony on a soapbox, the strong odds were that said pony was in the employ of the Willful Random Hearse at The Everfree Gazette or Yellow Journalism at the Timely Times or whatever other newspaper mogul and their take on the news happened to be holding history’s quill.

I made it a solid three blocks from the palace and toward my first reading lesson before I came upon the first crowd of ponies gathered around such a newspaper hocker. The filly looked like she belonged in Aspiration’s class, though from her lean cheeks and the rather patchwork hat she wore, I suspect finding her working wasn’t exactly a matter of distaste for the classroom. For such a small filly, her voice was piercing, and even without thinking much of the crowd as I walked past, I couldn’t help but hear her clippy accent (which I would later learn to associate with the neighborhood of ‘the Dregs’).

“Get ‘cha extra ‘dition of th’ Equestrian Journal! Riot outside th’ Stable o’ Nobles! One dead, six injured! New queen’s to blame! That’s it, sir, jus’ two coppa bits an y’ can read all ‘bout it! News not forty minutes old, but we’d a mare on the scene when it’d happened! Trust th’ ‘questrian Journal for all the news what’s fit to read!”

I found my hooves had carried me up to the edge of the crowd by the time my mind had processed the filly’s words; I watched her as she continued shouting, hoping for some further explanation, but all I got were the same trite advertisements for the paper, and a display of just how nimble even a young earth pony could be with her hooves, taking and counting small copper coins, slipping them into a pocket belted around her midsection, and handing out crinkly newspapers all in the same motion.

“Tinglin’ off the presses, folks; our editor’s got the horns workin’ overtime keeping things moving! But we’ve nothin’ but the best at the Journal.”

A few ponies took offense as I pushed my way forward through the crowd, until at last the filly’s eyes fell on me. “Two coppa bits, mistah fancy jacket, and—Luna damn, what in Tartarus’ happen’ to ya neck, mistah?!”

“My neck?” It being the least of my medical concerns, I had honestly forgotten about the gap of transparent metal ‘flesh’ until my hoof met it with a chill and a clang. “Oh; I won a fight.” I tried to wave off the question, but the filly’s outburst (and her casual blasphemy, unbecoming of one so young) had turned at least a few heads in the crowd my direction.

“Cor, I’d ‘ate to see what ‘appened to the othah colt then! Now, you buyin’?”

I shook my head. “Where did this happen?”

“I ain’t a tour guide, mistah no-neck; I’m a salesmare. If y’ain’t buyin’, move aside foh somepony what is. You, miss, you wanna read what’s the latest, unlike some cheapskate rube inna fancy jacket?”

I very nearly grabbed the filly by her muzzle to recapture her attention; only an idle throb of pain in my horn and the still present horrible news of the last hour held my magic. Instead, I took a deep breath and reached into my jacket with a hoof. Out came my treasury banknotes, and I flipped through them staring at the numbers until I found one I felt suitably small. “Fine, you want to get paid, here. Now tell me.”

“We don’t bartah; I take coins, mistah. Just buy a copy; they’re not pricy.”

“A paper…” I sucked down a frustrated breath, and finished “...isn’t going to do me much good right now. I’m new to Everfree. But—” and I emphatically waved the paper note with my hoof. “—I’m willing to give you one hundred gold bits to take me where this happened right now.”

The boisterous crowd grew hushed at that offer. The filly leaned down from the edge of her soapbox (though even with that advantage, she was only barely taller than me), glaring suspiciously. “Coin up front, mistah; show me what you got.” When I indicated my parchment, she scoffed. “No, sir, I don’ trust no papah money, and I don’ care what the old coots up in Lubuck say.” I quite enjoy that she pronounced the trading city’s name almost more like ‘lubbock’ than the peculiar accent with which it was meant to be uttered. “Metal bits is what I like, an—”

“This is a letter of credit from the treasury,” I interrupted. “Given to me by Queen Platinum herself.”

“An’ who’re you talkin’ to the Queen?”

“I’m Coil the Immortal,” I answered. And then, after a moment of that announcement summarily failing to take off, I added “the Hero of Platinum’s Landing.”

“Yer that stallion?!” the filly on the soapbox asked, before aggressively snatching my offered currency. “I tho’ you lived with the Crystals.”

Evidently, the newsfilly wasn’t the only pony who had heard the story of what was, in the grand scheme of my conflict with Wintershimmer, a secondary encounter. Ponies around us in the crowd whispered or gawked; a few tried to address me. I… wasn’t the nicest pony in the world in rebuffing them. I doubt I need to tell you that, despite it still not yet quite being lunchtime, it had already been a very long day. Thankfully, it took only a few moments for the newsfilly to toss her unsold papers onto her back and, with a wave, gesture me up the road. “Stable’s this way, mistah hero. ‘Course, y’ coulda just looked up at where all the guardsponies ah in the sky. But c’mon.”

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

Perhaps it is prudent, now that we’re caught up in my half of our narrative, to return to where our second Tale left off; Gale had just fought her way past her own knights and her elder sister’s Legion guardsponies to reach the worst victim of the brief but bloody riot outside the Stable of Nobles. A few guards and knights moved to stop her as she rushed up to a mare whose name she didn’t know, seeing only the lifeblood pouring out of a jagged gash on her chest and staining the red carpet set in front of the Stable for royal hooves a darker hue.

A few guards still fought to stop her, but a gentle hoof and a glow of blue magic stopped them; when Gale looked up, she met the wrinkled but approving eyes of a senior knight, faded sapphire color and clad in steel armor painted in brilliant blue and trimmed in genuine gold. “I will stand by her,” he said to his fellow soldiers, stepping forward to fall in line behind Gale’s rushed pace. To his Queen, he only nodded approval. And though her eyes were locked onto the wounded, Gale did notice the pains to which Sir Chiseled Gem—for though she hardly knew the stallion personally, she certainly remembered his name—went to match her far more youthful pace.

As Gale and Sir Gem watched over Satchel’s final breaths, not a dozen strides away, the elder Queen Platinum sat back onto her cushion and gestured to Sir Gauntlet, standing where she had left him beside the carriage door, to step inside. The other knight raised a brow in curiosity, but he did as the Queen Mother commanded.

“Shall I join Her Majesty?” Gauntlet asked of Platinum.

“No. And shut the door,” Platinum ordered in reply.

Even as Gauntlet’s legs struggled to make the stride he had so often offered to help Gale with, he raised a brow. “Your Majesty… I am sworn by oath to your daughter now, not to you. You would ask me to turn my back on her in a moment like this?”

“Now that you have stepped into my presence, it is the best thing you can do for her rule. I would never ask you to cross her, and I promise, I will explain.” Platinum waited, and sure enough the door to the wagon was pulled shut in Gauntlet’s magical grip. Then and only then did she reach over to one of the walls of the wagon, and much to Gauntlet’s surprise, open a small hidden door to reveal a dry bar.

“Your Majesty!”

“Your Queen had these put in,” explained Platinum, withdrawing a decanter of some smooth golden-brown liquor not with magic but by her hooves. “Nearly had them fully installed behind my back, if you will believe it. Had I not needed the carriage for an unexpected urgent trip and found her hired carpenter working, she might have kept them hidden… well, Luna only knows how long. Truth be told, at the time I was so proud of her managing the subterfuge to go behind my back, I didn’t bother to stop their installation.” Then, extending her hooves, she nodded down. “Spare my horn, Sir Gauntlet, and pour two glasses.”

“With respect, Your Majesty, is this the hour to be drinking?”

“I do not wish to make a habit of explaining myself to knights,” Platinum replied shortly. "But given my daughter’s love of strong drink I suppose I ought to be clear: I have no intention of letting go of my senses. But I hardly slept last night and tonight promises to be even longer. Forgive me if my temper is short today. I am only trying to lengthen it a bit.” When Gauntlet reluctantly took the decanter in his magic, Platinum retrieved and offered him two glasses. “Now, you pour and hold your tongue, and I will explain what is needed of you.”

“As Your Majesty wishes,” Gauntlet agreed. “I feel I should remind you though, Queen Platinum: it is your daughter the Queen-Regent who now commands my loyalty. I cannot promise I will keep what we say secret from her, or that I will obey any commands you give me, if I believe they run against her wishes.”

“Her wishes?” Platinum asked with a raised brow. “Or what is best for her?” As she asked the question, the silver mare took a glass in her hooves and took a long, gentle sip.

“I… My oath is to obey her commands, not to second guess her. But I suppose so long as they don’t run at cross purposes, I would try to fulfill both. I had thought I might suggest Your Majesty intervene. I know the Queen-Regent has rejected your aid recently, but perhaps in these circumstances, it would be better received. That said, I hardly claim to know what is best for her. She has the divine-given right and the burden of rule. I do not.”

“Indeed,” Platinum said after she swallowed. “Divine right…” Whisky spun in Platinum’s glass; she stared into its reflection for a long, pensive moment. “I hope you would agree that, having worn the crown myself, I do know what is best for her.”

“I… generally do agree, yes.” Sir Gauntlet stared down at his own glass distrustfully, as though unsure if it had been poisoned.

“It would be the worst thing in the world, right now, for me to go out there and to aid her. To intervene, as you put it, would make this situation worse.”

“How, Your Majesty?”

“The damage to life and limb is already done,” Platinum observed. “I can no more impact that than my daughter can. What is left is the crown’s reply. Who is to blame? Who shoulders guilt? Is recompense offered to the families of the injured, or do we treat them like criminals? Do the guardsponies of the Legion take blame, does it fall on our unicorn knights, or both?”

“Yes, but surely your wisdom would know the right answers to those questions.” Gauntlet finally built up the courage to take sip of his drink, though he only barely managed to swallow it when his former liege chuckled.

Platinum’s humor was bitter, dry as the desert and barren as a corpse. “Right answers? You share my daughter’s naivete it seems… though at least in your case, it is a virtue and not a failing.” Another drink dampened those hollow humors. “Even if we knew the objective truth, Sir Gauntlet… well, there is an old saying I’m fond of: ‘The truth may one day be written, but public opinion is illiterate.’ I know what I would do to create a sense of justice and fairness in this situation, certainly, but it is certainly not the only way, and the fact that it is my way does not make it ‘right’.” Platinum took another sip, and then stared down into her own glass—though rather than poison in it, the reflective alcohol might well have shown her a memory. “But there are wrong answers.”

“Then you could help Her Majesty avoid them!” Gauntlet pressed.

“Indeed. If she deigned to listen, I could.” Platinum nodded, raising her eyes to again meet Gauntlet’s gaze. “But if I did, in the eyes of the public, I would undermine her rule. If I step in when something goes wrong, and only let her rule on sunny days when all is well, I am still Queen, and not her. From that moment on, anytime I offered her counsel, they would see it as commanding her. All her successes would belong to me, while all her failures would hang over her head. And someday, when I pass, her rule would crumble like sand.”

Gauntlet nodded. “I suppose I can understand that, Your Majesty. Still, I cannot imagine going to my own foals’ sides in times of trouble.”

“That is one advantage knights have over queens.” Then a hint of mirth struck Platinum’s voice, and she looked up from her beverage to fully lock onto Gauntlet’s eyes. “Do you play chess, Sir Gauntlet?” As the question hung in the air, Platinum finished her drink, not quite throwing it back as Gale might have but certainly draining more than a sip. Gauntlet hadn’t quite answered when, midway through returning the glass to its resting place, she spoke up again. “It is terribly dangerous for two queens to get too close to one another on the board. Passing pawns, bishops, even castles between them is not without risk. But a knight can move in ways queens cannot.”

Gauntlet’s eyes widened, and then he nodded. “So you want me to carry a secret message for you?”

“Yes, but not directly.” Platinum nodded. “Simply tell her that I believe in her, and that I know she will survive this.” As Gauntlet finished his own drink and turned to face the door, she raised a forbidding hoof. “Leave the carriage, certainly, but do not go to her directly. Wait until the noise has settled down, and there are fewer listening ears around.”

“But… Your Majesty, if you are going to wait anyway, why not say it yourself?”

Platinum closed her eyes and sat perfectly still for just a moment. “The virtues of a knight and a queen are virtually identical. But among the things we consider to be breaches of honor, there is only one which is forbidden of knights, but fully expected of queens.”

“I’m not sure I follow, Your Majesty.”

“Nor should you,” Platinum answered. “Precisely because you are a good knight. When you leave, tell the stallions pulling the chariot that I wish to be taken home. I won’t ask you to point out to the newsponies that I’ve abandoned my daughter in her hour of tribulation, but if you happen to find a moment, I will observe that you would be telling the truth.”

Setting down his glass on a small railing near one of the carriage’s windows, Sir Gauntlet frowned. “I would hesitate to demean what I know is your good will with such uncouth words.”

“I suppose that was too much to ask.” Platinum sighed. “But in my defence, demeaning my name in tomorrow’s news is something of the point. Good day, Sir Gauntlet. Know that at least one Queen Platinum admires your service.”

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

Outside the Royal Carriage, the first pony to arrive who dared approach Gale and her guardian was a sky blue pegasus stallion with a scruffy bit of white stubble to go along with his military-trimmed white mane. Scout-Centurion Tempest, who by blood was Gale’s half-nephew, was bold enough not only to approach the Equestrian Queen, but to do so flying with wingblades on his crests, and land within arms reach of her.

It occurs to me that with their falling largely out of fashion amongst the military during our most recent war, I should explain: despite their name, a ‘wingblade’ was not in fact a single continuous piece of metal as the name would imply. Rather, the weapons, popular throughout the reign of the Cirran Empire on Dioda, were more like links of scale armor that had been folded to a sharp angle—separate pieces, so that they could articulate with the fluidity of a pegasus’ wing, but shaped such that when the wing was fully extended, they meshed tightly together to form something nearly indistinguishable from a solid blade.

Tempest’s direct arrival did not amuse Sir Chiseled Gem, who stepped fully between Gale and Tempest and light his horn. “Who do you think you are, colt?”

“I’m her brother.” Not strictly true, but then, probably more honest than the strict truth. Tempest didn’t even bother to ask Gem to move, actively sidestepping the knight. “Gale, did you get hurt?!”

“It’s not my blood.” Gale’s voice was hollow as she slowly lifted her head from Satchel’s body.

“What happened?”

“I think a misunderstanding…” The young queen’s words shook. “The crowd was mad at me. I didn’t think anypony wanted to hurt me, but I wasn’t really looking for that… Somehow it turned into a fight.”

“Gale.” Cautiously avoiding his wings, Tempest took a step that was unusual for a pegasus, embracing Gale with his forelegs. “But you’re okay?”

“I don’t think so,” she answered in a whisper. “I… this is my fault.”

“What are you talking about? You just said somepony else started it—”

“Because of me,” Gale interrupted forcefully, yet quite quietly. Her eyes swept around the now rather barren yard that separated the Stable building proper from the street; most of the ponies who had been waiting for her were gone, but a few ponies less seriously wounded than Satchel remained, their wounds being tended to by the guards and knights who had first dealt the blows, and a small cohort of now far more distant bystanders and reporters still enthralled by the unfolding story. “It doesn’t matter who started it; it happened because of me. And now she’s dead. Fuck…”

“Ponies got pissed at your mom all the time, though, right?” Tempest pressed, putting on his best idiotic grin.

Gale briefly startled when the Royal Carriage began to pull away, only to shake her head and look back.

“What?” Sir Chiseled Gem scowled, less willing to let the carriage depart without its intended passenger. “Sir Ardent, get that carriage back here; the Queen—”

“Let Mom go,” Gale interrupted. “I don’t need the carriage.” Then, with an intake of breath, she gently lowered Satchel’s body back to the street and pushed herself up. “Ok… Shit, what do I even do first here? Um… Sir Gem, can you find something to put over the body? Or have one of the other knights do that?”

“I will see it done.” Gem nodded.

“Okay. Tempest; look, I know I’m not really ‘in charge’ of you or anything, but if you can help—”

Tempest rolled his eyes. “Gale, I’m here for you; what do you need? I can probably still carry you if you need to get out of here, or—”

“No, Tempest; I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”

“Horseshit,” Tempest answered, before shrugging. “But we can pretend that’s halfway believable if that’s what you need. What can I do right now?”

“Her name is… was… Satchel.” Gale nodded to the late mare. “Can you find out where she lived, if she has family or anything?”

“I can try,” Tempest agreed with a nod. “Wallflower might know, and if not I’ll ask around town. It might take a while though. Do you want me to tell them anything if I find anypony?”

“No. Just come find me. You know Dad’s rules.”

“Grandpa’s rules were for when you get somepony under your direct command killed; it’s not like he personally went to apologize every time anypony in the whole Legion got hurt. And not only is she not a knight; she isn’t even a unicorn.”

“If I only try and rule to help the unicorns, what’s the point of Equestria?” Gale shook her head. “As awful as it turned out so far, that’s the whole point of my picking a fight with the nobles.”

“You picked a fight?” Tempest asked with a worried expression. “Gale, you can’t be serious—”

“Not literally, Tempest.” She then shook her head and chuckled. “Though that’d be a hell of a lot easier, come to think of it. Look, just go. I need to talk to the survivors and get ahead of this in the papers and… Is Ty coming?”

“I mean, I haven’t talked to Mom since breakfast, but this seems like the sort of thing she’d deal with personally.” Tempest spread his wings fully, and raised them up for a strong downward pump. But before taking off, he nodded to Gale. “Just at least think of taking care of yourself, Gale. Ask your mom for help, or grandpa, or somepony.” Then, with a pump of his wings, Tempest once more joined the blue summer sky.

Gale took a deep breath once he was gone, glanced over to the survivors and the newsponies, and across her own knights and her sister’s guardsponies, and felt immediately like she had fallen into the center of the ocean.

With another deep breath, she steeled herself and approached the nearest of the wounded soldiers, being tended to by a pegasus medic. When the wounded pony herself, a broad-shouldered unicorn mare, glanced up at Gale’s approach, it was the medic who spoke first. “Your Majesty… should I leave you to speak alone?”

“What, are you an idiot?” Gale asked. “She needs you a fuck of a lot more than she needs me.”

“It’s just a scrape,” the medic’s patient replied. “I’ll keep it wrapped a few days, it’ll be fine. Now what do you want? Your Majesty?” The official title was delivered snidely, even spitefully.

“I wanted to offer my apologies,” Gale told the mare.

“If you want to apologize, get us our land,” the mare snapped.

The demand put a frown on Gale’s face; she let herself slip into more formal, practiced pronunciation when she replied. “Then I also need to apologize for not being clear. I am not interested in playing the Stable’s game, and I firmly believe in what I’m doing there. But you, and all the other ponies here today, have a right to make yourselves heard without being harmed; I wanted to apologize for that.”

“I already told you it’s just a scrape; I’m fine.” The mare then deepened her already considerable glare. “And if you’re not going to change what you’re doing, I don’t really feel like I’ve been heard.”

“That isn’t what it means—”

“Whatever, ‘Queen’; just go away. Give the crown back to your mom.”

Fighting back the urge to choose stronger language, or to attempt to explain herself to a mare who (perhaps justifiably in that moment) was not interested in listening, Gale obliged the first part of that request, stepping aside and moving on to the next pony injured in the day’s events.

The next few conversations Gale held were, though perhaps not quite so harsh in word choice, largely identical in their contents. By the time she was done, though she hadn’t lit her horn, and had only taken two dozen steps at most, Gale felt spent and wounded.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

It was about that time that I finally managed to push my way through the crowd that had slowly been gathering at the end of the street. A line of guardsponies had formed to keep curious passerby away from the scene of the conflict. This led to a perhaps the most delightful moment of my day—or rather, the still relatively low high point in an otherwise miserable twenty-four hours: namely, when a guard tried to stab me.

The pegasus mare was just doing her job, in due deference, and I hadn’t yet developed the kind of fame to, at a casual glance, be assumed that I was not only welcome, but wanted at the site of any kind of event. Normally, I would have simply teleported past such an obstacle. However, wanting to spare my horn, I instead attempted to muscle my way past. For my troubles, the already on-edge guardspony drew her Legion-issue gladius and pointed it threateningly in my direction. “Stop, sir!” she ordered.

I casually lifted my foreleg, and my signature coat’s enchantments proved more than suitable to let me brush aside the weapon by running its blade directly across what looked like simple fabric.

The mare was astonished for just a moment, and I couldn’t resist but to quip “I’m a little bit out of your pay grade to keep out.” This was… shall we say ‘not helpful’ in an already tense situation. “C’mon, kid; I’ll introduce you to the Queen.” That last statement was to the newsfilly who was still quite eager to assist me after the preposterous sum of money I had provided her.

Before I had a chance to clear the distance to Gale, though, the same standard-issue skysteel sword that I had brushed away pierced into my side. Or, at least, poked it. My enchanted coat couldn’t care less about such an uninteresting weapon, but I did at least feel the pressure enough to turn my head and realize I was being stabbed. The Legion mare had good aim, too; she would have caught my liver and likely a dorsal colon.

Instead, I looked her dead in the eye, shook my head, and with a raised hoof, pushed her blade to the ground.

“‘E’s Coil the Immorta’, Miss Guardspony,” said the newsfilly behind me. “Tha’ ‘ero o’ Platinum’s Landin’!” Then she looked up at me. “But I didn’ think ya’d mean ye’ couldn’ die quite like tha’.”

“Well, I aim to please,” I replied, resisting the urge to give the filly a hug for how beautifully she’d introduced me.

By that point, our scuffle had caught the eyes of some of the ponies inside the assembled group, including at least one knight who must have seen me at Gale’s birthday party only a couple of days prior. One even had the decency of directing Gale’s attention in my direction, and when she showed the brief glimmer of a smile at my presence, I took that as permission to make my way over.

“Morty, holy shit!” Despite what the punctuation might imply, the young queen waited until I was well within hoof’s reach before announcing that in a rather hushed voice.

“I take it since you’re up and walking around that all that isn’t your blood,” I answered, looking her up and down briefly, before extending a hoof for a hug.

Gale took the offer rather chastely, putting her head over my shoulder instead of offering a kiss. “Thanks. It’s a little public for a better hug, though. The reporters are watching.”

“Ah, sorry.” I released Gale, and then chuckled. “Oh, speaking of which, this is… uh…”

“Name’s Reed,” said the newspaper filly. “Reed Allaboutit.’

I suppressed a sigh; Gale raised a single brow.

“Pleasure t’ meetcha, yer Majesty.” Reed extended an enthusiastic hoof.

Gale briefly offered a shake. “My pleasure,” she said flatly, before turning to me. “You picked up another kid?”

“I just paid her for directions here; I’m not planning on dragging her to Lubuck. Now, how can I help?”

“I…” Gale glanced around. “Honestly, you really can’t, Morty. I just need to talk to the reporters and to Typhoon, whenever the hell she finally gets here, and then I need to talk to Satchel’s family.” Gale nodded to the now fabric covered corpse of the mare in question.

“Good idea,” I answered with a nod. “Do you want my help for that, or do you remember how to do it on your own?”

“Do… do what?”

“A seance? That is what you wanted to do for her family, right?”

Gale shook her head. “No, I… you know, Morty, actually that’s a really good idea. But not right now. I’m still waiting to find out what family she actually has. I… Sir Gem!”

The stallion in question, who had been speaking to a few other knights nearby, stepped over. “Your Majesty?”

“Gem, this is Morty.”

“Your reputation precedes you,” Gem said, not especially admiringly.

“Morty, Sir Chiseled Gem. He’s the First Peer of the Order of the Silver Chain, and the former Captain of the Diamond Guard, so he’s more-or-less in charge of our knights.”

“I trust you’re using ‘our’ as the royal plural, Your Majesty?”

“I guess I mostly meant ‘unicorns in general’... whatever; just take Morty and Reed and… Reed?” Gale frantically glanced around at the realization the filly had wandered off, only to wince in horror at what she found: Reed, having tucked her head under the sheet covering Satchel’s remains.

“Young mare!” Sir Chiseled Gem announced, rushing over and lighting up his horn. Though he was an older stallion, Gem proved more than strong enough to pick up Reed by her barrel and drag her to hover in midair facing him. “That is not acceptable behavior.”

“But I know ‘er,” Reed protested.

At that announcement, Gale rushed to speak to Reed, and I followed shortly after. “You do?” Gale asked. “Does she have family or anything? Where does she live?”

“Oh, um… I mean, I don’ ‘know ‘er’, know ‘er, y’know? But I think she’s, er, she was my pal Paunch’s… aunt ‘r cousin’ ‘r somethin’. So, like, I saw ‘er around town and stuff now ‘n then. Not like I ever really talked t’ ‘er. But she lives around th’ west gate. ‘N I bet I could find where real quick.”

“Sir Gem, set her down,” Gale directed. Once Reed was safely on her own hooves, Gale lowered herself. “Reed, I will be very grateful if you would wait with Morty for just a moment longer while I finish a few things up here, and then if you could lead us to her family, I would be more than willing to pay you.”

“Deal,” Reed announced.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

It wasn’t long after our appearance that Typhoon, accompanied by Frostfall, two other members of the Legion’s high command in gold trimmed armor, and a dozen black-armored Praetorian legionaries descended on the ground in front of the Stable of Nobles. Well experienced with battlefields and crime scenes alike, Typhoon was decisive in all the ways Gale simply was not, gesturing quickly with her frost-fogged prosthetic hoof as she spoke in a quiet but iron firm voice to the ponies she had brought with her and the guards already present on the scene alike. Soon, the lines keeping the onlookers at bay were replaced with formations of the Legion’s best, a number of the guards already present found themselves in an even line in front of Frostfall, who took notes on parchment atop a small slate strapped to her arm as they provided their stories, and the two other commanders began speaking to the unicorn knights and the wounded survivors alike.

Typhoon directly approached Gale.

“Ty,” Gale nodded. “Holy shit, am I glad to see you.”

“Don’t be yet,” Typhoon answered, keeping on a stern face. “We can talk as family back home, but right now, it’ll be best for both of us to keep some distance.”

“Really?”

A cloud of almost misty haze escaped Typhoon’s nostrils when she sighed—a virtual impossibility in the heat of summer, were it not for the might of her trained magic—and she glanced briefly to the onlookers. “Somepony has to take the blame for this.”

Gale hung her head slightly. “I never meant trying to get the other races into the Stable to get anypony hurt, but I’ll take the blame.”

“No,” Typhoon answered firmly.

“I don’t need your protection, Ty; I can take it.”

“I’m sure you could,” Typhoon answered with a hollow chuckle. “But that’s not what I mean. You obviously didn’t throw the first punch—at least, assuming what I’ve heard is true, and you weren’t involved in the violence at all.”

“No, but—”

“Gale, ponies disagreeing with your policies cannot be an excuse for violence. Mobius only knows where that would get us. I understand you’re trying to be responsible, but I’m talking about whether or not I need to arrest the ponies who survived, or whether the Legion is going to get blamed for attacking civilians, or whether it's your knights.”

“Well, fuck playing politics about it, then; let’s just admit we don’t know who started it and not blame anypony. Let the injured ponies go free, I’ll talk to Satchel’s family, and—”

“Satchel?” Typhoon asked.

Gale simply nodded to the figure of a pony outlined by a sheet on the flagstones beside the Stable’s carpet.

“Ah.” Comprehension turned to concern on Typhoon’s face in an instant. “You held her as she was dying? Hence the blood?”

Gale nodded. “I tried to stop the bleeding, but whoever stabbed her got too deep, and there wasn’t a medicus around at first. She barely said anything; I only got her name.”

“I see.” The autumn mare removed her helmet with one wing, then ran the tan feathers of her other limb through her red, orange, and brown mane. “Are you alright now?”

“I’m not panicking or anything, but I feel completely in over my head. Talking to the Stable is one thing, but Mom never taught me anything about…” Gesturing rather wildly around, Gale simply concluded “...this.”

“You, Dad, and I should have dinner and talk; ideally tonight, if possible. But for now, we have to decide on what to say. Once the investigation is done, we’ll know as much as we can know, but we need to make some kind of statement now.”

“How much should I tell them?”

Typhoon firmly shook her head. “Gale, I understand you want to take responsibility, but even if I didn’t want to help take some of the burden off you, you’re not impartial to what happened here. Just tell me what happened from your point of view, and then we’ll treat it like any other Legion business in the city. And after the investigation is over, and—like usual—we really have no way of saying who made the first move, then I’ll work with you and we can let you deliver the final statement. That will mean at least some ponies on the streets will be blaming your knights, but in my experience there’s only so much we can do about public opinion. Is that an acceptable plan?” When Gale hesitated, Typhoon jokingly added “Your Majesty.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up, Ty; nopony’s listening. Even if they wanted to, you’re wearing Dad’s armor, so they couldn’t eavesdrop with magic.”

“Is that a spell that exists?” Typhoon asked.

Gale tellingly swallowed very nervously. “...no?”

Tan feathers graced a tan temple as Commander Typhoon shook her head in a display of fatigue. “Alright, Gale; go deal with Satchel, and I’ll handle the rest of things here.”

“Thanks Ty.” Gale offered a small grin and briefly reached out to hug her elder half-sister, before hesitating at the presence of her black armor.

“Better not to be giving hugs here anyway, right? Puddinghead would think we were ganging up on him.” With a wink, Typhoon then stepped past Gale and moved toward the mass of onlookers. Gale, for her part nodded in my direction, and together, we and Reed set off to the west.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

The strange truth of the matter here in our story is that the last conversation between Satchel’s family and her spirit was, at least to the progress of our story, of negligible import. The family took the news poorly, unsurprisingly, but neither they nor Satchel’s own soul blamed the new queen for what had happened. In point of fact, there was virtually no discussion of politics whatsoever. I briefly explained the difference between raising somepony from the dead (that is, creating an undead) and actually raising them to life—in necromantic parlance, ‘resurrecting’ them—and why the latter was fictitious and the former would be undesirable.

The most notable thing to happen in the afternoon, in fact, was a total coincidence that I learned of only these centuries later, as my magic looks back on these events. Something like a third of the way toward Satchel’s home, Gale, Reed, and I passed a gruff looking mare with a messenger’s bag slung over her shoulder. At the time, she was just another pony on the street that I hardly paid half a glance to, but had I known what was in her bag, perhaps I might have thought differently.

In the contents—amongst other letters, for the mare in question was a courier for hire—one could find an envelope addressed to one Mr. Hagfish at the South Hoof Roadhouse. (While Everfree City proper had a formalized address system, most mail in the rest of Equestria was simply delivered to the nearest inn or public house, where somepony was likely to know the personal home of the intended recipient. In this case, the South Hoof was more-or-less on Equestria’s southernmost border, still somewhat freshly won in a war Commander Typhoon had waged with the buffalo, and it sat just on the edge of what we still call ‘the badlands’.) The letter purported to be from a Miss Red Herring, Hagfish’s sister, and consisted of three full pages, front and back, of life’s goings on in the big city of Everfree, and how busy things constantly were, and how one might at once wish for the simple life of the frontier and yet the same urge one’s kin to come and visit as soon as they were able…

I won’t waste your time with the actual text because both Red Herring and Hagfish were elements of fiction; no such real ponies lived either near the badlands, nor in the heart of Everfree.

That isn’t to say one couldn’t meet them, though.

If a pony were so inclined, in theory, one could find a small loft—large enough for a cramped mattress and a single nightstand, and nothing else—leased by a kindly family of pewtersmiths about as far from the Delamare’s banks as one could conceivably get while still calling their home district Riverward. This loft was rented for a generous price of two silver bits a night to the brilliant red Red Herring, who returned to it perhaps only every other night or so; the family assumed the young mare was simply active in the city’s nightlife, or perhaps had a relationship that was considerably more forward than their particular family values would approve of—not that they ever said anything of the sort to young Ms. Herring.

Herring, however, had no life outside of that loft; no family, no place of business; when she set hoof on the street and made it around the corner from the family, she tended to cease to exist in a burst of green flame. Most recently to the day in question, the mare who most often appeared out of that flame was the schoolteacher Ms. Aspiration.

So it was that, on the morning when I was first diagnosed with the Scourge of Kings, and when Gale’s rule proper began so ignominiously, Ms. Herring wrote two letters. One, to her host family, explained that she may not be around frequently thanks to a rather deliberately vague opportunity that had opened up for her—that letter, she left on a dresser beside their door, along with enough gold bits to pay for her room for months on end. It was the second, carefully crafted and seemingly perfumed (despite being intended for her ostensible brother) which was handed off to the courier who passed us in the street.

Changeling covert communications (at least in those days, though I suspect the trick has not fallen out of favor) prefer to avoid equine tricks like ciphers and encryption and secret messages, in favor of simply using a language the ‘host’ species cannot interpret whatsoever—namely, a sort of ‘written’ language of pheromones produced by carefully shapeshifting the scent glands in what is otherwise the infiltrating insect’s natural form.

It occurs to me, if by some means you have not encountered them at the time of reading this, that you may not know Graargh and Ms. Aspiration were both actually sapient shapeshifting insects—that being the natural form of a changeling. But I assume after our not infrequent historical conflicts, most readers will know enough by now to have at least guessed that Aspiration was a changeling infiltrator.

In any case, because the pheromones of a changeling are only detectable by other changelings and creatures with the absolute sharpest of noses, the most a keen nosed pony would be likely to gather from a piece of parchment being doused in such pheromones was that it had been romantically perfumed by the sender (as was the fashion at the time).

Hence, while there was no secret message hidden in the text of the supposed Ms. Herring’s letter, there was a secret message hidden on the parchment as it passed us on Everfree’s streets—one which I shall do my best to faithfully translate now. Just be aware: the conversion from splotches of deliberately placed scents to Equish text is not what one would call an exact science, even when compared to the already artful skill of translating any two conventionally written languages.

Infiltration Commandant Husk

I have taken [apprehended?] the rogue—though he is not a traitor like we feared. He is a drone from the failed Vesalipolis hive expansion—the one near the Crystal Union, not the newer one. I believe the dead hunters already know he is a changeling, but he has not been killed; instead, Celestia is treating him like a pony child. I was able to replace his teacher on short notice, and have cocooned her, but it was not a clean replacement. I will need either a memory sculptor or a replacement doppelganger infiltrator when I exfiltrate the identity.

I believe the drone may be of some value if groomed as an infiltrator, since he can act openly without being devoured by the dead hunters. However, he knows almost nothing of his own powers or his hive; he believes himself to naturally be some kind of bear, and is fiercely loyal to a group of young ponies who I believe saved him after the hive collapsed.

For the time being, instead of executing him, I will keep him nearby; while I am far closer to the pony gods than I would like, the scent of his magic [this might be metaphorical - I have no idea if changelings mean to imply residual magic has a smell to them?] seems to have thrown the hunters off of my trail despite my exposed position. His presence may open me to completing my harvest quota more efficiently than originally planned.

-Infiltrator Metamorphosis

Interlude V - Teacher, Sailor, Soldier, Spy

Teacher, Sailor, Soldier, Spy

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

Bon Bon, by far the sanest of Ponyville’s resident confectioners, looked up from a bowl of experimental wasabi lemon sours (‘sanest’ is a relative term) and called around the corner. “I’ll be right with you.”

The voice that called back carried a strong Stalliongradi accent. “Are we the only ones here?” It wasn’t hard to guess who it belonged to; Ponyville wasn’t exactly going to be ‘little Stalliongrad’ in the domain of Canterlot anytime soon.

“Yep. Slow day, Mr. Ink. Picking up something for the students?” Rinsing off her hooves, Bon Bon hung up her apron before marching out of the kitchen and into the main storefront of her little shop. Just as her slatted batwing doors had fully opened to offer a view of the room, she stopped. “You’re Fizzlepop Berrytwist?!”

The mare in question fixed Bon Bon with a nearly lethal look of spite. “Tempest Shadow.”

“She’s with me,” Ink explained, though the words could quite fairly have been called ‘grumbling’. “And we’re here on guard business, Agent Drops.”

Realization offered some calm to the would-be confectioner, who nodded at the comment. “Can you flip the sign to ‘closed’ and push the pegs on the bottom of the door, Commander Ink?”

“I’ve got it,” Tempest interrupted before the short red stallion could answer, and with a rather violent stomp and a flick of her muzzle, the shop was closed. “Never heard of a spy in a candy shop.”

“I’m retired,” Bon Bon answered tersely. “Here, join me in the kitchen, so we’re not standing in a closed shop.” Holding open one of the saloon-style doors with an extended pale lemon foreleg, she nodded to both ponies in turn. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Gin for me, if you’ve got it,” Red Ink noted.

Tempest flatly added “A beer’s fine.”

“This is a candy shop,” Bon Bon replied. “I’ve got some liquor-flavored extracts, but I’m more offering a butterscotch soda, or hot cocoa, or a milkshake…” Once both ponies were inside the kitchen, Bon Bon followed.

It was a reasonable space for one professional, efficiently layed out, but with perhaps more pink and blue in its cabinetry than good taste would normally tolerate. For three ponies, however, it was a bit cramped, and there was hardly anywhere to sit; instead, the trio gathered around the island in the center of the floorplan, leaning on it with their forelegs raised like a standing table at a bar, just barely far enough apart not to smell one another’s breath.

“Water’s fine, then,” said Tempest.

“At a candy shop?” When the question earned Ink a glare, he shrugged his overdeveloped shoulders. “Suit yourself. I’ll take a cola if you’ve got one.”

“Of course.” With uncanny earth pony hoof agility Bon Bon produced a glass bottle from her fridge, set it onto the counter, and delivered to the cap the kind of perfect backhoof slap one only sees in black and white films. Her perfect alignment caught the sealed metal with just the tip of her hoof, no fetlock involved, and with a satisfying ‘ping’ it flew free. “Now… Ink, I know you’re Honor Guard, but nopony actually told me you were coming…”

“Ah, yes, short notice.” Ink nodded. “Secret Service thinks you ‘still have a bee in bonnet.’” The Stalliongradi stallion paused, and then corrected “your bonnet. Sorry.”

“It’s fine. I get the passphrase.” Bon Bon leaned down to a cabinet under the island, and produced a tall root beer float mug, which she carried over to the sink. “And to be clear, she has clearance to talk about this on your authority?”

“I don’t have that authority anymore,” Ink muttered, reaching across the island to grab the cola that hadn’t actually made it his way yet. “I lost the ‘Command’ title after the Honor Guard review. It’s ‘Lieutenant Commander’ now.”

“Wait, you used to be in charge of the whole guard?” Tempest asked, before scoffing. “Were you in charge when I—”

“If I’d been in charge, Tempest, you’d be dead,” Ink answered tersely, slipping into a heavier Stalliongradi accent than even his usual speech. “Shitty part about Honor Guard is, even when assassination on foreign soil was proven ‘right answer,’ you don’t get to tell Celestia ‘I told you so’.” Ink actively spat on the floor of Bon Bon’s kitchen, earning him a glare from the mare in question, before adding “I was never in charge of ‘the whole guard’; that’s Sparkle’s brother, Shining Armor. The Honor Guard is ten ponies, at most. Seems like less and less these days.” With that done, he lifted his cola and drained it with a rather regretful gulp, only to stare at the empty glass as if wishing it had been full of something far stronger. “Officially, Bon Bon, White Flag is the Commander now. Trust Celestia to give a pony with a name like that the command.”

Tempest cocked her head. “What’s wrong with the name White Flag?”

Ink stared at Tempest with a raised brow for a solid two seconds—an expression which even Bon Bon mirrored—but he didn’t actually answer her question, instead returning his eyes to the ex-S.M.I.L.E. agent. “But practically speaking, the Honor Guard answers to Shining Armor. Which is to say, there’s no point in the Honor Guard anymore. We’re actually just bodyguards now.” To conclude his little rant, Red Ink let out an overpowering belch, and when the rather unpleasant noise was done, and Bon Bon slowly began lifting her ears up from their completely folded state, he pressed on, either ignorant or uncaring about his partner’s question. “We’re looking for Dr. Caballeron. Or failing him, Daring Do.”

“Ah.” Bon Bon smiled. “Well, then, I can… sort of help you. I used to keep track of the monsters Daring kicked up for S.M.I.L.E. when I was active. It’s too bad you weren’t here a week ago.”

“Well, that’s better than nothing,” Tempest agreed. “What happened a week ago?”

“Daring Do was here in Ponyville. Undercover as ‘A. K. Yearling’ of course, but apparently even though her cover identity got out in public, because it was in the tabloids and not the real news, most ponies still don’t believe it.”

Ink chuckled dryly. “I’m sure your boss had nothing doing with that.”

“Do you think everything is a conspiracy, Stalliongrad?” Tempest asked flatly, eyes half lidded as though the fatigue of putting up with the double-talk in the room was nearly putting her to sleep.

Bon Bon sighed, but she wore a slight smile. “Well, thank you for believing me at least, Tempest. Anyway, Dr. Do was here to see Rainbow Dash. I don’t know what they discussed, unfortunately; you’d have to ask Rainbow for that. I can only tell you where she’s been, and my records are older than her latest book, so they won’t be much use.”

“Great…” Ink muttered. “Rainbow…”

“You don’t like Rainbow?” Tempest asked.

“Rainbow doesn’t like me,” Ink explained. “She’s not big on guards in general, and we… kind of got off on the wrong hoof.” The blood-colored pegasus cast his glance to Bon Bon once more and sighed. “You’re sure there’s nothing else you can tell us? Secret Service didn’t give you anything?”

“Cap… sorry, Lieutenant Ink, we’re spies, not fortune tellers. And we specialize in monster activity, not tracking Equestrian citizens. Especially ones who aren’t even politicians.”

“Fine, fine, we’ll get out of your mane.” Ink tucked a wing into his omnipresent jacket, pulling out something like a hundred bits, which he slapped down on the counter nearest the door out of the kitchen as he left. “Can you send some sour gummy bears to the airship? And whatever chocolates you’ve got.”

“What airship?” Bon Bon asked as the saloon doors swung shut behind Ink.

From the front room, the stallion could be heard to call “Is there more than one parked in the middle of town?”

Tempest, who hadn’t immediately followed, rolled her eyes and mouthed ‘Can you believe this asshole?’

Bon Bon only chuckled and offered a sympathetic look in reply.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

“You know, I didn’t take you for the kind who’d be big on gummy bears.”

Ink scoffed. “Sour only. For sweets, I go chocolate. But don’t say that too loud in hear. Pink Pie will hear you, and by the time you know what hit you, it’ll be too late for your waistline. I like Bon Bon because the pieces are much smaller.” The short red pegasus had let Tempest into the halls of Twilight’s school via a back door and through a large empty gymnasium, and he conspiratorially glanced over both his shoulders before continuing on his way. “You’re not a fan of gummy bears?”

“They’re fine,” Tempest muttered with a shrug. “But they don’t really vibe with your whole ‘tough guy’ thing, do they?”

“Tough guy ‘thing’?” Ink asked with a raised brow. “You think I am… What is idiom… putting on hot air?”

“Uh… I didn’t exactly graduate AP Equiish myself, so sure?” Tempest shrugged. “All I’m saying is the whole ‘huge muscles’, ‘bad Equiish on purpose when you obviously know better’, ‘all black jacket’ thing is kind of hard to miss. And you don’t really need to keep it up around us. You don’t have anything to prove.”

“Why would I waste time acting?” Ink asked.

“Look, I used to do it too. All kinds of creatures get the hell out of the way when they know you can kick them across the room.”

At the implication, Ink glared a fiery look at the unicorn in his company, before shaking his head. “Is this your idea of hitting on me?”

“I… what, no!” Tempest groaned and held a hoof to her temple, ears pinned down. “This is what I get for trying to make friends Twilight’s way.”

Ink barked out a cough of a laugh and indicated down the hall. “You want to be my friend? Lesson one: it’s not an ‘act’. I don’t go out of my way to be that kind of pony anymore. They’re just… some habits are hard breaking. And some are still useful for work. But truth be told: I’m happier teaching history than I was breaking necks in the snow.” As he approached a door simply labeled ‘Ms. Dash, Room 424’, he added “Sometimes I do miss it, though. Here’s the door; I’m gonna drop off my lesson plans now.”

If you aren’t familiar with Rainbow Dash from history texts, stained glass windows, statues, one of the sixteen biographies of the mare (none of which authored by Rainbow herself, humorously), or some other means, you must be awfully far into the future; I don’t currently imagine the world will last long enough to properly forget Rainbow Dash, Bearer of Loyalty. But on the off chance it does, allow me to share a brief description. Rainbow Dash was among the smallest adult ponies I have ever known to exist without some form of severe developmental condition. Perhaps it was out of a desire to look her friends in the eyes (or down on them from above) that she tended to hover at all times, even indoors. Sky blue in color, the most visually obvious quality of the mare in question was her naturally six-colored rainbow mane. Second, at least to me, were her eyes, perhaps because they were nearly identical to Gale’s in color.

Rainbow Dash had been upside down midway through some sort of a demonstration of a stunt that unquestionably held extreme relevance to the hour’s chosen subject (I’m given to understand the title on students schedules was ‘Loyalty’, and I won’t comment in the interest of my own mental health), when the door opened. In a demonstration of frightening aerial prowess, the teacher halted upside down in midair and visibly hovered for a solid two seconds before abruptly falling out of the air…

…and somehow landing on her hooves. “Hey, Tempest! Definitely wasn’t expecting you in Ponyville. I’m kinda in the middle of a class, but if it’s important I can take a few min.”

“We won’t take too much time,” Tempest promised. “We just wanted to talk about Daring Do.”

A few students in the class laughed. Rainbow, however, turned bright red and lunged out the door straight past the waiting adult, taking up a position hovering in the hall. “Shut the door!” she hissed in her harsh, vaguely squeaky natural tone of voice. As Tempest obliged, the hovering pegasus folded her forelegs across her chest. “What’s so important? Hurry it up, I haven’t got all day; the students have to come first.”

Tempest nodded. “Princess Celestia sent us on a mission to find a missing pony. We think Daring Do may be our best lead on finding him. We also heard she’d been in Ponyville to talk to you.”

Rainbow nodded. “Well, yeah. She talks to me all the time. I used to like to go with her; I’m the most awesome Daring sidekick after all. And I am kind of in the know about stuff going on for, like, adventures and things…”

“Some hurry you’re in there,” Tempest muttered ‘under her breath’, loud enough he could be sure Rainbow heard.

Rainbow Dash glared in response before she answered. “Daring wanted to know about… some stuff…”

At that, Tempest grit her teeth. “Look, I get if you don’t trust me, but I promise I’m working for Celestia on this. If you don’t believe me, I can get Somnambula. But it’s practically guardspony work.”

“Yeaaahhh…. About that…”

Tempest sat down in the middle of the school hall, mouth beginning to hang slightly agape. “I really didn’t expect to hear one of Twilight’s friends was on the wrong side of the guard. You’re serious?”

“It’s not like I wanted it,” Rainbow protested. “Twilight and I went on this crazy adventure in Stalliongrad a few years ago. We were just looking for these old books, and staying at some random hotel in the middle of snowy nowhere, but then this crazy guardspony with like a curved farm sword thing comes bursting through the door and just starts attacking ponies. We barely got away, and only because we had help from the guy who owned the hotel, and this tiger lady… Look, the point is, it turned out there are these ponies who don’t like the government in Stalliongrad, because their guardsponies are super evil, and I kinda knew a couple of them. And Daring was going to go looking for some treasure in Stalliongrad—well, not the city, but the boonies. I think it was close to Trotsylvania actually. So bring your garlic.”

“Garlic?” Tempest asked.

Rainbow rolled her eyes. “You know, because vamponies come from Trotsylvania?” When Tempest continued to stare blankly, the pegasus repeated the ocular motion. “Whatever. The point is, the rebels are the good guys. I don’t know why Princess Celestia doesn’t just, like, help them win outright or something. But you gotta not get them in trouble, okay? You promise?”

“I… Sure.”

“Okay. So, Daring’s going to this old crystal pony fortress called Onyx Ridge… I think it’s kind of near the bridge to Baltimare. I guess there’s some magic bell or something she was looking for… I never really follow the history stuff that much, to be honest. But I put her in touch with our friend Safe Haven, who’s living in Trotsylvania now, since he knows the area. And Youmin, who’s hard to miss because she’s a huge tiger, though I don’t know where she actually lives, since she kind of stands out.”

“So if we’re looking for Daring, do we go to Trotsylvania, or this weird castle place?”

Rainbow shrugged—an impressive motion, given she did so with her pegasus shoulders (that is, the muscles attaching her wings to her back, rather than her forelegs) and still remained hovering despite the motion. “I dunno, I’m not like, her stalker or anything. I just like the books, and sometimes I’m basically the hero of them. If you do decide to go to Trotsylvania, you gotta go to…” and then Rainbow nervously cast her gaze up and down the hallway, before hovering slightly closer to Tempest’s head and dropping her voice to a whisper. “The Suite Shoppe Hotel.”

“Weird name,” Tempest noted.

Evidently, the pegasus agreed, given her firm nod. “Ask for Safe Haven, I think he’s working at their restaurant. Tell him I sent you. Just, uh, one thing: you absolutely, positively have to keep quiet about this here.”

“In Ponyville?” Tempest asked. “Who would even care?”

“Well, there’s this asshole guardspony… guess I’m kind of repeating myself there… who Twilight keeps around as a favor to the Princess or something. Er, the *other* Princess… Celestia. You know what I mean, right?” When Tempest nodded, Rainbow’s story barreled onward. “Anyway, before he was in charge of the Honor Guard, he used to be in charge of the Stalliongradi guard, and he still holds a huge grudge about the rebels. If he found out, I’d be worried for my friends.”

“You really don’t like guardsponies, do you?”

Rainbow shrugged. “I don’t mind Twilight’s brother. But my dad—my birth dad, not my real dad—was… look, it’s complicated, and you probably don’t want to sit and hear it. Let’s just say I got tangled up in guardspony crap one time, and it was the worst thing that ever happened to me.”

“The worst thing that ever happened to you?” Tempest chuckled. “Worse than me?”

“You didn’t kill any of my friends,” Rainbow answered rather tersely. “So yeah.”

“Maybe I should be worried about this mission,” the broken-horned unicorn joked.

“Eh, as long as it’s not tied up in the ‘Honor’ Guard, you’re probably safe.” I should note that the quotes around the title of Celestia’s elite personal guards were provided by Rainbow’s hooves. “If you’re just working for Princess Celestia, you’ll probably be fine. Probably. Look, I gotta get back to my class now. That everything you needed?”

“Y-yeah,” Tempest Shadow answered, with uncharacteristic hesitance in keeping with the sinking feeling in the base of her stomach, as questions she had thought were settled in Canterlot began to surface again. “Thanks, Rainbow.”

“Don’t mention it,” Rainbow said as she swooped over to her classroom door. Midway through, she glanced back over her shoulder to offer a parting comment. “Really. Don’t mention it.”

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

Tempest was barely up the gangplank and back onto the deck of the constellation for five seconds when she found a pegasus hovering over her. “Welcome back, Tempest! Did you lose Red Ink?”

“He’s off pretending to be a teacher, Sombo… what in Tartarus is your name again?”

“Som-nam-byou-lah.” Though on a written page, that might come across with a certain resentment or passive-aggression, the mare in question delivered it with a smile. “I know it’s kind of a weird name these days; it’s okay if you need some time to get used to it. Did you find out where we’re going?”

Tempest actively glanced over her shoulder, checking for Red Ink’s presence, before nodding. “Onyx Ridge.”

“Ooh, I know that place!” Somnambula chuckled. “Well, I’ve never actually been there, but I know about it. But that’s where Queen Jade and Smart Cookie beat Warlord Halite and created the Crystal Union.”

“Huh,” Tempest noted, evidently not impressed by the story. “Where’s Sunset? I should talk to her.”

“Oh, she’s in her room, I think. She said she wanted to practice some magic.” Tempest was already two strides away from Somnambula when the latter added to her back “I think she has a sword for you too.”

Tempest stopped mid-stride. “A what?”

“I think it used to be Gale’s, though she must have gotten it after we went into Limbo, because I’ve never seen it before.” Somnambula then chuckled. “Or did you mean you don’t know what a ‘sword’ is?”

Tempest huffed once. “I know what a sword is. But I’m more hooves-on kind of mare.”

Somnambula shrugged. “Well, I’ll keep waiting up here for Red to get back. But when you’re done talking to Sunset, if you want to swap with me, I can make us some lunch.”

Though it wasn’t exactly a question, Somnambula’s offer still felt awkward as it hung in the air completely unanswered behind Tempest’s back, like a fart in a two-pony submarine. Thankfully, at least, when Tempest opened the doors to leave the question behind, there wasn’t seawater waiting to pour in.

It only took a few strides and a few more seconds for Sunset Shimmer’s door to reverberate with the heavy knocking of Tempest Shadow’s shod hoof.

“Oh!” Tempest heard Sunset, though muffled, through the door. “Sorry, that must be the rest of my team back. Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” agreed a muffled voice that Tempest decidedly did not recognize. Before she even had a chance to try and place it, though, Sunset’s magic opened the door, and the mare in question beckoned Tempest enter.

Though Sunset had settled her personal luggage (what little there was, in an age when clothing even on wizards had become a matter of formality instead of practicality, the Fillystines), Tempest’s eyes were immediately drawn away from any change to the quarters since she had visited them in Canterlot, and toward the glowing see-through unicorn standing beside Sunset’s bed.

“Tempest, this is Dr. Even Luminance; Dr. Luminance, this is my, um… traveling companion, I guess—”

“Pilot,” Tempest supplied. “Let’s be honest, I’m here to drive the ship.”

“Amongst other very useful things,” Sunset pushed. “Um, but yes, Tempest is our pilot. Uh, that’s Tempest Shadow.”

“Nice to meet you, Tempest” offered Dr. Luminance. In her transparent form, she was a middle-aged unicorn mare with a bun behind her head and a pair of glasses that went truly above and beyond the absurd, with one lens shaped like a six-pointed star of magic (you know the one, with the asymmetrical points) and the other an upward-pointing crescent moon.

“So you’re dead, I’m guessing?” Tempest replied in return.

Sunset winced. “Tempest!”

“Oh, it’s quite alright. I lived a good hundred-and-two years, and I’ve been dead for, what, forty more?” Luminance shrugged. “But yes, Tempest. Sunset here apparently needed to practice her necromancy. And among Princess Celestia’s students, the tradition is to seance your most recently dead predecessor.”

“So you were one too?” Tempest asked. “Just like Sunset and Twilight and Morty?”

“Well, I don’t know a ‘Morty’... did Celestia take a donkey student recently? But yes, like Sunset and Twilight certainly, when I was a very little filly. Before I went into research. Actually, that does raise an interesting point: Twilight isn’t that much younger than you, is she Sunset? Is the Princess taking more than one student at a time?”

“No, I’ve just been doing, uh, research in portal magic?” The fact that the half-truth came out as a question caused Luminance to raise a brow, but she didn’t interrupt, and so Sunset continued. “I’ve been spending a lot of time in a different dimension, and time flows differently there. At least according to my birth certificate, I’m a little over forty.”

“Oh, interesting. I’d love to hear more about that!” Luminance chuckled. “If you ever feel like practicing your necromancy more. But I imagine you’re satisfied now?”

“Yeah, the emotional approach worked surprisingly well to reach the Summer Lands. You ready for the lurch?”

“Of course. I’d say ‘don’t be a stranger’, but…”

Sunset nodded with a chuckle. “Talk to you later, Luminance.”

With a whoosh and a pop, the seance ended, and Sunset’s shoulders fell with a satisfied sigh.

“Hard magic?” Tempest asked.

“High stakes, I guess. If you screw up, you can damage the soul you’re talking to. Not that there’s really any risk; casting a raw seance with no safeguard magic is a huge crime, and they don’t even teach it if you take a necromancy class. But there’s still that worry in the back of your mind, especially if you’re experimenting.”

“Like the ‘emotional approach’ you said?”

Sunset nodded. “In the part of Tales from Everfree City I was reading, Morty taught Gale how to get her magic into Tartarus with raw emotion. I decided I’d try the opposite with a happy memory. These days, when you learn in school, you have to memorize this long complex formula of basically math problems that get your magic where you want it by logic. Which I guess is more reliable if you’re teaching it en masse, but it sure is a lot more work. And if it hadn’t worked for me, it wouldn’t have hurt Dr. Luminance, because I hadn’t reached her with my magic yet. Just… y’know, you’re doing something that feels risky, even if it’s actually safe.”

“Uh, sure.” Tempest shrugged. “Whatever you say. Sorry I interrupted your magic practice.”

“It’s fine,” Sunset replied. “What did you and Ink find out?”

“Nopony knew where we could find Caballeron, but Daring went to Onyx Ridge just a little while ago, so that’s where we’re headed.”

“Oh.” Sunset nodded, and took a few strides toward the doorway where Tempest was lingering. “Well, that’s in Stalliongrad domain, so Ink should—” Sunset stopped, both speaking and walking, when Tempest placed a cautionary (and rather frigid, being clad in metal) hoof on her shoulder.

“That’s the problem.”

“Hmm?”

“I’ll try and make this short: Daring Do is working with the Stalliongradi rebellion. I guess Rainbow Dash is friends with them or something.”

“Rainbow has friends in the Stalliongradi resistance?” Sunset couldn’t help but chuckle. “The pony versions of my friends are weird.”

Tempest, wisely, chose not to press further on that comment. “And I don’t know what Red Ink told you, or what Celestia told you about him, but Rainbow Dash was very worried about what would happen if he ran into her friends. So much that she made me promise not to tell him anything about what she told me.”

“He wasn’t with you?”

Tempest shrugged. “He split off after I went to talk to Rainbow Dash. Apparently, they don’t see eye to eye. So what I do know is, before he was this undercover guard for Twilight, Ink was in charge of the Stalliongradi guard. Meaning the resistance was against him. Maybe personally, if the way he talks is anything to go by. And… well, Rainbow didn’t say it outright, but I kind of get the sense if we put him in a room with them, somepony’s going to die.”

“Hmm… Well, let’s talk to him about it. No point keeping secrets, right?”

Tempest blinked twice in disbelief before she found a response. “You’re going with the ‘friendship’ angle?”

“Of course!”

“Sunset, this is crime and war and politics and spies, not… not hugs and campfires and sing-a-longs!”

Sunset nodded. “And if we can make the former more like the latter, I think things will turn out a lot better. It’s what Princess Celestia would want us to do.”

“If the Princess really wanted this to be all hugs and love, why are Ink and I even here?”

“Well, sometimes monsters do need a hoof to the face,” Sunset admitted. “And like you said, somepony has to pilot the ship.” Then, forcing her way out of her own doorway, and leaving Tempest struck mute, the unicorn added “For what it’s worth, the sense I get from having talked to him in Canterlot is that Ink has changed a lot from the pony he used to be. We’ll have a talk when he gets back in the common room; I want everypony on the same page. I know I’m not as diehard and naive about treating the magic of friendship as the be-all, end-all solution to problems as Twilight, but I’ve had my fair share of experience with it on the other side of the portal. And in my experience, most problems end better when you solve them with friendship than violence.”

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

The promised meeting came on the bolted-down couches of the Constellation’s common room: a pair of gently curved resting places arrayed around a likewise bolted-down coffee table (as was all the ship’s furniture) in a sort of ( O ) arrangement. Tempest had actually taken the ship into the air in the time before the meeting, seeing no point in wasting flying time when the airlanes over Ponyville were so completely devoid of traffic—and with the common room in plain view of the massive glass belly of the ship through which she could keep at least one eye open for the unlikely risk of a midair collision—which meant Somnambula had more than a spare moment in the kitchen before everypony finally got together.

It was over mugs of cocoa and hot chocolate and something which was more a snacking buffet than proper dinner—flatbread, a variety of dips, sliced vegetables, and a chocolate mint hummus that worked better than it had any right to—Sunset finally got the team together.

“Alright everypony. I wanted to just go over what we learned today, and I guess to make sure we’re all in agreement on what we’re doing.” Sunset afforded herself a sip of her cocoa and smiled gently. “Thank you for the meal, Somnambula.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble,” Somnambula deferred, a hint of embarrassment at the praise on her cheeks.

“Go on, Sunset,” Tempest insisted over the smell of coffee in her own cup, pinched tightly between her hooves.

“Alright. Somnambula and I met with Princess Twilight, who had some items for us from Celestia, to help in our mission.” Lifting the boxes in question, Sunset nodded in turn to each pony around the room. I won’t waste the reader’s time re-reciting what the last two chapters have told you; suffice it to say that had Sunset failed as a researcher into dimensional magic, she would have found considerable gainful employment writing summaries for the back covers of dime novels.

When the spiel was done, Gale’s precious Aestas Melos hung from the side of a somewhat confused Tempest Shadow (who had no earthly clue how, given her broken horn, she was intended to use a sword designed to be held via telekinesis), and the last of Cyclone’s earthly remains had been slipped into Red Ink’s breast pocket, Sunset took a very long breath. “Now… based on what we’ve learned from Ink’s contact, and apparently Rainbow Dash, we’re heading for Onyx Ridge.”

“Oh, back home,” Ink noted with mild amusement. “Fun place. Not exactly a tourist destination.”

“Anything you know about it, Ink?” Sunset asked.

The red head of the pegasus guard dipped once. “It’s full of… well, their term is ‘vargr’, but most often we use ‘wargs’ or ‘winter wolves’. Semi-feral carnivorous diamond dogs. Sometimes they come out to attack close by towns. They love pony meat. Guards patrol for them, and offer bounty on pelts, but going down into tunnels is suicide. Vargr will burst right out the walls and rip your throat out if you aren’t careful. So we could never get rid of them.” Ink chuckled, and took a long slow sip of coffee. “Now we know what Celestia actually meant with Tempest and I being here. I’ve been three floors deep in their mines, which I think means I still hold the record.”

“You can’t reason with them?” Sunset asked.

Ink shrugged. “I don’t know that they’re smart enough to speak. Not that I’ve tried since one tried to eat me when I was a colt, but you know.”

“Sounds like it’s not a ‘friendship’ kind of problem,” Tempest agreed, though her eyes stayed locked firmly on Sunset when she did.

Sunset’s shoulder rose and fell. “Well, that may be, Tempest. But I want everypony to understand, we’ll try to do things friendly first. If these creatures are as wild as Ink says, and they really are just hungry animals, we’ll do what we have to do. But that brings me to another point.” Again, Sunset paused to sigh. “Ink, um, we have reason to expect Daring Do may be working with the Stalliongradi resistance.”

Ink’s face, normally quite even and gently amused, wrinkled—and while the mispronunciation of his beloved Stol’nograd was a familiar trigger, it rarely produced the flash of hatred that sparked in his eyes. “Do you have names?”

“I do,” Sunset agreed hesitantly. To her visible concern, Ink responded by pushing himself up from the couch and onto his hooves. While his diminutive stature didn’t make the action particularly threatening to Sunset, the fact that the air in the closed cabin of the airship grew palpably hotter was quite a warning sign. Sensing the same danger, Tempest’s horn began to gently spark. “But before I say anything, I need to know you’re going to put the mission ahead of any personal vendettas you might have.”

The stallion stopped mid-forward stride, and in a moment of self-awareness, forced a deep and visible breath through his frame. “You’re asking a lot, Sunset.”

“I know you used to be in charge of the Stalliongradi guard.”

“The ‘Black Cloaks’,” Ink corrected, flicking his inky jacket with his wing. “And fine, I’ll play nice. Or at least, give you the chance to talk. As long as you understand that if they decide they’d rather come at me… well, let’s just say I won’t be sad.” The pegasus sucked down another deep breath and flopped himself down on the couch. “It’s Stoikaja, isn’t it?”

“Who?” Sunset asked. “I don’t know that name.”

“The mother of the ‘resistance’.” The phrase left Ink’s tongue with no shortage of spite. “I’ll make a very long story very short: you remember when I asked Princess Luna about Third Brother? And Eldest Sister said I knew him?”

Sunset nodded. “He was somepony you killed?”

“No. He’s my little brother Polnoch. Uh, that would be...” Ink traced a circle in the air with his wing as his mind fought to translate. “‘Midnight’ in Equiish. And Stoikaja had him killed.”

“What does ‘Stoikaja’ mean?” Somnambula asked, riveted by the story unfolding.

“Resistant. Enduring. Just ‘tough’ if you want a short word. In Equiish, I’ve known her to go by ‘Soldier On’. She’s dangerous.”

“Another wizard we have to look out for?” Tempest asked scornfully.

Ink shook his head. “An earth pony. And I guarantee you, she won’t waste time talking if we run into her. Not that she’s without reason.” After a hesitant swallow on that ominous note, he finished “For the rest of the criminals, though, it’s just work. I don’t mind working with them. I’ll even let them go if you want, though you won’t get me to pretend to be happy about it. You might want to leave me behind.”

“Well, the good news is there’s no name like ‘Tough’ that we’re expecting. And if you really do have the record, I don’t think we can afford to leave you behind.” Sunset swallowed. “The names are… um, Tempest?”

There was a moment of hesitation before Tempest replied “Safe Haven and Youmin.”

“The tiger? Hah!” Ink grinned. “I’ve never actually met that one before. Never even heard of ‘Safe Haven’. But you’ll get no trouble from me.”

“Well then,” Sunset nodded. “I think I’m satisfied. That’s all I had to talk about. I guess… enjoy yourselves until we reach Onyx Ridge?”

5 - 1 The Many (Awful) Mentors of Coil the Immortal

V

The Many (Awful) Mentors of Coil the Immortal

I

Stars, It's Been a Week

You'll forgive me if I (the narratorial version of your protagonist) am a bit frustrated while writing this chapter. While to you, this likely just looks like the turn of a page, on my end it's been almost three months since I recorded the preceding chapter.

As I believe I've mentioned before, I am not what you would call an inspiring political figurehead. Don't get me wrong, I'm quite gifted with administration and delegation, but golems and corpses are better subjects in my book because they tend not to ask 'why?'. Nevertheless, with Celestia still moping about the moon bitch's absence, and said pock-marked goddess having actually killed Celestia's preceding secretary/understudy/fallback option, I find myself temporarily picking up the slack of 'ruling' over a rebuilding Equestria. And, as it turns out, Luna still has loyalists devoted enough not to go into hiding when we banished their leader literally to the surface of the moon!

I mean, stars, I'm not sure whether I call the past few weeks a janitorial exercise or a demonstration of natural selection.

In any case, I've put Angel VI (or VII? Unfortunately, I think that part of my memory was in the part of my brain that's smeared on Castle Midnight's walls somewhere…) in charge of interviewing some new candidates for a parliament of sorts, rather like the one we had back in the days this story is about, and stars above, I've just realized how much ink I've wasted rambling. The point is, I finally have time to write again, and if I don't, I'm worried I'll snap and actually declare myself tyrant king or something moronic like that.

Forgive me just one printed 'ahem'.

After I helped Gale to seance Satchel, I asked how I could help further. She, understandably, just needed me out of her mane—stars know I was even worse with politics then—and though that answer left me feeling more frustrated and impotent than I cared to admit even to myself, I grudgingly accepted it. I satisfied myself with being the shoulder for her when her duties were settled, and headed back to Hurricane's villa on the river.

Though I wouldn't admit this to myself either, the thought of just collapsing in one of Hurricane's cushy sitting room chairs was incredibly tempting. The reader will recall it was still the same day after I had lost most of my night of sleep to seancing King Lapis IV, and then subsequently tossing and turning in the agony of my aching horn. Even the most handsome stallion in the world looks and feels a good deal worse with sunken purple bags beneath his eyes.

When I arrived at Hurricane's villa, I found the Equestrian legend rocking like the crotchety old stallion he had become on an antique rocking chair as he nursed an ale from a brown glass bottle on his own porch.

"Morty? Hmm. Hadn't expected you back so soon."

"Gale… Her day at court—"

"I already heard," Hurricane interrupted mercifully. "That's why I'm surprised you aren't with her."

"I helped her with the dead pony. There's not much else I can do. I did offer." I shrugged. "Figured I'd come here and wait for her."

Hurricane grinned at that and offered me an understanding smile. "Welcome to my world, Morty. Well, you're welcome to sit and drink with me here on the porch, or I think Blizzard and your flying rock thing… Angle, was it?"

"Angel," I corrected gently. "'Guardian Angel' if you want the whole name, but we hardly ever use it. I'm surprised he's here; I expected he'd be back at the college with Grayscale."

The observation only earned me a shrug from the old stallion. "Well, they're in the kitchen working on some bread for dinner. Blizzard says it's something a friend of hers taught her in River Rock, so I'm looking forward to it." When my hooves answered Hurricane's offer simply by walking past him up to the door, I got yet another nod. "Morty, do me a favor?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm sure you're busy with your wizard business, but if you ever have a quiet day, take Blizzard out with you."

I couldn't help but raise a brow. "Haven't you already been dragging her out of the house?"

Hurricane stared down into his bottle, but refrained from taking another drink. "I do what I can. But when she's with me, there's always the risk somepony puts together her 'secret'. The entire city knows Typhoon's only got one foal, so I can't exactly introduce her as my granddaughter. But if she's with you, or really anypony else, she ought to be able to let her guard down, at least a little bit. And since you're apparently the only friend she has who isn't family..."

"Point taken. I'll see what I can do." One other obligation immediately jumped to mind regarding Blizzard, but given Hurricane's rather negative views on necromancy, I figured mention of Blizzard's late mother Summer was probably best kept between myself and the mares in question.

With an approving dip of Hurricane's head, I entered the villa and made my way back past the dining room into the legendary stallion's kitchen. I hardly had a point of reference at the time, since the only kitchens I was familiar with even in passing were those that served the entire Crystal Spire, rather than just a single household. Fortunately, with the benefit of hindsight, I can tell you that the villa's kitchen was easily where Hurricane had invested all his construction money. Cloudstone marble countertops (that I would later learn were magically chilled in some parts of the kitchen, and heated in others) topped an island and a wrap-around preparation space. In one corner, an enormous brick oven crackled with flame while somehow not baking the air in the rest of the room. In another, a perpetual waterfall provided water without the need for manual pumping. Two sturdy iron-bound doors sat on the left wall, but from the mist slipping around the edges, I inferred they led to a sort of enchanted ice house. Perhaps most impressively, not far from the waterfall, a slab of skysteel several feet across glowed a muted orange with inner heat, serving as a sort of stove and griddle in one, somehow without the need for any fire or logs placed beneath it—as if the heat were somehow coming from the metal itself.

I have a sneaking suspicion that in Hurricane's hooves I would have found the room pristine, given the old stallion's borderline obsession with disciplined tidiness in the other rooms of the villa, as well as how obsessively well preened he kept his sole remaining wing.

In Angel and Blizzard's care, the room was… less so. Upon entering the room, I had no idea why this was the case; Blizzard never struck me as one to tolerate that kind of chaos, and Angel certainly wasn't fond of messes, since it was usually his job to pick them up. Since neither being noticed me, I leaned in the doorway and resolved to try and solve the mystery.

It didn't take long.

"I can certainly try," Angel told Blizzard as I relaxed myself. "But if I may be so bold, a rolling pin is far easier to operate in a straight line with wings than with my halos."

"Well, yes…" Blizzard frowned. "But the point was to do it together. I guess I didn't really think about you not having hooves, but—"

"Oh, please don't feel bad. I was glad to help you with the dough… batter… substance. And I do apologize how long it took to clean me up. My gem fittings are rather fine, I understand."

"You sound like Morty," Blizzard noted with a chuckle.

Angel tittered aloud. "I mean 'having small details'. I am, as Master Coil so often loves to remind everypony, a flying rock."

Blizzard produced a rather heavy rolling pin and, wielding it like a club, smashed down a ball of potatoey battery dough stuff. "Well, I think you're quite handsome."

"I'm certain you've never seen any being quite like me against whom to compare my appearance." Angel's golden halos spun in place. "But I do appreciate the thought."

"I guess I was actually thinking about jewelry," Blizzard explained as she rolled out the dough, back and forth, transferring the wooden dowel to her hooves when it started to get covered in a floury residue.

"Jewelry?" Angel asked. "Forgive me if I'm being intrusive, but from what I saw of your family in River Rock, jewelry didn't seem particularly commonplace…"

"No." Blizzard chuckled sadly. "Maybe that's why I always wanted some. Lefse—my friend, who's named after this kind of bread—she had a couple of earrings, and they always seemed so pretty. Father said it was frivolous when I asked him; he told me if I wanted to wear gold, I should join the Legion and become a centurion."

I doubt Blizzard appreciated the way Angel's rock rotated, rather like a confused animal cocking its head. "Some soldiers wear gold armor? Would that not be incredibly heavy? And, for that matter, a bit soft to protect you?"

"It's just the trim on the edge," Blizzard explained. "You've seen aunt Typhoon's armor, right? That little bit of gold on the edges? It's not even solid; it's basically just a layer they melt on over the steel, to make it stand out on the battlefield." With another heavy thump, Blizzard flattened another ball of lefse dough.

"Well, forgive me if this is a question that a pony would think it is rude to ask; I find I am still getting a sense of those rules. But why are you against being a soldier to get your gold?"

"I did it for a little bit…"

That revelation caught me in outright shock.

"...I was maybe seven or eight? Basically, Father needed a messenger, and he wanted me to get used to taking orders and talking to the other Legion ponies. I didn't mind it much for a while. But one day, Father's imperator Crane—um, that's his second-in-command—Imperator Crane tried to take over. He waited until Father had me deliver a message to him, and then he... he put a knife to my throat and dragged me to meet with Father…"

It was obvious to me Blizzard was struggling with the memory, and though it was far harder to read Angel in most cases, owing to his lack of a proper face, it was also obvious from the way he was carrying his halos that the golem didn't fully understand where Blizzard's story was going.

"If you'll forgive me for interrupting, Blizzard, I think this is a great opportunity for you to have a lesson in understanding ponies, Angel."

Angel let out a sort of chirp and spun in place. "Master Coil!"

Blizzard's reaction, while similarly metaphorically avian, was more a shriek; throwing her wings up into the air, she dove behind the counter. Fortunately, it took my friend only a few moments to overcome the shock of my appearance and, clearly embarrassed by the blush on her cheeks, pull herself back up into view. "Um, Morty! Hi!"

"Hello, Blizzard. Angel. Blizzard, are you alright?"

Blizzard nodded frantically, as if enthusiasm would somehow undo the awkwardness of her reaction. "Yeah, yeah, um… I'm fine. I just… really, really don't like being snuck up on."

"I promise I wasn't trying," I offered. "But you have my apologies. And, given what I suspect you were about to say, I can hardly blame you. Angel, did you notice how Blizzard was slowing down in her story there as she went on? Hesitating a bit?"

Angel's halo's whirred as his tiny voice spoke out. "I certainly did, sir. I surmised it was emotionally impactful."

"Do you have a guess what kind of emotions it was bringing up?"

"Negative ones, I would imagine; at least, I would assume given the ponies involved that the matter ended in violence."

I nodded warily, letting my eyes glance to Blizzard even as I tried to teach Angel an important lesson about ponies; the last thing I wanted was to put his learning ahead of her comfort. "You really have gotten a lot smarter, Angel. How do you think remembering and reciting memories of negative emotions makes a pony feel? In the present?"

"Well, I would assume one feels those emotions again—ah, I see. Blizzard, I am extremely sorry to have caused you to relieve those events."

"It's fine, really." Blizzard put on her muted smile. "I could have just said no, Angel. It was a long time ago."

"True," Angel agreed. "But I believe we literally just now finished establishing it was still an emotionally… Master Coil, there is a word here that sounds like 'frogged', but my vocabulary is failing me, and—"

"Fraught?"

"Yes. Emotionally fraught." Angel let out the sound of a tinny huff. "I dare say I have made a mess of our little exercise in making bread, Blizzard, and for that, I offer my apologies. Perhaps, to make it up to you, I can tell you a story of when I was young with Master Coil and Wintershimmer. Those stories are often similarly full of violence and peril."

I couldn't help but rub my temple. Blizzard, at least, had the good humor to appreciate the golem's attempt with another small chuckle. "Maybe some time, Angel. I'm guessing Morty wants you for something, though? Now that his horn is back to working?"

"Not yet…" I suspect the bitterness in my tone made it obvious to ever-empathetic Blizzard that there was more than just a bit more waiting embedded in the comment. "I'm just here killing time for the moment. So I shouldn't offer my horn, but if you need another set of hooves…"

"Something wrong?" Blizzard asked.

"What isn't?"

Angel floated over. "We heard about the riot outside Gale's meeting. Is that what's bothering you, Master Coil?"

I walked over into the room, if only to let me lower my voice. "That's… one thing." I hesitated myself, and then had the awareness to regret having taught Angel how to interpret that pause, all in the space of about a second.

That was how long it took Blizzard to hold the rolling pin out in front of me, and to slide a ball of dough so that it sat on the counter beneath me.

"It'll make you feel better," she suggested.

One swing of a rolling pin later, and I realized that compared to the possibilities, there really was only a minor amount of mess in the kitchen after all. As Blizzard and Angel laughed at the smear of potato dough on Hurricane's cabinetry, I let myself focus on rolling out a thin, even sheet, as I had watched Blizzard do moments before.

"I'm feeling overwhelmed," I admitted, when the laughter passed into silence. "It's been, what, three days since I got out of bedrest? And already, I feel like fighting Wintershimmer was easier."

"Surely, you exaggerate, Master Coil?"

"I'm trying to best Gale's suitors and win her hoof in marriage, even though Platinum detests me. I'm doing my best to support Gale being Queen now, which has involved a lot more necromancy than I was expecting. I'm worried about Graargh, even though objectively I know he's better off with Aspirations than with me trying to raise him. Stars, to say nothing of my age, I'm losing my mind and hallucinating Wintershimmer."

"Truthfully?" Angel asked. "Have you spoken to Archmage Star Swirl? Or Lady Celestia?"

"I'm not exactly on the best terms with them right now," I admitted. "Because of the worst part: I have the Scourge of Kings."

"You what?" Angel's shrill gasp of shock dramatically overrode Blizzard's look of confused worry. I afforded the golem a short bob of my head as I continued rolling out the dough, then turned to Blizzard.

"What's that?" she asked.

I briefly glanced over my shoulder to make sure Platinum wasn't standing behind me, though it only moments later occurred to me she was almost certainly still out dealing with the fallout of the death outside the Stable of Nobles. "It's a disease that runs in the royal family. Sometimes ponies call it 'horn rot', because that's what it does. The more magic you use, the more your horn decays. Eventually, you can't do even basic magic, and your horn gets an infection that spreads to your brain. Ponies used to say it was a curse Celestia put on King Electrum—Gale's great grandfather a bunch of times over—for trying to look into the future too much. Turns out, it's actually just from using far too much magic without letting your horn rest."

"What's the cure?" Blizzard asked.

"There is no cure," Angel answered solemnly.

I made a point to shake my head. "There's a way. Chop off my horn and stick a new one on."

"You can do that?" Blizzard pressed, eyes wide and with her wings even popping a bit in surprise. "Do unicorn horns work like that?"

"I assure you they do not," Angel again interjected. "I fear Master Coil may be losing his mind in more ways than just hallucinations."

"No, Angel. Wintershimmer had a way to do it, decades ago. Actually, it's what got him kicked out of River Rock by Gale's grandpa and Star Swirl. Unfortunately, Star Swirl seems to think that because it was evil when Wintershimmer figured it out back then, using it now to help me would also somehow be evil, and—ggnh!" The last gasp I accompanied, without meaning to, with a violent jerk forward of the rolling pin that served to tear the already too-thin-by-half lefse dough into a scattering of jagged-edged ribbons. I tossed aside the rolling pin and collapsed onto my hindquarters, tilting my head back until my scalp was flat against a cabinet behind me. "If I don't do something soon, my magic will kill me. As Mage Meadowbrook put it, every spell I cast shortens my life expectancy by a year."

This time, it was Angel's turn to hesitate. "I… um… I suppose 'I'm sorry' is inappropriate, given I'm not at fault, but I feel as if I should say something…"

Blizzard, in contrast, said nothing at all. She walked up to where I had let myself fall on the kitchen floor, sat down beside me, and wrapped a wing over my shoulder. Then, gently but firmly, she pulled me against her side.

Hovering overhead, and unable to offer such physical support due to being made of levitating metal and stone, Angel settled for an encouraging question. "Do you… perhaps have a plan, Master Coil? Is there something I can do to be of assistance?"

I nodded. "Tonight, Angel, we're going to be doing some magic that I'll need your assistance for. I need to figure out the details, but I want to be here for when Gale gets back, and…" That sentence trailed off into a miserable groan, as my ailing horn chose that moment to twinge in pain. "Is there ice in that… frozen closet over there?"

"Probably," Blizzard offered. "If not, I can make some. Why?"

"My horn. Somepony said ice in cheesecloth would help…"

Blizzard released me with as much speed as was feasible without hurting me in the process, and then made her way over to investigate fulfilling my request.

Wincing, and so not really 'looking' at all, I still turned my head to point in Angel's direction. "If you want something to do right now, Angel, go to Diadem and have her bring the candlecorns to my house. Possess one yourself if it's a problem."

Angel scoffed. "Well, I suppose I have already had one viscous ooze in my halos today; what is another?" Then, with a change of tone I hadn't noticed in the golem before, I received a nod and a far more genuine tone—one even bordering on empathy, though I do wonder whether it was genuine or merely an imitation of Blizzard's speech patterns. "Do take care of yourself, Master Coil. I shall endeavor to help you as best I can."

"Don't tell anypony," I answered, before adding "Thanks, Angel."

Angel neither needed nor wanted clarification on that final order, but as Blizzard approached with wrapped ice in her wing, she did dare to speak up. "Why?"

"A wizard shouldn't tell the world about his weaknesses." Despite not only quoting Wintershimmer, but having directly referenced the figment of my particular flavor of madness (if, indeed, that was the source), he failed to appear yet again.

"That sounds lonely," Blizzard told me. "I'm glad you told me, at least, Morty. Will you talk to Gale about it? Or Graargh?"

"I doubt Graargh would understand. Gale… I don't know. I mean, I trust her—but she's got so much on her mind already, and I don't want to create more problems."

Blizzard shook her head firmly, and even through my squint of pain (lessened though it was by the blessed application of the ice to my horn), I could see she was fixing me with perhaps the sternest look she had ever directed my way. "She'll know something is wrong whether you tell her or not, Morty. If you don't tell her, you'll make her worry more, because she won't know why you're keeping it secret."

"Okay." I took a deep breath. "Thanks, Blizzard."

"You're my friend, Morty," Blizzard answered, still firm in her attentions.

"Where did you learn to be so… good with ponies? It obviously wasn't your dad."

That finally broke the wall of seriousness. "Oh, no, no. I… well, mostly I figured it out on my own, I think. Um, you remember I have a lot of little siblings, right? Well, I basically raised most of them. Really, all of them except Sirocco and Maelstrom, and only because they're not that much younger than me. Anyway, I guess you learn a thing or two about getting ponies to work together when you're helping lots of little foals grow up without attacking each other."

"Sounds like hard work." I forced myself to lean forward and get my forehooves back in front of me instead of at my sides; I immediately regretted the motion, though, and flopped back with a rather woody 'smack' as the back of my scalp met the cabinetry. "Fuck. Er, forgive my Gale-ish." The stupid joke won me another laugh from Blizzard, and I decided there was no better time to press my advantage. "You mentioned you liked jewelry? Would you humor me if I took you out to buy some?"

I thought the laughter was a sign it was a good time to ask such a question, but Blizzard immediately locked up. "You… you want me to go…" And then, to my infinite relief, she finished the question in a truly humorous way. "Morty, um, I don't know that I think of you that way. And if you and Gale—"

"No, no! Just as friends, right?" I offered as disarming a smile as I could muster through my pain (and believe me, even in pain, my smile could rival a master fencer's skill at disarmament). "Maybe tomorrow?"

"Um… sure," Blizzard agreed. "Actually, that would be perfect, I think. Grandfather and Misses, um… Oh no, I can't come up with her name; the older mare with the eyepatch."

"Iron Rain?" I offered; I had only ever met the mare twice myself, but she was not an easy mare to forget.

"Yes, she and her husband are going to be hosting me. Actually, um… would you like to join me for that too? Or, I guess, would you mind? Um, Misses Rain said I could bring a plus one, and I think she was kidding, but I don't really know them that well, and—"

"I'll be there," I interrupted the accelerating torrent of Blizzard's words. Then I let my shoulders go slack. "Give me just a minute longer and I can help you finish off the bread, since I stole your other apprentice."

Blizzard chuckled, and retrieved the rolling pin from where I had abandoned it. "Take whatever time you need."

And so the afternoon passed, making lefse and much lighter small talk in roughly equal proportions.

5-2

V - II

The Living Goddess

When the bread was in the magic oven and the kitchen had been manually cleaned (a task I thoroughly did not enjoy without the use of my horn), I emerged into Hurricane's villa again to find a Queen Platinum of Equestria waiting for me—just not the one I wanted to see.

"Your Majesty," I offered her with a nod as I passed her in the sitting room, where she was engrossed in an old, paper-smelling tome she held balanced with its spine in the frog of one hoof. I had thought that brief recognition would be our only interaction before I headed out to the porch to see about waiting for Gale in the fading daylight. I was tired. Worse, I was emotionally drained. Frankly, I was not ready to deal with another 'civil enemies' verbal sparring match with the elder Platinum.

I was sorely disappointed.

"You have my condolences, Morty," the queen mother replied, flipping a page in her book without looking up. "Regarding your condition, I mean."

The question turned my mind from tired avoidance to something more akin to fire in the space of an instant. "You were listening?"

Platinum let out a huff. "Again, I find myself reminded that you aren't used to the rules of our game. Information comes from many sources, and because most ponies will refuse to share those sources, it is considered rude to even ask. And a queen has many ears. But if it makes you feel better, no; I did not eavesdrop on your conversation with Blizzard. Your shouting at Star Swirl when you received your diagnosis was more than loud enough that the relevant ears could hear, even through the palace's walls. Now, should I expect you to be returning the coin and Solemn Vow's home, or does our arrangement still stand?"

I winced, and concerningly, Platinum smiled, though she kept her eyes on the pages in front of her. But it wasn't as if I had a choice, given amongst other things my bribe to Reed only a few hours prior. "I… don't currently have all the money. And I rather need the home. It's too much to hope you might grant me a reprieve, isn't it?"

Platinum slowly closed her book and took a long moment before locking eyes with me. "Because I'm sympathetic to your position—probably more so than anypony else alive—I'll offer you a deal. Stop pursuing your romance with my daughter, and I will gladly consent to ending your obligations from our contract. Now more than ever, she doesn't need the distraction. Do that, and you can keep the house and the coin."

I fixed the senior statesmare with my firmest glare. "It doesn't weigh on your conscience that if I say 'no', you'd be trying to kill me?"

"Oh, quite the opposite, Morty; that's the point. Don't get me wrong; I would much rather you ceased interfering in politics without the need for an untimely passing. But if that is not a choice you're willing to give me, I am more than happy to put the wellbeing of Equestria, and my daughter, above any single pony." It was a grim way to end a conversation, to be sure, but also one the queen-mother seemed to think needed little by way of further discussion. So, reopening her book with a hoof, she gave me one final nod of acknowledgement, and then said "I'm certain a stallion of your talents has places to be. Don't let me keep you."

I admit, my response might have been a little bit aggressive, but in my defence, I had tried not to have the conversation at all. Or, to put it in a more direct but more juvenile way, 'she started it.' I walked straight up to Platinum, closed her book with a hoof, and then reached up and actually adjusted her chin so that she would meet my gaze. "Whereas I'm certain a mare of your talents could be doing any number of things to help the daughter she's supposedly willing to kill for, instead of sitting on her flanks at home like an impotent geriatric."

"You really don't have the slightest sense of self-preservation, do you, Coil?" Platinum asked, swatting away my hoof. "So much for civility between enemies."

I let out a single bark of a laugh. "Platinum, maybe I didn't make myself clear when we last spoke. In order for self-preservation to even enter into my consideration, there would have to be something you could do to even inconvenience me, let alone threaten me. There isn't."

Platinum sighed, closed her eyes, and let her head swivel from side to side. I noted her ears fell backwards, as if she was tired or disappointed. "So you aren't interested in pursuing my blessing for Gale's hoof?"

"Why bother? I have every intention of fixing my horn, and once I do, it won't take much patience for me to wait for any requirement of your endorsement to expire. Namely, about the same time you do. Since we're talking so bluntly about one another's deaths, what was it Star Swirl gave you again? A year or two?" This time, it was Platinum's turn to glare, and my turn to grin in an open display of sadism. "But I should be fair and give you the same offer you gave me. In a few weeks, I'll be glad to trade you a cure for your horn, in exchange for your blessing."

Platinum steepled her hooves, and then lowered her brow until the base of her horn was resting on their crests. With her eyes closed, she drew in two long breaths and released each in turn. Then, not raising her head, she spoke. "Thank you for helping me make up my mind. I believe, for the time being, we have nothing else to say to one another."

Being eighteen, and therefore an idiot, I walked out of the room feeling like I had won.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

I spent the rest of the evening on Hurricane's porch, pretending to drink with him. I learned that his crops of hops and wheat and barley and whatever other grains were growing around his villa had all been raised from seeds he carried back from Dioda, and more specifically from his foalhood home in some pegasus farming town called Zephyrus. The passion and pride with which the old soldier talked about his crops, and their being his last connection to the Cirra he knew as a child, were why I bothered to pretend to finish drinking his ale even though the first sip proved instantly that it was an acquired taste.

To be a bit more descriptive, Hurricane's "Old Cirran Ale" was bitter like an ex-lover left in the rain at the altar in favor of a more attractive younger sibling. Its texture suggested not only that it consisted entirely of the dregs and sediment usually found only in the bottom of a bottle of beer, but that those dregs had somehow developed a five-o-clock shadow. In fact, I would say its taste reminded me most of being punched in the face not by Gale, but by my crystal 'nemesis' Silhouette—the operative difference between the two being that Silhouette was an earth pony made of rocks.

Mercifully, Hurricane was distracted long enough for me to dump the bottle off the side of the porch when a sky-carriage emblazoned with Cirran Legion emblems, pulled by ornately armored pegasi, swept down to land on the city road just at the edge of Hurricane's property. It took a second after the carriage to lurch to a halt before the door was flung open at the ice-white hooves of Frostfall. I took it as a troubling sign that, upon locking eyes on me, the esteemed auditoris glared in my direction before she turned to offer a hoof to ease the next mare out of the carriage.

In fact, the next mare was Celestia, who kindly declined the hoof while demonstrating that her legs were more than long enough that the step down was hardly an inconvenience. Judging by the chuckle she and Frostfall shared, and knowing Celestia's sense of humor, I suspect she made some joke about the implications of putting her considerable bodyweight on the offered limb.

After Celestia came Gale in the same burgundy dress stained with Satchel's blood that I had left her in after Satchel's seance. She still wore the unicorn crown, but it sat askew on her head, held in place more by the gnarls of her mane about it than any actual balance on her brow. What makeup Gale had endured that day was mostly smeared on her right fetlock, with only a few thin smears near the edges of her eyes suggesting anything had held—but at least, as far as anypony could looking could tell, she hadn't been reduced to tears.

Gale almost swatted at Frostfall's hoof; I saw her pull her own leg back, before some memory or regret caught in her mind, and instead she took said hoof for support on the short trip down to the road. There, she finally looked up the road and gave a little smile in my direction.

The last to depart the carriage was Commander Typhoon herself, clad in full black armor and wearing a sword I was at least passingly familiar with at her side. Her prosthetic hoof, clad in its little aura of frost, put a brief flash of discomfort on Frostfall's expression, though any harm was quickly mended by a peck on the cheek from her lover. Of all the ponies present, Typhoon looked the least tired. However the day's events had impacted her, they had not stolen the iron from her spine, nor the icy focus from her motions.

Hurricane set down his bottle, pushed himself up from his seat onto his braced foreleg, and despite the obvious pain the motion caused him, set into a rather brisk walk forward. The eagerness with which he went to meet the four mares took me by surprise, and it took me a good few seconds to even stand up, let alone move to join him.

Ahead of me, in the middle of his precious grains, Hurricane answered a greeting of "Dad—" not with words, but by wrapping Gale's chest in his one remaining wing and pulling his daughter into a tight hug.

Gale tucked her neck around his, matching the hug with a foreleg, and visibly shaking as she pulled him even tighter against her. "Hi, Dad."

"I'm glad you're home, Aura," Hurricane answered. "Do you need anything right this moment?"

Gale shook her head. "I think I've done everything I can right now. I mean, Ty and I still need to talk privately, but that can wait until later—"

"Commander Typhoon and I," Typhoon corrected, dipping her head in Gale's direction with something like regret just barely visible to me in the scarred lid of her right eye. "Not that I want to push you away, Gale, but when it comes to deciding what comes next, it won't be easy for either of us."

"No, you're right." Gale stepped back from Hurricane's hug and swallowed.

Hurricane himself, on the other hand, scoffed as he walked over to his substantially older daughter. It was, at least to me, an amusing reminder that Typhoon was a smaller mare than Gale, given how much more Hurricane's hug encompassed her; normally, between the crest of her helmet and her own posture and presence, Typhoon often seemed larger than life. But in Hurricane's grasp, it was easy to imagine a sense of chiding in Hurricane's voice. "You and Gale will always be family, Typhoon. Don't let Platinum's rules get in the way of that."

Typhoon rolled her eyes as she matched Hurricane's hug. "I know, Dad. But it's a good rule to have anyway. It makes the dinner table a lot less awkward."

"If you insist. Speaking of which, Blizzard's made us some bread from River Rock." Turning to Frostfall, I was amused to note Typhoon's lover got no gentler of a hug from the old pegasus than either of his daughters. "I hope you'll stay too, Frostfall; we've got an open seat now that Graargh is gone."

Frostfall responded "Please don't tell me you knew about that nonsense too, sir."

"I… am going to guess I don't?" Hurricane admitted after a moment's hesitation, releasing Frostfall as he spoke.

"Good," Frostfall replied, glaring over his shoulder in my direction.

I reached Gale at about the same time Hurricane moved on to embrace Celestia and share a few quiet words which I think you will understand I hardly cared to pay attention to, except to note that Celestia was bold enough to plant a kiss on Hurricane's collar bone, and that the sensation apparently sent a shiver through the old stallion.

No, that detail aside, my attention was on Gale, and the fact that her kiss was decidedly bolder (though, in comparison to other kisses we had already shared in public, rather quite tame). When we pulled apart, Gale just said "Thanks."

"I enjoy it too, you know." I nodded to Gale. "Now, what can I do to help?"

Gale looked at me like I'd grown a second horn. "Morty, you can't. It's just politics left now."

I nodded. "I meant more in the vein of heading up to Riverward, or maybe a restaurant in town—"

The suggestion was cut off by a scoff from Gale, though a flash of guilt passed over her expression the very next moment. "Sorry, I shouldn't be so cynical. I forget you don't know to think about this kind of shit. Um… Look, imagine how it would look to the newspapers if somepony died off, and not six hours later, the Queen was out fucking around with her colt-toy."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You know damn well what I mean, Morty. It's not what I'd say; it's what they'd say." Gale hung her head. "I'm sorry. I don't think I'm going to be free for a couple of days. But I appreciate the thought, for what it's worth."

With that brief explanation out of the way, Gale turned toward her father and her sister, just in time for the trio to head back up the path through Hurricane's fields toward the family home. Their departure left me standing with Celestia and Frostfall, whose presence I almost didn't notice for the frustration Gale's words had left in me.

Not that she was wrong, as my own inner voice reminded me even in the moment. But that hardly helped to soothe the feeling of inadequacy.

And then, as seemed to be the theme of that wretched day, it got worse. "Morty," Frostfall greeted me. "Long time no see." There was a barb to her voice, particularly as her white wing stretched out over my shoulders to pull me unnecessarily firmly against her side.

"Um… hello to you too… Um… Miss…"

Lest any reader be confused by my forgetfulness, while I as the narrator have described Frostfall's presence several times, face-to-face, this was only the second time I had meaningfully met the mare in question, and the prior introduction had come well before I bested Wintershimmer.

"Morty, this is Frostfall," Celestia helpfully introduced the soldier.

"Auditoris Frostfall. And we've already met, Lady Celestia." Still holding me close to her side, Frostfall gestured with her other wing up the road. "Let's head inside."

"Oh, right! You're Typhoon's wife."

Frostfall huffed once in amusement, and muttered "I'm just her secretary. She'll never buy me a ring; she gets cold hooves too easily." Despite that being a magnificent joke, while Celestia laughed genuinely, my own laughter was rendered somewhat awkward by Frostfall's rather forceful physical pin, and Frostfall herself kept a completely straight face.

I squirmed under Frostfall's wing as we walked forward (Celestia offering no help whatsoever), and when I quickly learned I was no match for the career soldier's strength even despite her apparent office job, I groaned out "Okay, what's your problem with me?"

Frostfall didn't even look at me. Her eyes stayed pointed straight ahead. "You have a beautiful kitty, Morty."

"What? I don't have a cat;. What are you talking about?"

"The cat you sent your bear friend to bring back to school for you?"

I was immediately envious of the fact that, unlike my own pale blue, Frostfall was actually white-coated. Had I shared that trait, it might not have been obvious when all the blood flushed from my face. "Um, you see… Graargh didn't mention anything about the guard getting involved."

"The guard got involved with Graargh?" Celestia asked, craning her head down to involve herself in the conversation. "Morty, what happened?"

"Nothing should have happened!" I protested. "This is the first I'm hearing the guard got involved!"

"You turned a child into the Commander of the Cirran Legion!" Frostfall snapped. "How could you possibly think the guard wasn't going to get involved?!"

"You did what?" Celestia asked.

"Well, Celestia, I used my magic to turn Graargh into Typhoon so he could fly, because he wanted a stray cat." After a moment's pause, I decided I needed to explain the cat's absence, and added "To eat."

"You let him eat that cat?!" After that first gasp, Frostfall shook her head. "No, you know what, that's not the part of this I'm worrying about. Morty, you must think I'm really stupid if you think I don't see you're trying to pass some sort of secret message to Celestia. I may not know what it is, but that doesn't matter right now. Lady Celestia, would you like to lend me a hoof here?"

Celestia closed her eyes, drew in a breath, and shook her head. "Frostfall, you are going to be much happier if you let me handle this. I'll give you my personal assurance it won't happen again."

"But—"

"Why don't you let Morty go, head on inside, and enjoy a nice dinner with Typhoon and the family?" Celestia interrupted. "Give Hurricane my regards and my apologies for dipping out. And Gale too, for that matter. Morty and I are going to have dinner privately this evening."

Celestia's tone in delivering that final observation, letting her pink eyes pass harshly from Frostfall onto my face, sent a shiver down my spine. The condemnation similarly seemed enough to satisfy Frostfall, who gave a rather stiff bow to Celestia before turning back toward the house. She paused, only a moment, to fix me with one final harsh look of her own. "That poor cat."

Celestia waited a very long few moments for the fields outside of Hurricane's home to be completely empty of any other pony before she finally turned to me… and smiled. "Can we consider that my apology for your experience with Mrs. Aspirations?"

Celestia, I love you so much.

It was in that moment, as relief swept over me, that I realized just how thoroughly tired I felt. Perhaps it was relief, perhaps it was fatigue, or perhaps it was some combination of the events of what seemed like an interminable day, but seemingly without any input from my brain, I felt myself collapsing onto my tail on the dirt path and laughing uncontrollably. It was as much as I could do to keep my volume down.

There are certain advantages that come with millennia of age. One is to know how to react in such a situation. Instead of assuming I found the situation genuinely funny, Celestia wrapped a wing over my shoulder, leaned forward, and pressed her forehead against mine (just off-center, so that I wasn't impaled on her far-sharper-than-usual horn, nor her on mine).

"I'm here."

"I'm… heh... fine," I insisted between gasps of laughter. "I just…"

"You're exhausted, Morty. It's okay to admit it." Pulling her head back, Celestia seemed to have a sense of my own body better than I did. When the tears of trying to hold back the volume of my laughter were replaced by the salty water of a sudden sinking gloom, her wing on my back pulled me into the dense fur of her chest. Stubbornly, with the pride only the young and foolish hold onto, I resisted letting out the swarm of feelings leaking through my dam of fatigue.

But as I held on, Celestia insisted on holding me. She stayed there, as close to an emotionally supportive parent as ever I had in my life, until at last it was done. Then, taking a moment to dry out the coat around my bagged and sunken eyes with her horn, she finally released me. "I was honest with Frostfall about dinner. There's a little place I'm fond of not too far up the river from here. Join me?"

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

Dawnside was a little cafe near Everfree's western gate. It was a humble place, filled with ponies who were flabbergasted when the goddess Celestia herself, and the handsome (though sleep deprived) young stallion at her side were led to a private table in the open-air seating area behind the building. There, we were seated at a little 'booth' made of two vine-covered wooden trellises, between which were a small rectangular table and two blue cloth cushions.

Celestia had said almost nothing of note on our way over; her choice of small talk was how much Everfree had changed since she arrived, and how she had first discovered Dawnside while on a walk trying to escape the stress of an unintended entanglement in Queen Platinum's political affairs.

Therefore, I found it both surprising and refreshing when, barely moments after we were seated and provided with a glass pitcher of ice water and two tall glasses, Celestia cut directly to the chase. "I spoke to Star Swirl after you left this morning."

If that day had taught me anything, it was to be ready for yet another disappointment. I braced with a sharp intake of breath.

"What Wintershimmer did was evil, Morty. And it hurt Star Swirl. He couldn't bring himself to tell me everything, but the scars were obvious."

I grit my teeth, and put a hoof on the table to brace myself on the way to standing up.

Celestia's hoof reached across the table, coming to rest atop mine, to stop me. "But whatever damage Wintershimmer did is already done. Now, we have the chance to use that learning to help a young stallion who needs it."

"Are you saying you're going to help me?"

"Within reason, Morty, yes. I do have my limits. Which is one reason I wanted to talk to you privately." Celestia left off on that note when a waiter approached with two salads. After applying shavings of fresh cheese and a sprinkling of raspberry vinaigrette, we were quickly once more left alone.

"She didn't even ask?" I observed, looking down at what was clearly a dinner salad.

Celestia seemed almost embarrassed as she chuckled, lifting a fork in her golden magic as she did. "When you live as long as I do, it's easy to become a creature of habit. I'm enough of a regular, and I always order the same thing, that usually they don't bother asking." Then she nodded in the direction of my food. "I hadn't expected them to assume the same for you, though. If that isn't what you'd like, I'm sure I can flag somepony down."

"Well, it's fine," I answered. "Except I'm already losing sleep from my horn aching, and the last thing I need is fiddling with silverware."

Celestia calmly glanced to her fork, hovering in midair with a piece of lettuce speared on the tines. Grace defined the movement of the fork as it descended to the edge of her bowl, scraped the lettuce free, and returned to the table beside the bowl. The alicorn then lifted her napkin from the table, unfolded it, and tied it gingerly around her own neck.

I let out something like a scoff when her next action, still graceful despite its inherent lack of formality, was to lower her face into her salad bowl and take a considerable, audible bite.

Ponies around us began to murmur and pointedly avoid looking directly towards us. Celestia paid them no heed, lifting her head and dabbing at her cheeks with the corner of her napkin—making a point to hold it in her hoof instead of with magic. After enough time to chew and swallow, she offered me a sympathetic grin. "There. Now you won't need to feel embarrassed for doing it too."

Though I massaged my brow with a hoof, I could hardly argue with Celestia's logic. "Alright. You were saying?" With that prompt out of the way, I deigned to lower myself into the salad face-first.

"My limits, yes. To be clear, Morty, Star Swirl is my friend. He has been for a very long time. I disagree with him about this issue with your horn, but I still respect him, and I respect that he feels like he is doing the right thing. So I will not have any part in any kind of attack on Star Swirl to try and force him to give Wintershimmer's work."

I quickly swallowed my lettuce and followed it up with a dismissive scoff. "I know I picked a couple fights with Wintershimmer, Celestia, but I'm not stupid."

"I hadn't intended to suggest otherwise." Celestia nodded. "But you are, understandably, desperate. And for better or for worse, you did beat Wintershimmer."

"I was lucky." I briefly leaned forward to my salad, then hesitated and pulled up. "Not to say my plans weren't also incredible, but victory was hardly guaranteed. And I had a lot of advantages. I would have died in the first thirty seconds without Luna's assistance, certainly. That's to say nothing of the fact that Wintershimmer raised me, and even if he was better at all his own tricks than me, I still knew most of them. Star Swirl might be the lesser duelist, but he's also an unknown to me. And I simply don't have an answer for his omniomorphic spell. So I wouldn't even try." I chuckled. "I suspect I'm going to have to rob him."

With that thought released, I let myself enjoy another bite of what was truly a succulent salad. As I enjoyed the flavors, Celestia answered me hesitantly. "I… cannot promise that I can help with that either. At least, not directly. In all honesty, when it comes to subterfuge, I'm usually more harm than I'm worth anyway. But I will help you with learning whatever you need to pursue that goal—that is, if you'll still have me."

"That's it?" Celestia had just enough time to raise a worried brow before I clarified my question with "Of course! I'll be glad to have your help, Celestia… for whatever good I'll be as a student, without a working horn."

Celestia gave me a small smile. "There are many kinds of magic in our world, Morty, that don't require a unicorn's horn." After a moment where bites of salads overlapped and we sat in silence, chewing and enjoying the evening air, Celestia continued. "Will you forgive me for a brief lesson over dinner?"

"Forgive you? I'd welcome it."

"Alright." Celestia nodded, and then took a moment to wipe her lips of vinaigrette. "Define 'magic'."

"Something you understand, but observers don't."

My entirely serious answer got a chuckle out of Celestia. "That's a clever answer. Wait, you're serious?"

In the moment she'd taken to laugh, and then come to realization, I had taken a bit of a particularly juicy grape tomato, and so had to suffer awkward silence before answering. "Well, that was Wintershimmer's answer. But he was trying to make a point about how wizards use magic differently than your average unicorn. How in conflict, the element of surprise is more important than abstract academic understanding. The ultimate point being that the latter should serve the former, or else you wind up sitting in a classroom like Grayscale or Diadem."

"Hmm…" Celestia indulged in a sip of ice water. "Well, that's interesting. But I'd like to hear your answer, Morty."

"My answer? Huh. Well, generally, I do agree with the point Wintershimmer was making. But I also take the point that isn't the answer you're looking for."

Celestia cut me off with a stern shake of her head. "Like I told you before, Morty, I'm not looking for a specific answer. You're past the point of your studies where magic has clean-cut, hard and fast rules. The way we both learn should mirror the subject. I'm asking so we can have a conversation, not because I want to quiz you, or punish you for a wrong answer or a poorly chosen word."

"You really aren't at all like Wintershimmer…" I smiled a little and settled back in my seat. "Magic is… the art of using the controlled application of mana to violate the physical laws of the world."

Celestia nodded. "I like your choice of the word 'art'. But I do disagree with some other points. Does one have to use mana to practice magic?"

"Well, yes, I would think so… I'm struggling to come up with a counter-example at any rate. You might make an argument that an earth pony using their endura isn't actively 'practicing' magic, but they are certainly still passing mana through their hooves."

"And what about an alchemist? Or a geometer? Or an astrologer?"

"I generally wouldn't call an alchemist a 'mage'. And while a geometer—or really, any arithmancer—might achieve some incredible feats with well crafted sigils, at some point somepony still has to cast a spell with a horn. That's how Wintershimmer's portal to the Summer Lands worked, for one immediate example." I afforded myself a sip of my own water before concluding my rebuttal. "Truth be told, I don't know enough about practical astral sorcery to comment on it."

"I'll have to convince Luna to teach you some, then." Celestia shook her head. "But your point about geometry and sigils works for the moment. What would you say if I told you it was possible to produce magic with geometer's sigils without ever using your horn."

"I…" I bit back my immediate response, before being subjected to a surprisingly judgemental look from Celestia. "Honestly, my immediate thought was 'if you're that gullible, I have a snake oil elixir to sell you.' But I know I should trust you. That just violates every rule about the world Wintershimmer ever taught me; it seems… impossible?"

"Like magic?" Celestia suggested with some obvious enjoyment. "Pure sigil magic is an obscure practice, and because it's less natural to a pony's body than the arcana, empatha, and endura our three breeds are used to, it's much easier to make mistakes in a way that hurts us. So ponies usually only use that kind of arithmancy to supplement their existing magic."

"Alright." I nodded. "So supposing we remove the requirement of 'mana' from my definition, do you have any other objections?"

"Nothing else I could so directly argue against." Celestia waved a hoof as if to dismiss the thought. "It wasn't a bad answer at all, Morty. Especially given your experiences with magic."

"Maybe not." I shrugged. "But it was still wrong. Will you humor me with yours? Or is not saying a part of the lesson?"

Celestia responded with an uncaring shrug of her own shoulders. "I don't see why not; I'm sure I can trust a stallion of your pride not to just accept it blindly."

"I… suppose I should say thank you?"

"I would say magic is the art of persuading the will of the universe to see the world through your eyes."

"Surely you aren't suggesting there's a single, cohesive intelligence behind the universe." After a moment of silence as Celestia (midway through a bite of salad) failed to reply, I pressed "I mean, most ponies would argue that if there were such an omnipotent god, it would be you."

That comment earned me a flat huff through Celestia's nostrils, followed by a heavy bob of her throat as her salad vanished. "Some ponies would say that, yes. But you know better, so please don't. No, Morty, I'm not claiming there's actually some sort of single willpower in our world. It's just a metaphor for things like the natural laws you mentioned in your definition, but also subtler things—things you could do without magic, but might choose to do with magic because they are more convenient, like growing a healthy garden or climbing a mountain."

"I see." I nodded. "You prefer the metaphor to more academic terms?"

"In my experience, any understanding of magic—or the rest of the world, for that matter—that limits itself to strict, black and white terms is always going to be incomplete. But with magic especially, including some metaphor and some nuance is very much intentional, because magic itself is that way. To take another example… well, no, you've likely never had any experience with chaos magic. Perhaps Wintershimmer taught you about the fey, though?"

"Quite a bit," I admitted. "I've… had some experience with the effects of fey contracts."

"Well, that's a perfect example," Celstia agreed. "Fey don't have horns, they don't use mana, but they're still inherently magical creatures. Their words, their understanding of language, have their own form of magic that's every bit as capable of changing the world's mind as ours."

"Point taken." I nodded. "So… is your point for me to start learning fey magic, so that I can do things without my horn?"

Celestia shook her head. "Since you're already working on learning to read, and you've already shown you know the basics of using glyphs to support your own magic, I think a study of runic magic would be a better place for us to start. It's certainly slower and more subtle than what you're used to using, but I'm confident with your creativity, you should be able to find ways to use it in lieu of your horn in no time."

"Wait…" I couldn't help but cock my head. "You're telling me you can do magic with a glyph and not use any mana from your horn? Not just a stabilizing glyph like I sometimes use for seances; actual, honest-to-goodness independent magic just from the shapes you draw?"

"Well, after a sense," Celestia offered with a nod. "There's magical potential in everything, Morty. Water. The stars. Imagination. Stories. Even the air we breathe. Glyphs and runes are better thought of as ways of converting magical potential into magical, um, we'll say effects. Spells, if you will. You can put magical energy into a glyph any number of ways—whether it be the mana from your horn when you seance, or latent energy from one of the world's leylines, or music—"

"Or blood?" I suggested.

Celestia winced, but nodded. "That… isn't where I would immediately jump, but yes, I suppose so. Blood is how mana moves through the equine body, and—Morty, what are you doing?"

What I was doing was leaning over past the trellis separating us from the next table, where a pegasus and a unicorn on a date were having their dinner removed by a waiter and replaced with slices of a thick honey cake. Since the pegasus of the pair wasn't using her rather fierce looking steak knife any longer, I proceeded to borrow it with a nod to the waiter.

Apparently, this was not an especially normal thing to do in a restaurant, as not only the waiter but both romantics turned to stare at Celestia and I. Completely unaware of the audience, I winced and lit up my horn—not flaring for any fancy magic, but just applying the telekinetic grip necessary to handle the knife, like a quill or chalk or other instrument of runecraft, with any kind of dexterity. As I lifted the blade, I used a hoof to flip back our plain white tablecloth and expose the wood grain of the raw table beneath. And then, without further ado, I began to carve.

"Morty!" Celestia chided. "You can't just—"

"Shh!" I interrupted. "I've got to get the formula right."

"Sir, I must insist you stop!" said the waiter. "Lady Celestia, I apologize for cutting in, but if your companion does not cease vandalizing our tables, I'll have to ask him to leave."

"Why do you care?" I asked as I finished off the outer circle of my quick (and rather dirty) work. "It's not like it's an expensive table."

"How dare you?!" The waiter announced with a gasp.

"I'll buy the table if it makes you feel better," I snapped back without really caring; in the time of that exchange, I had finished my inner sigil. It was a silly symbol, really; one Wintershimmer had taught me to teach the basic idea of a stabilizing glyph, rather than for any practical purpose outside of manual construction. But for my purposes, a stabilizing glyph for basic telekinesis would more than suffice. Now all I needed was the mana. Lifting the knife from the table, I briefly licked the flat of the blade to clean off the sawdust, making both Celestia and the waiter wince back—not that I actually cut my tongue. They had just enough time to relax in the assurance I wasn't worried before I turned the blade to the upraised frog of my front left hoof.

"Morty, you can't just stab yourself in a restaurant!" Celestia objected, though the statement was already factually false by the time she finished it.

Behind me, the unicorn romantic gasped as I grit my teeth from yet another pain, but smeared my now bloodied hoof over the carved-up table.

To my joy and astonishment, amidst the red smear, the blue light of my own magic began to emanate from the symbol I had carved. And when I placed the knife over the sigil, it hovered freely in midair, blade up, dripping my blood down it's edge like a grisly trophy.

"How long will that last?" I asked.

Celestia frowned. "Morty, I don't think that's the question you should be asking right now."

Her chiding tone brought me down from my feeling of triumph, and I answered her with perhaps more dismissal in my voice than necessary. "Or what? This is life-or-death for me. For him it's, what, having to walk down the street and buy a new table?" I didn't wait for Celestia to answer; instead, I turned to the waiter, reached into my jacket's breast with my non-bloodied hoof, and retrieved one of the smaller promissory notes from Queen Platinum. "Here. Courtesy of the hero of Platinum's Landing."

"Morty!" Celestia outright snapped, before turning to the waiter herself. "Sir, I'm so sorry—"

"It's really not a problem, Lady Celestia," said the waiter, frantically pocketing the paper I had just handed over and smiling about six-hundred bits more generously than the situation called for. "Please, do enjoy the rest of your evening." And then, frantically, the stallion darted away.

Celestia let her wings droop on her back. "I'm disappointed, Morty. You can't just bribe all your problems away."

"Would it be in bad taste to observe that it's worked every time I've tried it so far?" I asked flatly. When Celestia closed her eyes, I decided a deeper hole was better, and added "If you'd prefer, I could take a page out of Wintershimmer's book and threaten murder every time somepony inconvenienced me."

"I see between your day's struggles and your lack of sleep there's no point trying to teach anything more today." Celestia fixed me with a harsh look. "Let me be clear, Morty: I don't want you draining your own blood trying to accomplish the same magic you could with your horn. Even if you don't immediately kill yourself, bloodletting is dangerous, and can have serious long-term side effects."

"I'm aware," I told Celestia. "There's a reason most famous hemomancers used other ponies' blood to augment their magic. Queen Maiden, Lord Impala, Count Dragonson..."

"Do I actually need to tell you—?"

"No," I interrupted. "I'm not going to kill anypony for their blood. I'm not a monster, Celestia."

"And I'm very glad for that." The alicorn let out a prolonged sigh as she searched for words. "The next time we're able to get together, after we talk about this evening, I'll teach you some other, less dangerous sources of magical potential—and while we're at it, perhaps some more nuance for your runes and glyphs."

"That sounds like an excellent place to start." I tilted my head back to stare blankly up at the ceiling as I thought through my obligations. "I'm busy three mornings a week with Diadem, and I'm occupied tomorrow evening, since Hurricane asked me to take Blizzard out so she can experience Everfree. But the following evening I should be free."

"I'm looking forward to it already," Celestia concurred, rather less than enthusiastically. "Until then, is there anything I can help you with?"

It took me a few moments of thought to consider that question, and more importantly, how bold I wanted to be in pushing my other objectives.

For the first time since his appearance that morning, the figment of Wintershimmer in my mind made himself known—not by appearing to my eyes, but with just an unmistakable whisper in my ear. "Celestia is offering you aid. Do you really have time to hesitate?"

And, as usual (though I detested it), that voice was the voice of reason. Steeling myself for a lie by omission, I met the goddess' gaze. "Well, if it isn't too much trouble, do you know where I could buy a ponyquin?" When Celestia raised a brow, I matched it with a hoof. "That's, uh, actually the easier of two requests."

"Very well. I promised I would help you. Yes, there's a shop that does my dresses when I do balls not too far up the road here; I'll show you when we're done eating. But now I'm a little bit worried. What's the second request?"

I took that moment to pick up my water glass between my hooves, drain it completely, and then somewhat awkwardly toss the ice cubes leftover into a patch of nearby lawn. The glass now empty, I placed it back on the table, and slid it over to Celestia. "Is it too much to ask for you to fill that with your blood? Since you promised?"

5-3

V - III

The Predecessor

If you, reader, happen to be a student of our divine monarch, you may not need any supporting evidence for the claim that I am about to make. But for those who haven't had the experience of Celestia's tutelage, I must once again ask you to trust me, because I am aware that what I am about to say sounds insane.

Celestia indulged me.

That is, in response to my observation that she had promised to help me, Celestia calmly took hold of my levitating steak knife, and—with rather less pomp and ritual than this wording would otherwise suggest—stabbed herself.

As the bleeding frog of her own hoof (stabbed rather quite a bit more deeply than my own) dripped into the offered drinking glass, Celestia smiled across the table in a way that was no more cheerful and friendly than any other of her smiles, but which in context put the fear of the gods in me. "This should give you enough to experiment in your own free time until we're able to get together again, Morty. But please try to be frugal with it."

"I… Yes, I'll be careful." I swallowed.

"Something wrong?"

"I didn't expect you to agree so, um, enthusiastically?"

Celestia leaned back in her chair and masked a laugh with the feathers of an enormous white wing. "Well, Morty, if we're being honest we both know you couldn't stop using magic if you tried. And giving you a little bit of my blood really doesn't hurt me. I have a lot more to give than most ponies, after all." A seriousness slipped into Celestia's expression, then. "But let's not make a habit of this, okay?"

I nodded solemnly.

I'll spare you the remainder of our interactions as briefly as possible, because nothing of particular note followed. Instead, once her wound was closed (which, thanks to her earth pony magic, took a markedly miniscule amount of time), she assisted me in transporting the open-topped glass home. She was even kind enough to stop on the way with me, and to carry the wooden ponyquin I purchased, all the way back to my home. There, I reunited with Angel, said my brief goodbyes to Celestia, and promised at her pointed request that I get some sleep.

That, however, was a lie.

The house's door closed itself behind Celestia, leaving Angel and I alone in what had once been Solemn Vow's foyer; our only company was an inanimate (for the moment) ponyquin of polished wood.

"Master Coil, I fetched the candlecorns as you requested." Angel followed up those words with what I will call a disgusted half-shiver half-croak. "I will request that you not make me possess one of those bodies again unless it is absolutely necessary. I believe I already mentioned the long-term discomfort occupying one entails, and now I fear I am getting some sort of wax building up in the cracks of my new gem. Should I take it that we're making more golems to attend to the upkeep of this home, or—"

"Angel, please." I waved my hoof in the air frantically as I realized a building twinge just above and behind my right eye was likely stemming from the artificial sound of his voice.

"Another headache, sir? Did you use your horn again?"

I grit my teeth for a moment, and then snapped. "Shut up, Angel." When the golem meekly shrunk away, hovering about a foot closer to the ground, I sighed in regret. "I'm sorry. It's the noise. No, I haven't used my horn. I just need to sleep."

"Like you promised Mistress Celestia?" Angel prompted.

"Yes," I agreed. "But I have one more thing I need to do first. And… actually, before I do that: you said something about a new gem?"

"You will recall, sir, that my old one was shattered in our battle with Wintershimmer." Angel's volume was far quieter, so much so that I had to perk my ears forward to hear him. "While you were recovering, Mistress Diadem and Archmage Grayscale were willing to help me create a new one. That process was the subject of several of the lectures I attended at their college while—"

"I get the point," I interrupted. "Can you carry that glass of blood?"

"Certainly," Angel agreed, pinching it between his halos with more deftness than a floating rock with two metal rings would be expected to exhibit. "Where shall I bring it?"

Midway through hefting the ponyquin onto my back, I paused at the question. "Where do you think it will be easiest to clean up if we make a mess?"

"The kitchen it is, sir," Angel 'nodded' (bobbing his rock inside the orbit of his halos). "Shall I lead the way, or do you recall from our prior escapade?"

"Go ahead."

"Very good, Master Coil." Floating along with the glass of ichor, Angel seemed altogether giddy with himself. "It is good to be doing magic with you again, without the risk of imminent violent death. Are we making a new golem? And if so, one like me, or something simpler?"

"We're making a golem body," I explained tersely. "A… actually, I'm curious: how much do you remember from Wintershimmer's lessons, now that you're smarter?"

"Hmm," said Angel, lacking the vocal chords or lungs or lips to make such a noise the usual way. "A 'golem' is made up of two parts: the corpus, or body—hence why it sounds like 'corpse'?" I nodded, but didn't offer any words to interrupt the thought. "The other part is the animus, the spirit of the golem, that understands orders and controls the body."

"Correct," I observed as Angel turned into the kitchen's doorway. "So to actually answer your question, no; we aren't making a whole golem. We're making a corpus out of this ponyquin, but we're not making an animus to put into it."

"It isn't for me, is it?" Angel asked. "I'm quite content in this form, as in-equine as it may be."

"No, Angel, it isn't for you. Even though our corpus isn't a literal corpse, what we're making is, technically, an undead."

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

A transparent burnt orange stallion appeared suddenly on a black and white checkerboard marble floor that had once been his own kitchen. There hadn't been any warning—not that there usually was, when a dead pony was seanced—but more importantly, he hadn't been expecting such a summons for days to come. Nevertheless, he took that surprise in stride… if only because another, far more pressing surprise was awaiting him.

"Hello, Vow; I'll be with you in a moment, but I want to stabilize the seance so I can let my horn rest, and—"

"Dear gods, what happened?! Are you hurt?"

With the benefit of retrospect, Vow's exclamation was completely justified. After all, in his defense, the floor of the kitchen, my hooves, and indeed my face were all rather soaked in blood. However, with my horn actively aching from the seance I was holding, my previously mentioned lack of sleep, and a growing impatience to be done committing what was arguably a crime so bad nopony had dared to give it a name, I was less than inclined to see things from his perspective.

For those curious, being the inventor and thus having the right of naming, I coin my actions 'retropsychopompery'; that is, the act of un-judging a soul for their life's sins, and subsequently removing them from their assigned reward or, more pertinently, punishment.

In the moment, I didn't even look up from smearing blood in wide geometric arcs over the kitchen floor. "There's no need to shout, Vow," I snapped.

"Master Coil, you are covered in blood." That tinny, synthetic voice belonged to Angel, hovering above a small island, not far from a hanging set of hammered copper pans. "It is a justifiable concern."

"Fine." I rolled my eyes. "It's not a big deal, Vow; it isn't mine."

"I didn't take you for a murderer, Morty," Vow muttered in what I assume was good humor.

Finally, frustrated that the conversation hadn't stopped, I threw back my head to glare at him. "Nopony died. It's Celestia's blood."

"You stabbed the goddess Celestia?!" Vow winced. "Golem—forgive me, your name is escaping me—you get why that's worse, right?"

"Master Coil assures me that Lady Celestia stabbed herself," Angel offered in reply. "And my name is Angel. Though I can hardly blame you; it has been some time since our escapades dealing with Wintershimmer." Angel then hovered over to the condemned soul's side. "Master Coil is short-tempered at present, and I suspect in some physical pain from using his horn. You may wish not to aggravate him, sir, as he does hold your existence in his hooves. Metaphorically speaking, of course."

"Ah." In a much quieter tone, Vow offered "My sincerest apologies."

"It's fine," I grumbled. "You're anxious about whether you get to be alive again or if I'm going to disperse you, and here I am drawing stabilizing glyphs…" When the seven pointed star of Celestia's blood was done and pale blue and brilliant golden light (the colors of my and Celestia's auras) began to radiate from the dark red symbol, I finally let my aching horn rest, flopped back on my flanks, and breathed a sigh of relief. "No point keeping you in suspense. Yes, I'm going to employ your services. That ponyquin over there in the corner will be your body for now." Vow's expression brightened instantly, but I gave him no chance to even thank me, as I walked over to the ponyquin and placed my horn directly against it.

The act of binding a soul to a prepared body of any kind is less dramatic than the moral implications of the act would suggest. There was a minor slurp, and a pop, and then the ponyquin—now Vow—began to flail his wooden legs, not yet realizing that he needed to step up off of the metal pole impaling his belly that would have kept him upright if he weren't animate. Still, for such a disorienting experience, Vow took to it quickly; in only a few moments, his blank wooden face was 'looking' between Angel and I. "Well," he said (slightly unnerving for his lack of a mouth), still possessing the same voice his soul had used just a moment earlier. "There certainly aren't words to express the magnitude of my gratitude, but I do feel I need to say something. Thank you, Morty."

"You're welcome," I offered, stepping back to give Vow some room to test his new limbs. "Did Wintershimmer teach you his procedure for transplanting a horn onto a new pony's body?"

Vow's wooden brow rose with slightly more elasticity than should have been possible from the material, at least without the aid of my magic; then he shook his head. "That was before my time, unfortunately. I hope that doesn't change your answer about employing my services—"

"If it did, I would have asked before I went through the trouble to build that body," I told him, waving away his worries with a (blood-stained) hoof, and then making the matter far worse by massaging my temple to try and ease the ache in my brow. "It just changes what I need from you."

"Why do you need a new horn?" Vow asked. "I assume you're intending it for yourself, anyway, given the headaches you mentioned the last time we spoke."

"I contracted the Scourge of Kings."

Vow didn't have words to respond to that, but if he had lungs, I'm sure I would have heard the wind pass his lips. "You… I'm so sorry, Morty."

"It's fine." I lied. "I don't intend to die from it. That's why you're here, after all. But since you don't know what we need, our first order of business is stealing Wintershimmer's notes back from Star Swirl."

This time, Vow's response was to wince. "You want to rob Star Swirl the Bearded?"

"I much prefer that option to murdering him, since those seem to be the two options he has given me." When Vow again seemed to recoil from the suggestion, a cruel part of my mind (perhaps the part inhabited by Wintershimmer) felt it a good time to push my point. "But if it does come to assassination, I trust I've chosen the most experienced stallion for the job regardless."

Angel rotated fiercely in place. "Master Coil! If I may be so bold, there's no call for such a comment."

I shot Angel a glare, but it was Vow who spoke up. "Though I don't intend to be that stallion again unless it is absolutely necessary, Morty is right, Angel."

"I'm not saying he's wrong, Mr. Vow. Only that Master Coil is choosing words with barbs when I know he is perfectly capable of speaking more kindly."

Lest anypony not follow, Angel was right—however Vow had interpreted my comment, I had called to mind Vow's past to jab at him for the perceived slight of wasting my already fraying patience. Naturally, as I had for the entire day, rather than recognizing Angel's point, I turned my frustrations on him.

"Your part of this is done, Angel, and I'm getting tired of your voice." I turned to Vow and nodded. "This will be a bit unusual—what am I doing wasting time warning you? You've been bound to a golem before."

"So I have," Vow agreed. "Though Wintershimmer didn't exactly give me any directions. Nevertheless, I did study the art with him when I was your age, so I trust you won't have to hold my hoof through it too much. Did you use Sanguine's Somber Assurance in my binding matrix, or should I be avoiding water?"

"Did I—you honestly think I can sneak your soul out of Tartarus without Celestia and Luna noticing, but I wouldn't have made the glyphs waterproof? What kind of an idiot do you take me for?"

"I'm sorry; I was only trying to get information, and—"

"Look, right now, I don't care. You're here to help me get a new horn, and I'm not…" My words trailed off as a candlecorn walked into the kitchen, despite my having issued no such order to the terrifyingly powerful wax golems. I had just enough time turn away from my irate rant at Vow and look directly at it before the eternally lit candle on its brow flared into golden life, and a blast of magic shot straight into my face.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

"Hmm…" I muttered, as the light tickled my eyelids. "Another five minutes." I rolled over, tugging my luxurious satin sheets up onto my muzzle so that the bunched up wad around my hoof would block the light, and nuzzled into a similarly soft, lavender-scented pillow. The smell eased me back to rest.

At least, until my mind caught up with my senses.

At which point, I bolted upright in bed.

The bed in which I had been surprised to find myself resting was not quite as massive as Celestia's (presumably custom) resting place, but it was the ancient equivalent of what a more modern reader in an era of increasing standardization might comfortably call 'king-sized'. Its scarlet bedding stood as a splash of central color in a space otherwise filled with darkly stained wood furnishings—end tables, a dresser, a full wardrobe, and more muted red cloth upholstery covering a high-backed armchair, a pile of sitting cushions, the drapes around the room's sole window. It was those last pieces of fabric which had failed to let me sleep; though drawn, they were just parted enough that a ray of light had snuck through to catch me squarely in the brow.

After a moment's more investigation, and perhaps a bit more than a moment dedicated to memory, I discovered that I was no longer stained in Celestia's blood, nor even clad in my enchanted jacket. And perhaps most intriguing of all, the scent of lavender was not the product of scented pillows, but my own coat and mane having been treated with some sort of cologne or shampoo.

Disturbing as that surprise was, I had to admit, I felt quite nice as I pulled myself out from under the covers. There was a sleekness to my coat that I hadn't felt in earnest in… well, if ever, certainly not since I had left the Crystal Union some months prior. If anything, the last time I could remember such a feeling was when Wintershimmer had taken me to the Yakish hot springs north of even the Union's borders.

And then it all came rushing back to me. "Wintershimmer!" I snapped.

The irate figment of my imagination quite literally swirled into being before me, choosing to appear leaning beside the window. "What do you want, Coil? I don't have any more information than you do about how you got here. Not that it should be hard to deduce with a moment's thought."

"You tried to kill me!"

"Yes, Coil, weeks ago. And 'I' lost. And died. At the risk of being 'quippy', get over it."

"Not then! Now! The candlecorn!"

Imaginary Wintershimmer stared at me and actually blinked twice in disbelief before shaking his head. "I'm not going to dignify that idiocy with a rebuttal, Coil."

"You left some orders in the candlecorn! Some eventuality—"

"To stun you, and then tuck you comfortably into bed?" The old wizard scoffed. "Replete with new pillows and sheets? Not only is your continued breathing evidence to the contrary, but the real Wintershimmer would have surely guessed his crimes would see his soul dispersed if he failed, and at that point, why bother on trying to inconvenience you with further plans? He, or rather I, since you seem so disinclined to differentiate, was not exactly the blindly vengeful sort in life." With a derisive snort, Wintershimmer turned to the window as if to amuse himself with a view of the street outside. "Go have a tea, or better yet, breakfast. Then, perhaps, your brain will receive some much needed bloodflow. I refuse to believe I trained such an imbecile."

"How else could I have been attacked? Vow doesn't have a horn!"

"Ah, I see." Wintershimmer shook his head dismissively as he walked over to my side. "You're perceiving an attack, and it's blinding you to reality. Coil, it was the golem."

"Angel?"

"The very same. You will recall that in Lubuck, when he took possession of one of the candlecorns while they were ostensibly under the control of your inept would-be-lover, he was able to use its 'horn', however crudely. And he observed on more than one occasion that your lack of sleep and your stubborn emotional refusal to embrace its necessity were compromising not only your composure, but your judgement. Which, I will observe, were fair and accurate assessments. Your churlishness was unbecoming of a wizard. Given you weren't subsequently killed, it seems likely your Guardian Angel was taking his name literally."

I growled a bit in frustration. "I ought to have a word with Angel."

"You ought to thank him. And, more importantly, you should vow to be better in the future. Perhaps the stallion named for that verb can assist you in that endeavor. Good day, Coil." With that curt finishing thought, the figment of Wintershimmer faded away into nothing, leaving me to find my own way after Vow and Angel.

The bedroom had three doors; two led to a bathroom and a closet (the latter disappointingly devoid of my jacket), both equalling the luxury and opulence of the bedroom's furnishings. The third, mercifully, led me out into the rest of the house and reaffirmed what I had already guessed—that I was in my own master bedroom.

From the upper hallway, I was guided not by sound or sight or even reasoning, but smell; the delectable scent of baking guided me down the hall until it opened onto the interior balcony of the house's grand main hall, just above the similarly grand piano. But what a difference I observed in that central room! There wasn't a trace of dust anywhere to be seen in the long-abandoned chamber. And furthermore, somepony had added furnishings I hadn't seen before—mostly wooden tables and chairs (some notably devoid of cushions). But the biggest changes were a dazzlingly ornate trio of crystal chandeliers, reflecting the floating magical lights to make the room all the brighter and subtly more colorful.

The only sign that remained to suggest the house had ever been abandoned in the first place was the massive framed portrait up on the wall of the balcony beside me, looking down on the twin staircases and the grand piano between them. I hadn't paid it much mind before, given it was just another abandoned piece of the room, covered in a plain dull sheet with only a small corner visible. But the fact it still hung mostly concealed caught my attention that morning. I had to assume it was just an ornate portrait of Vow, given the sliver of the painting that was visible depicted fur of roughly his orange color, and the sleeve of a jacket very much like my own.

Still, compared to the smell that had drawn me forth in the first place, I wasn't that curious about a leftover painting. Following my nose, I headed down to the entryway, and then toward the kitchen, and with every step the smell got stronger. And finally, my hoof clicked on the black and white tiles of the kitchen floor.

"Oh, Morty!" Solemn Vow was wearing my jacket—or no, I realized a moment later, one very similar but in a slightly different cut—atop his polished wooden body. The jacket in turn was covered by a white apron emblazoned with a series of sigils that…

Look, I should apologize; explaining this joke will probably ruin it. But given putting the actual sigils in an already extensively enchanted tome purely for the sake of a joke would be a terrible idea, I'm left with no choice but to explain it. Or, at least, to summarize. So I'll include the explanation as a footnote at the end of this chapter; I promise, you aren't missing anything other than the reason I broke out laughing as Vow turned away from a sizzling enchanted griddle.

"Well, you seem in better spirits this morning." It took the resurrected insurrectionist a moment to realize I was amused at his apron, and then he shared a small chuckle. "Oh, I forgot I had that stitched on. Twenty years in Tartarus isn't kind to memory of the little things. Crepe?"

"You made crepes?" I asked.

Vow chuckled with distinct self-satisfaction. "You'd be surprised the practical skills you can pick up once you get past… well, Wintershimmer." Vow then demonstrated the terrible facility of my own golemcraft by opening a mouth that the ponyquin which was his body didn't actually possess (the wood not cracking or peeling, but instead separating smoothly rather like flesh). Picking up the pan from the stove between his featureless 'lips', he indicated to a door on the far side of the kitchen. "I'm afraid you'll have to do all the eating, though."

I discovered that the door from the kitchen was a side door into an elaborate dining room. Much like the rest of the chambers I had found my way into that morning, there was no sign that the room had gone completely abandoned for the better part of twenty years.

"You cleaned all of this? Since last night?"

Vow nodded. "Angel and I. We don't sleep, we don't eat, and as you can observe, we can both talk with our mouths full."

"Or halos in his case. Thank you, though."

"Oh, it was nothing. I know it's your house now, but… there's a part of me that still takes pride in it being tidy and maintained. Especially given you'll be wanting to start hosting with it shortly." Vow led me over to the head of the table, where a basic set of silverware, two beautiful white plates stacked atop one-another, a sugar bowl, and a glass of what appeared to be lemon juice had already been set out. There, he enthusiastically piled no fewer than six crepes from the pan in his teeth—stopping between each to dust the top of the pile with lemon juice from the cup and sugar from the sugar bowl—before finally stepping back and pulling out a chair for me. "I should mention, I took the liberty of borrowing a few of those promissory notes from your jacket. We needed to pick up a few cleaning supplies and of course some foodstuffs for you. And the linens, you likely noticed."

"You went shopping looking like that?" I asked. "In the middle of the night?"

Vow turned his featureless head as if looking away sheepishly. "I wore this old jacket to look just a bit more believably equine—obviously not the apron, though. Between that and Angel hovering at my shoulder, we got some odd looks, but nopony was brave enough to ask. I'm just glad the gray market is still open after all these years."

"The gray market?"

Vow made an amusingly musical note when he tried to massage his wooden temple with his wooden hoof. "Morty, please sit down and eat. The crepes are getting cold." I indulged the dead stallion, and found myself quite surprised when he took the liberty of pushing my chair in as soon as I'd sat down. "There we go. Now, to answer your curiosity. Officially, it's the Floodwater Night Market." I didn't have to speak, but a raised brow suggested my confusion all the same. "Floodwater is one of Everfree's districts. And clearly, I have a lot to teach you. Will you forgive me for being extremely blunt?"

Hesitantly, I nodded.

Vow replied by pulling a chair out from the table and collapsing his wooden body into it in a way that at once seemed completely natural to him, but could not possibly have been comfortable for an organic body—that is, with not just his tail but his entire spine aligned with the back of the seat. "I made those for you for two reasons. Well, three, if I'm being honest with myself. The selfish personal one is I wanted to see if I still remembered how to make a mean crepe after twenty years in Tartarus—and I think you'll agree my skills are still sharp." Vow looked down at the plate, and then up at me (tilting his whole head, since he lacked the eyes to show nuance). "Please, eat!"

I intuitively tilted my head toward a fork, but when the first sparkle of magic on my horn left me with a painful twinge, I recoiled. Then, with some trepidation (feeling very much like Vow was judging me with his lack of eyes) I repeated the process from my dinner the previous night with Celestia, lowering my head to eat with my mouth.

"Note to self; I need to teach you how to use silverware like an earth pony." When I looked up to Vow's blank face, he dismissively waved a hoof. "Go on, eat. You won't offend me. Like I said, I take pride in my cooking. I'd be much less happy if they went to waste. And you need energy for your day—which is the second of my reasons for making those crepes for you."

I lifted my head, and though the lemon juice and sugar were a delicious combination on the delicate pancake's texture, I forced myself to swallow so I could politely find words. "And the third?"

"So you would shut up and let me talk without interruption for three seconds." When I winced, Vow chuckled. "I did ask for permission to be blunt. Now, keep eating. And actually savor the food for a second. The reason I want to be able to talk at length is that while you were sleeping off Angel's stunning spell, while we were cleaning, he and I got to talk at length about your situation. So rather than having you explain everything you're dealing with, we can skip to the strategy of how I can help you. Sound good?"

I nodded. This seemed to please the wooden stallion greatly, though he only conveyed it through the orientation of his head on his shoulders, and a slight ripple on the wood of his cheek that suggested the tightening of the corner of lips.

"Reducing what Angel told me to a few useful points: you want to marry Queen Platinum III. By the way, I'm a bit unhappy you failed to mention that when you introduced me to Gale a few days ago. I would have liked to give her a bit more of the respect her burden deserves."

I sighed, and swallowed another bite of my breakfast. "She prefers ponies to judge her for who she is first. She didn't tell me she was the princess until we'd been traveling together for weeks."

"Food," Vow chided, prompting me to give him a sharp scowl.. "But point taken. In any case, the primary oppositions to that goal are that you aren't a noble, that Queen… 'Gale'... has several other suitors in competition with you, and that Queen Platinum the elder actively loathes you. Is that a fair summary?"

I nodded.

"Excellent. The second point I'm not completely certain about, mostly because by Angel's own admission he was guessing about something you haven't openly stated. Would it be accurate to say you would like to support Her Majesty's rule? And that your pursuit of her hoof in marriage shouldn't sabotage her rule?"

I finished the next bit and simply answered "Yes."

"Very good. That makes the first objective more complicated, but I'm confident we can arrange for both. The question is how much trouble Gale is going to get herself into." With that explanation, Vow reached his head past the side of his apron, into the breast of a jacket very much like my own, where he produced a tightly folded newspaper. It produced quite a slap with a gavel-like finality when it hit the dining table. "It seems Her Majesty inherited her political theory from Hurricane, and not the Queen-Mother. That's not an insurmountable problem, but it is substantial. So let me be clear: if we want to pursue these first two objectives simultaneously, you're going to have to get Gale here so that we can synchronize a strategy. If she isn't moving in tandem with us, I suspect that your romantic objectives and her success will be mutually exclusive. At least, without using my old tactics. I'm assuming those are off the table."

That time, he happened to have caught me in the space between bites. "Absolutely!" I almost snapped. "I'm a hero, Vow!"

Despite not actually having eyebrows or a skull, Vow managed to arch the vague ridge above where his eyes would have been. And it was not an insubstantial rise. "You say that with a straight face? About yourself? Well, this might be easier than I was fearing."

"Easier?"

"Crepes," Vow snapped, before quickly relaxing back against his seat again. "Third objective: don't die to the Scourge of Kings. This one you expressed yourself, but Angel did add some color. I'll take the liberty of observing this: your long term goal is to steal back your notes from Star Swirl. But in the shorter term, there are other ways we can pursue making sure you can cast at least some magic. You've demonstrated some skill with hemomancy, which is certainly one path."

I raised a hoof, midway through a bite, and there Vow willingly held his (lack of a) tongue to wait for my thought. Once I had finished, I steepled my hooves and smiled. "Celestia and I are going to focus our studies on alternate forms of magic, so I'm already pursuing that path."

"Ah, yes, studying with Celestia." Vow nodded. "Angel didn't know your particular… curriculum, so that's good to know. Regardless, there is another path worth observing. Namely, that you're in possession of two candlecorns."

"Yes, but I don't actually know how to use them." I rolled my eyes. "I mean, I know how to get a golem with the artificial animus bindings to use a candlecorn horn. Angel proved that last night plenty well."

"At the risk of getting on the wrong side of your mood, I would say he was right. You clearly needed a night's sleep. Fortunately, a candlecorn also gives you a mechanism for skipping out on sleep, assuming we can get your soul into one without needing you to light your horn every night. If we set up some sort of hemomantic glyph to arrange that transfer, you can get eight more hours in every day than anypony else. Though I know that's a rather big ask. That also means you and I can work together on your objectives without my needing to compete with your studies with Celestia, or your social obligations with Gale or whoever else we need you spending time with."

"That's all well and good," I agreed. "And actually, the blood magic glyph to transfer my soul would basically just require me to inscribe the Razor as a glyph."

"'The Razor'?"

I emulated my best Wintershimmer voice. "Do you feel that on the back of your neck?" I quickly dropped the parody. "Much like the logical razor suggests the right answer is the simplest solution, Wintershimmer's Razor is the absolute simplest solution to most conflicts. But all that is beside the point; I don't know how to get a real pony's soul to connect to a candlecorn."

Vow's mouth came into existence solely to smile. "Fortunately, Morty, I do."

"You do?!" Ecstatic at the thought, I hardly noticed I had leaned forward and pressed my hooves onto the dining table until my belly suddenly felt wet. It took a moment to realize I had leaned into the lemon juice and sugar atop my crepes.

That earned me a small frown, though it faded quickly. "Wintershimmer had invented the candlecorns long before I became his student, but he was still perfecting them when I was his apprentice. I'll teach you later. But to whet your appetite: when you're binding a soul to a substance that's liquid in nature, instead of moving the nodes of the soul into physical space, you actually move a limited quantity of the liquid into the between. It's tricky translocation, but because liquids don't have a defined shape—"

"—you can express their existence without needing to conceptualize form!" I clapped my hooves together without even thinking about it. Honestly, if you aren't a wizard, reader, you're just going to have to take my word that this was a rivetingly thrilling realization. It was the sort of encompassing joy that comes only from the serendipity of a perfect eureka moment. And for a young wizard, it was bliss.

Vow smiled. "I'm glad I can at least begin to repay what you've done for me, Morty. Now, though, we need to talk about your first two objectives. That means I'm going to have to talk a good bit about politics. So I suggest you keep your mouth full, because if what Angel said about the actions you've taken so far is true, you have exactly nothing of value to add." He proved especially clever with the timing of that observation; though I took some offense, with my mouth full of another bite of my breakfast I could do little more than let out an offended growl—a noise which, by design, he promptly ignored.

"I don't blame you for not knowing anything about dealing with other ponies. I certainly didn't when I left Wintershimmer. But when I came to Equestria, I learned everything I could from every book I could find about dealing with ponies before I tried to actually make any kind of move. You've already gone past that point. And since you're already on Queen Platinum's—that is, the elder Queen Platinum's bad side, you're going to have to trust me to teach you what you need to know. I'm assuming you're okay with that, since you took me up on my offer; I just want to make that clear before we continue."

I gave Vow a nod.

"Good. Now, becoming Prince-Consort would be easy if you didn't mind damaging Her Majesty's legitimacy to do it. Frankly, it's in her rightful power to force the issue and just state that's what's going to happen. I doubt anypony could actually stop her. However, at least if what I read in this morning's paper is to be believed, that would probably cripple her rule forever. So what we're actually looking for isn't eliminating the other suitors you're ostensibly competing with. Even if you somehow become the last stallion standing, you still won't be a good option as you are now. What we need is to create a plausible excuse. And the most basic part of that is getting you a noble title." The way Vow's tone conveyed that goal made it sound as if what he had proposed was trivial.

My wince, and my subsequent awkwardly forced swallow made my objection quite obvious. "Vow, I'm a half-crystal bastard. And I don't even know my dad's name."

"Fantastic," Vow answered—and because text does a poor job of conveying this fact I should clarify: he sounded quite genuine.

"How—?"

"Because," he cut me off, "that means we get to pick. I'll get an updated copy of Twerp's Peerage and see if there's anypony we can lean on. But that's not something we need to act on immediately. The only risk is… is your mother still alive?"

"Regrettably," I answered.

"Regrettably enough that you'd be willing to tie off that loose end?" I glared at Vow, but I confess it was a less stringent look than my prior condemnations. For the trouble, I got him to defensively raise his hooves. "I thought my 'hero' might make an exception for a barbarian—I'm just assuming, of course, but there weren't exactly many happy crystal-unicorn couples when I was living in the spire."

"It's a lot better now, under Jade. But you're right about my parents not being… well, you know."

"Indeed I do. Which I suppose raises another point; we're going to need to find your real father's name; you may not know him, but we don't know whether the inverse is also true. Until we do, we can't safely make a move with an assumed noble title. In any case, I'll handle genealogy, since there's nothing you can add there. But for the time being, we should plan assuming you're going to have to justify Her Majesty assigning you a title on the basis of merit, and in a way that won't harm her relationship with the Stable as it currently stands.

"The way I see it, that involves a few… shall we say sub-objectives? Firstly, you're going to need land." When I raised a brow, and slowly traced my eyes around the room, Vow guessed my wordless question. "A domain, Morty. Nopony's barony worth respecting consists of a single townhouse, no matter how elaborate or enchanted it might be. Specifically, if you want to be taken seriously, you're going to need to own some substantial land, to build some kind of a manor—or if you're feeling particularly fairytale inspired, a fortified castle—on it, and to have it formally recognized and assigned to a barony by Her Majesty and the Stable. Fortunately, your part of that comes down to a question of money. And given how many letters of credit I found in your jacket this morning, I'm guessing you have some substantial source of income already figured out?"

I shook my head as I finished off another bite. "Um… no. For the moment, that's what I've got. I sort of assumed I could get a royal stipend offering my services hunting spirits, and—"

Vow cut me off not with words, but by breaking out into laughter. "Morty… Morty, please, this isn't the early Tourmaline dynasty. Archmagi don't extract stipends from the crown anymore. Nopony's done that for years…" Finally calming his chuckling, Vow shook his wooden head. "Star Swirl gets a bit in taxes on his lands as the head of House Zodiac. Every other archmage I ever met has some kind of a day job, even if it's just being the 'exclusive, luxury-brand' equivalent of a hedge mage enchanting chandeliers and ice chests and whatnot."

"It's repulsive," I sniped back, prompting Vow to raise his wooden brow. "Not the money, I mean, but… you can't expect me to believe Typhoon's soldier's are honestly expected to fight spirits. Or stars know what other monsters might cause problems. Star Swirl isn't going to live forever…" Under my breath, I added "thankfully."

Vow shrugged. "The country's only as old as you are, Morty. And they've always had Star Swirl. And, probably more importantly, Hurricane. They've only had the one problem with meaningful monsters, and I orchestrated it personally. So even if you're right—and for argument's sake, let's agree you are—most of Equestria doesn't know it. At which point, because following in my hoofsteps is a terrible idea now that Typhoon is wise to the threat of a warlock, there's no way to force that issue. So failing that, we're going to need to find some way for you to make money."

"You want me to get a job?" I asked dismissively. "I'm a wizard, Vow."

"I see you're already living up to your future noble title. Just say 'noble' instead of 'wizard' next time." Vow seemed to find some amusement in that observation that I had missed. "I can think of a few approaches once you have access to more of your magic; we'll just have to be frugal in the meantime. We may be stretching the limits of those letters of credit quickly, though, just restoring the house."

I sighed. "I can get more money performing seances. At Platinum's Landing, that earned me a few bits I needed, when I was first coming here from River Rock."

Vow nodded, looked down at where my stack of crepes had formerly been, before realizing just why I had been so willing to speak the past few responses I'd given him.

"They were excellent," I offered. "Thank you."

"My pleasure. And your idea of using seances is a good approach; the other nobles won't consider it a 'trade', as long as we don't make it look too much like a business. No signs, no formal advertising... I'll set aside one of the parlors in the house for that purpose. But we won't want to tax your horn. Can you perform a seance by hemomancy?"

"I… guess I've never tried." I shrugged. "But the basic representative sigil is my talent mark, so I'm guessing I can figure it out."

"That's certainly a reassuring sign." We shared a chuckle, before Vow's wooden hooves once more formed what could, I suppose, be technically called a miniature steeple. "When I'm about the Ridge, I'll prod a bit to see who might take you up on that offer for some more substantial donations."

I'll be honest: the thought of restricting my services exclusively to those who could pay artificially heightened prices somewhat turned my stomach. Still, as I told myself in the moment, beggars—even beggars in immeasurably valuable manors—can't be choosers.

"You're going to talk to other ponies while you're out?"

"Why not?" Vow asked without apparent care. "You've already created one truly sapient golem. Given what Angel explained about how the geode you used for his core had grown, you're more than justified to have claimed you wanted to repeat the process with a larger starting geode to see how the golem would grow. Which, consequently, means I'm more than confident claiming that's the reason for my existence. And the cold hard truth is that you're the best necromancer in Everfree, so nopony is going to call my bluff by trying to disassemble the magic animating me to look at my 'core'. Of course, that's assuming I'm talking to mages, which I don't have much reason to do. I mostly just need to be free to arrange meetings for you, buy things for the house, that sort of thing. Think of me like a proactive butler for the moment."

"You're not going to say something that will give you away—"

The voice that answered back was not the same voice with which Vow had been previously addressing me. Instead, it had a distinctly earth pony accent, reminding me a bit of the voices I had heard on my trip through Lubuck. But it wasn't just a forced accent; the timbre and pitch of his voice changed completely. It wasn't a massive shift, but it also wasn't a change most organic throats could achieve even with practice. "I ought to be insulted, but for the moment I'll forgive you, sir." Vow's lack of a mouth turned up at his cheek. I might have said I had seen the expression in the mirror, had I even the slightest shred of self-awareness at that age. Vow dropped the new voice as quickly as he had picked it up. "I lied to Star Swirl, Queen Platinum, Hurricane, and Typhoon—to each of their faces—for three years. And I would have gotten away with all of it too, if it weren't for Hurricane stumbling on the goddess Celestia of all ponies. Or Wintershimmer hijacking my plot for the sake of covering up his attack on Jade and Smart Cookie, for that matter."

"Point taken. My apologies."

"None necessary," Vow insisted. "So, to recap: perform seances, get money, buy land, build estate, establish domain. Simple enough?"

"In premise," I agreed.

"Good. Next point: even if we forge a noble heritage for you and we set you up a domain, the other nobles in the stable won't be happy with Her Majesty recognizing you and formally assigning you the domain you've created if they still see you as the outsider; as you so elegantly put it, as a 'half-crystal bastard'. So with what time you aren't busy studying magic or making money, we're going to be working you into Equestrian elite society."

Memories of my few notable interactions with Gale's other suitors jumped to mind, and my expression and posture soured in tandem. "Euugh."

"I promise it's not as bad as you think. In fact, I think you'll like it." Vow's mouth came into existence for just a moment to convey an unsettlingly wide, almost cheshire smile. "They aren't worse than anypony else with power—which is a damning reflection on our species, I suppose—they just make it stand out more. Just as blood doesn't actually make them better, despite their claims, it also doesn't make them worse. Even if you don't come to like them, it's a necessary evil."

My memory flitted back to my disastrous argument with Grand Duchess Chrysoprase and High Castle. "I have a hard time believing they'll ever accept me."

"I know a few tricks, courtesy of the Queen-Mother. Remember, I was an outsider once too, and I nearly made it onto the throne. We'll spend more time on this later, too, but to summarize: being present without being actively hostile will do wonders to make them accept you. Secondly, we'll need to arrange so that you owe them some minor favors."

"What? Why would that help? Shouldn't I make them owe me?"

"Absolutely not," Vow stated firmly, moving his hooves laterally back and forth in the air. "One constant of ponies—really, any creature—in any tier of society is that they hate being in any kind of debt. And subconsciously, they transfer that hatred to whomever they owe their debt too, whether it be monetary, or social, or otherwise. But in contrast, having someone owe you a debt, even a small one, has the opposite effect. Being a courteous debtor—show gratitude for the favors you're asking for, repay them in reasonable time—and then ask for another, and you'll make the other pony feel benevolent. And, subconsciously, they'll associate that good feeling with your presence, and start to like you. Trust me; it works even better with unicorn nobles than the general populace. They adore the feeling that they're living up to their precious noblesse oblige with this sort of thing."

I shrugged. "If you say so."

"I can't stress enough that I do. Thirdly and finally, though, we need to get you a vice."

"I'm sorry?"

"You know, a vice. Gambling, smoking…" Vow shook his head. "No, that wouldn't be right for you. And you don't need the pipe to lose weight; Celestia knows I ought to be making you much bigger meals." Vow completely ignored my frown; he didn't seem to even have seen it. "How well do you hold your liquor?"

"Um…" Thinking back to my various experiences with Gale on the voyage that followed my escape from the Crystal Union, I shook my head. "Alcohol isn't really my forte."

"No, I wouldn't think so. Better not to compromise your judgement anyway… There's gambling; that could get us some money… But no, you're too well established as a wizard already. We couldn't plausibly cheat enough. Well, there's nothing for it." Leaning back, Vow clapped his hooves together. "Do you prefer mares, stallions, or both?"

I stared at Vow flatly. "I'm trying to marry Gale."

"I hope that isn't just because you like the way she looks," Vow replied. "There's plenty of fish in the sea that won't require years of work on both our parts."

"No, no… I promised her I'd do it to help her out."

"Ah. Well, in any case, assuming you're implying your answer is the fairer sex, that is the preferable answer. In which case, I have good news: you're going to enjoy your new vice, lover-boy."

It took me very little time to piece together what Vow was suggesting. "You want me to cheat on Gale?!"

"Yes," he replied. "In fact, that's perfect. It should assuage the other nobles that your pursuit of Her Majesty's hoof isn't as serious as murdering one of your rivals in open court would make it seem."

"It was self-defense!"

Vow answered me by rapping his hoof on the newspaper on the table. "History is written by the victor, but public opinion is illiterate. Honestly, I'm surprised you're objecting so strongly to the idea that you have carte blanche to sleep with every mare you can get your hooves on. What kind of young stallion are you?"

I huffed out my frustration. "You make that sound like it's easy."

"For a stallion with your appearance and your apparent charm? It probably ought to be…" Vow's voice trailed off. "Don't tell me you've never been with a mare before."

"Well… Gale and I—"

"You're already sleeping with the Queen?!" Vow outright bolted up out of his chair. "Alright, that's it, this is no longer up for discussion. If Her Majesty has an issue with it, you can absolutely blame it on me, but this is absolutely necessary for our strategy."

"I… Okay."

"Good." Vow slowly lowered himself back into his seat. "Plenty of young nobles—especially stallions—are tail-chasers and philanderers, so that should make the other nobles feel like you're not some towering figure on high looming over them. As an added bonus, being romantically capable can open some doors that even magic and a silver tongue can't. It might help us with figuring out where Star Swirl is hiding Wintershimmer's notes."

"I…" I displayed a visible bob to the apple of my throat, this time noticeably absent any crepes. "Are you intending to teach me that, too?"

"I certainly can, if necessary. And judging by your blush, I'm guessing it is." Vow massaged his temple, sounding rather like a xylophone in the process. "That's all I have for now regarding establishing you as an eligible Prince-Consort candidate. As for Her Majesty's current issue with the Stable, I have a few ideas, but none of them are actionable for you until I speak to the Queen again. So the next time you see her, do please have her find some time to drop by." Vow stood up from his seat. "I'll also encourage you to speak to Angel, and thank him for stunning you last night."

"Thank him?"

"Morty, that golem cares about you more than I think you understand. And not only was he acting in your best interests, but I would go so far as to say he was right. You needed sleep, and you clearly weren't going to get yourself to bed in any kind of a hurry." Though I wasn't happy about it, I had to admit Vow was right, and I offered a tame nod in acknowledgement of that fact. That, at least, seemed satisfactory. Vow stepped behind me and gently pulled my chair out from the table. "Now then, any questions, sir?"

"No, I… that's a lot to take in, but nothing comes to mind that I didn't ask in the moment." Almost immediately, something came to mind. "Where is Angel, anyway?"

"Oh, I sent him off to find you a suitable outfit and some flowers for your date this evening. And returning to our conversation about your vice, Cyclone's eldest daughter is quite the conquest."

"She's not a conquest," I snapped. "And I would never spread around that she's Cyclone's daughter."

Vow, for his part, again massaged the bridge of his lacquered muzzle in frustration. "Very well, sir. It would be quite the victory for your greater objectives, but if you insist. Let me get you your jacket. Your appointment with Diadem for your reading lesson is in about ten minutes."

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

Regarding Vow's Apron: In the legends wizards would tell their apprentices about Archmage Hourglass, one of the most common cautionary tales is about the Time of Time's End. According to the stories, Archmage Hourglass' last act as the guardian of time would also be her first, as watching the events of her own death at the hands of a powerful and cruel rival mage would be the inspiration for the creation of her thesis spell.

In case I haven't explained this, one of the most important qualities of an Archmage's thesis spell (or spells plural) is the right to inscribe those spells in the Tourmaline Grimoire, a spellbook of indescribable value passed down from court mage to court mage since the days of King Tourmaline who created it. (And for those following along at home: Star Swirl had that book too; not that Wintershimmer's horn transplant research would be written in it anyway).

Returning to Hourglass: normally, the mare in question is quite protective of the flow of time, and misuse of chronal magic is an excellent way to summon the irate archmage herself into your presence. Fortunately, most ponies who survive their own studies of magic long enough to reach the skill necessary to cast such magic are also cautious enough not to bring her wrath down upon themselves. Even Wintershimmer was (justifiably) afraid of making such an enemy. Hourglass herself, however, laid down an exception when she inscribed the Rite of the Time of Time's End in the Tourmaline Grimoire: namely, granting the right to any archmage who found themselves in possession of that infamous tome to use that specific spell—though aimed at their own passage through time rather than hers—to preview the circumstances of their own death.

The caveat, of course, is that while there normally isn't such a thing as destiny or predestination, the amount of magic required to cast the spell makes whatever death one views through the spell into a functionally unavoidable certainty—effectively, sealing one's own fate, as the magic which projected that future would also go on to try and enforce it by subtly tweaking whatever circumstances were necessary. This made it a terribly dangerous, borderline insane act for a young or aspiring wizard to take. Nevertheless, the spell was cast many times by many mages of the Diamond Kingdoms who, nearing the end of their lives, were more concerned with arranging some comfort for their own impending expirations than to avoid said fate.

Idiots.

Hourglass assures me the reason she even offered the right to cast the Rite of the Time of Time's End to even the greatest and most prestigious of Equestria's wizards for a legitimate reason and not merely for something selfish like her amusement at how many ponies would ruin their lives misusing it. Given her refusal to elaborate further, I am inclined to infer that at some point in her past and my future, the fact that the spell has already been written in the Tourmaline Grimoire will be important to her eventually becoming herself.

Stepping away from the philosophical morass that is why the spell exists and is semi-well known, it needs merely be noted that I already knew said spell, despite having never actually handled the Tourmaline Grimoire. Wintershimmer used its enormously complex stabilizing glyph system as my introduction to both the dangers and expenses of time magic, and a sort of final exam on my own studies of stabilizing glyphs. It was this massively complex symbol, tweaked slightly, which appeared on Vow's apron.

With his tweaks, had one provided the copious quantities of mana necessary (like most substantial chronal spells, this is an amount of magical power we would measure in gigathaums in more modern magical study), using the formula on the apron, one would reach through centuries into the future, manipulate the very fabric of fate and destiny (possibly causing instances of those ideas to come into being where none had existed before), and very likely risk damaging the flow of time itself, all for the sake of adding a slight seasoning to one's cooking.

Well, no, that isn't quite true. Because the stabilizing glyph was simply thread on an apron, that amount of mana would be far more likely to cause the apron to spontaneously combust. The medium in which a glyph is drawn does matter (usually), foals.

But setting aside reality, since the inscription was really for the sake of the joke and not actual practical use, a skilled wizard (and presumably only a skilled wizard) would, if asked to translate Vow's apron into Equiish, observe that it said:

The Time of Thyme's End -

6-1 The Birds and the Bereaved

VI

The Birds and the Bereaved

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

VI - I

Curiosity Killed the Cat

“So you’re really a good griffon?” The voice that asked the rather slanted question was high pitched, saccharine,and utterly innocent as to the philosophical implications of such a question.

Sitting up in the straw-filled trough that was his bed, Artorius the griffon laughed at the gaggle of young pegasi swarming around (and in one especially intrepid and small filly’s case, atop) him. “Of course! I am a knight! I am sworn to do good, to fight Emperor Magnus’ false cult and his tyranny—just like your grandfather, actually.”

"Grandpa?" Another little pegasus asked. "We have a grandpa?"

"You dolt! It's Emp'er Hurricane!" snapped a third voice. "But who cares? He's out west being old and boring. I wanna hear about griffons!"

"Well, what can I tell you?" Artorius replied with a chuckle.

"Are all griffons huge like you? How do you fit in doors?"

It was to this riveting conversation that Imperator Maelstrom stuck his increasingly long face, and he lived to immediately regret it.

"Big brother!" one of the dozen-and-change adolescents cried out, and like hungry chicks upon the return of their mother to the nest, the heads of the masses turned as one.

"What are you all doing in here?" Maelstrom asked harshly. "Who told you you could be in here?"

Most of the foals were smart enough to detect the hint of reproachment in the tan stallion's voice (if one can call Malestrom a stallion, given he wasn't even my age at the time). One little filly (the one whose vocabulary included the word 'dolt' but not the word 'emperor') did not. "We heard there was a griffon, so we came to kill it!"

Tan feathers pinched the bridge of a tan muzzle. "So did the legionaries I sent not take you all to the nursery, or did you run away from them? Where are they anyway?" When a hoof was raised, Maelstrom glared at it. "I don't actually care. All of you, to the nursery, now."

"But big brother—"

"Now is not the time, Sleet. Go. All of you. I'll see to you when I am done dealing with our guest."

Most of the foals made their way out of the room, some hanging their heads with the vague shame of having done something wrong, but not fully understanding what it had been. Sleet, though, responded as a nine year old filly might have been expected to, sticking out her tongue at Maelstrom and firmly planting her hooves on the floor beside the straw-filled trough that was Artorius' bed. "Big sister would have let us talk to him!"

Maelstrom grit his teeth. "Blizzard isn't here, Sleet. I am."

"Well, go west and get her back! And maybe you can be gone instead!" Sleet stomped toward the door of the room the moment Maelstrom took a single step toward her, though not yet content with her comments, she paused to add one more parting barb. "Everypony likes Blizzard better than you, Maelstrom. Even Father."

Maelstrom simply shook his head and turned away from Sleet, seemingly giving her leave to exit the room unpunished for her transgressions.

"Hold now!" Artorius declared, pushing himself up out of his bed to loom over the tiny pegasus. "Your… elder brother here, I guess… he is doing his best to care for you in your father's abscess… wait, no… abstin…"

"Absence," Maelstrom offered.

"While your father is gone, yes." Artorius briefly nodded in thanks to Maelstrom, before turning again on the young filly. "You think it's okay for you to talk to him that way? When he's trying his best to help you?"

"He's not my real brother!" Sleet snapped.

"Ah…" Caught up in the strength of his convictions, Artorius' words (or perhaps his grasp of Equiish) failed him. "And…?" he finally managed, lowering his rhetoric to Sleet's level. Though, it should fairly be said, he still made his point.

Sleet blew a raspberry at Artorius, then turned and stomped away.

"You didn't need to stand up for me like that," Maelstrom observed, once Artorius had shut the door to his room.

"I'm fine," Artorius answered. "I am strong, and young, and my wounds are healing well. I am told griffons heal faster than pegasi, thanks to our magic. Let alone standing, I am sure I could fight."

Maelstrom chuckled at that. "No, I mean… you didn't need to defend me to Sleet."

"Ah." Artorius shrugged. "Well, that is the knight in me. I cannot let someone who is innocent be attacked unfairly." Extending a claw for a shake, the griffon nodded his 'bald' white head. "I am Artorius, son of Theod. It is good to meet you, Maelstrom."

Maelstrom met the gesture and nodded. "Prelate Gladioprocellarum Maelstrom, Praetorian Guard. I've been ordered to escort you to the bakery here in River Rock."

"River Rock?" Artorius asked. "That is the name of the palace? I'm surprised it is not a Cirran name."

"The city is River Rock," Maelstrom explained. "This is Burning Hearth Castle. And neither is Cirran; they were already here when Grandfather led us across the sea… That is, Hurricane. I assume you gathered, but I'm Cy— Emperor Cyclone's son." While Maelstrom had the formal posture and stiff stature of a military stallion, his speech was halting and lurching, lacking in confidence as he stared up at the griffon looming over him. "Come. I will take you to the bakery. You can meet Lefse."

"Lef-suh?"

"The baker who found you when you were half frozen in the blizzard a few days ago. She's a good friend of my older sister." With a tan wing, Maelstrom held open the door to Artorius' room. "Come."

As the adolescent commander led the griffon knight down the halls of the former unicorn royal palace, Artorius cocked his head in thought. "This is the older sister I met before? Sirocco? Or the one who went west, who the little ones prefer to look after them?"

The question, though completely innocent, sent a chill down Maelstrom's spine. "The latter."

"What is to the west, then? Some battlefield? Or—"

Half a measure of quick thinking and half a measure of desperation, Maelstrom cut off the griffon's curiosity with a snapped phrase. "It's a euphemism for the Great Skies."

Artorius took the rushed answer with a flush of embarrassment, and stopped fully in his tracks. "I am so sorry. Please, forgive me, Maelstrom; I had thought—Oh, but that makes sense. Why the little ones said Emperor Hurricane was to the west as well."

Maelstrom refused to turn in the hallway, if only to hide the bobbing of his throat as he swallowed, and what he was sure was the visible bulging of his chest as his heart raced, by keeping his back to the griffon. "You are forgiven. Just, please, don't explain it to them. Blizzard…" Maelstrom sighed, and would only later realize that it would have been perfectly appropriate even if it was just for show, rather than to collect his thoughts. "...she left us not long ago. Only a few months."

"I'm so sorry."

"No need. Just… perhaps better not to mention it at all."

"Of course. You have my word." Artorius then drew some sort of symbol over his chest with a talon. "Perhaps we should talk about something happier. You said this city, this palace, was not built by the Cirrans. Tell me more."

I won't bore you re-reciting Cyclone's history, nor waste your time with the rough edges of that same story which Maelstrom sanitized for Artorius' sake. Suffice it to say that Artorius listened intently, stopping only to ask about things which he had never before heard of, like unicorns. As they spoke, Maelstrom led Artorius through the halls of Burning Hearth, out into its courtyard, past its elaborate, triply-portcullised gatehouse, and onto the frosted streets of River Rock.

Artorius had no idea, of course, that Maelstrom had arranged a curfew in the city, save for a few carefully chosen civilians and off-duty members of the colt's own forces to give the appearance of some life—however little it was. Maelstrom may not have been a charismatic or cunning liar on the spur of the moment, but with time to plan, one could hardly accuse him of putting on a show that was anything but compelling. And with practiced words, by carefully choosing to dodge certain topics with other pre-planned euphemisms, he drew attention to just how meager the state of the city was.

Artorius asked about why it seemed to be winter in River Rock when it was late summer in Dioda (just as it was in Everfree). When Maelstrom explained Hearth's Warming and the curse of the last windigo, that led to a rather natural question of how the city was even fed. And just as that question was being asked, as if on cue, the two passed in the street a pair of ponies bartering over the price of a barrel of fish, with the fishmonger announcing rather more loudly than necessary how the catch had been bad because there was more ice on the river than usual. And for all the stagecraft, Artorius was none the wiser.

The tour went on that way for some time, with Maelstrom admitting that there were fringes of the frozen land that still grew crops in the summer (hence the existence of a baker), that strict martial law with Cyclone's extensive military was due to suppressing criminal action from desperate ponies (and here, I have to admit, Maelstrom played a masterstroke—for while it was true a small group of ponies in the outskirts of River Rock had turned to cannibalism, the stallion missing an entire foreleg who Maelstrom used to imply that point without saying the word himself had actually suffered his wound in war with the Crystals under Queen Jade's predecessor, Warlord Halite).

In fact, the demonstration might have been a diplomatic masterstroke on the part of the young pegasus commander, were it not for its interruption by no less than a full contubernium (literally meaning 'tent-sharing group' in Equiish) of eight of Maelstrom's own Praetorian guard.

"Commander!" the most senior of the group called as they descended on River Rock's street. "We have a problem."

Maelstrom sent a meaningful glance Artorius' way. "Do we need to speak privately?"

"I… don't think so, sir. It's wargs, sir. A raiding pack. Coming from the northwest."

"Wargs?" Artorius asked. "Is that some kind of monster?"

Maelstrom ignored the curious griffon for a moment, taking a step toward his subordinates. "Isn't Legate Wrest minding the city walls today? Why are you escalating this to—"

"There is a fenrir leading them."

"What is a fenrir?" Artorius pressed, stepping up toward the soldiers. One mare went so far as to reach for her sword, though Maelstrom calmed the threat with an upheld wing.

"A warg is a creature sort of like a wolf that burrows through the ground… are there diamond dogs in Dioda?"

Artorius shook his head. "What are they?"

"Like wargs, but smaller, smarter, and friendlier… usually. You can reason with a diamond dog. Wargs are more like wild animals. Predators. They can't burrow up through the paved roads or solid stone, but they'll burrow up wherever there's dirt, even if it's frozen—gardens, unfinished basements, some parts of the city sewers. They're usually no match for a century of legionaries, if we're clever about luring them to the surface." Maelstrom concluded the thought by massaging his temple with tan feathers. "But a fenrir is a problem Like a gigantic warg, and a dozen times harder to kill. The wargs follow them like leaders, but fenrir are more animalistic yet." Maelstrom turned his growing scowl back to the messenger. "Did somepony go out into the hills? Ration thieves? Smugglers?"

"I have no idea if the wall guards actually caught anypony, sir, but there was some talk in the usual back alleys that there was some leftover haul of ore somepony could trade with Eque—"

"I take your point," Maelstrom interrupted harshly, working very hard not to look at Artorius as he did so. "We need to assume something angered it enough to attack the city—"

"They are monsters, then? And we must defend the helpless innocents?" Artorius outright grinned as he said that, before turning to the other soldiers present. "What is the largest weapon you have?"

Maelstrom groaned and pinched his muzzle with a wing. "No, Artorius. Fenrir keep well enough to themselves, but they're extremely territorial. Intrude on one's den and it will hunt you for miles. We lost an entire century when one tracked a group of smugglers back from one of the mines. After that, Father ruled intruding on the old mines they like to use as dens would be punishable by execution. So if we're lucky, it'll be tracking somepony, and we can let it take them."

"You're going to let it kill one of your own subjects? Why not fight it? I will gladly lead the charge."

"I'm going to let it kill a criminal who should have known better, Artorius. No point saving somepony we'd only crucify later. And I can't allow you to get yourself injured fighting for us, even if we do end up needing to move against it."

The soldier who had delivered the report to Malestrom cocked his head, letting a bit of River Rock's ever present snow tumble from his mane. "Why not? What's one dead griffon—"

"Mobius help me, I will have you flogged, legionary!" Maelstrom snarled. "Or would you rather be responsible for restarting the Red Cloud War? Hmm?" When the (substantially older) soldier stepped back and yielded face, Maelstrom allowed himself a deep breath. "A fenrir is something like three times your height, Artorius. They dig as fast as we can fly, and they can smell through solid stone. Break through all but the thickest of it, too. They're cunning enough not to surface if they suspect a trap, but land on the ground for even a moment and they'll burst out to drag you under. Father's fire magic is strong enough to fight them, but without him present, we'll have to rely on numbers and discipline." Maelstrom steepled his wings and set a cold gaze at his subordinates. "Legionary Wicker, go to Legate Wrest and have her choose a century. Tell her…" Maelstrom swallowed. "Tell her they don't need to be her strongest, but to expect heavy casualties if we have to deploy them. They're to meet us at the north gate. Understood? Dismissed."

"What?" Artorius asked, his face turning sour as Wicker departed. "You would send your weak ponies to their deaths when the strong might survive?"

"Artorius, the strength of our soldiers is irrelevant when there's twenty feet of frozen earth between us and the monster. If I want the fenrir and the wargs to surface, somepony has to stand on the ground to draw them out. And strong or weak, that pony will almost certainly die." Maelstrom then stepped away from Artorius and toward the other members of the Praetorian. "Go to the castle skyfoundry and whatever forges you know in the city. Commandeer all the thunderheads you can find. If you have to, bring raw cumulus and nimbus and we'll charge them ourselves. When the beast surfaces, pray to Grabacr that a battery of artillery kill it before it slips low again. Go."

For those etymologically inclined readers, the pegasus practice of bucking charged cumulonimbus clouds as a form of siege weaponry is the reason that both 'a collection of artillery pieces' and 'a stack of alternating zinc and copper discs in saltwater for the purposes of providing continuous electricity in alchemy' are both referred to as 'batteries'.

Artorius and Maelstrom watched the messengers depart into the snowy sky for a few long moments, before at last Artorius' beak broke the silence. "Let me fight alongside the troops on the ground."

"No."

"Maelstrom, on my honor as a knight, in the name of my father Theod, I cannot let these lesser warriors die without at least standing amongst them. And I am… forgive my pride, but it isn't only pride when I tell you I am very strong."

"I don't have time for this," Maelstrom replied dismissively, waving a wing in the air between himself and the griffon. "You aren't even properly healed, are you?"

"Maelstrom, if you do not let me fight, I will be forced to restrain you and take to the battlefield myself."

"You'd risk fighting me for the right to get yourself killed fighting wargs, all to protect ponies—knowing that fighting me, you'd fail in your mission to find a new home for your own people?" Artorius' mouth opened and shut twice as he searched for words before, at last, Maelstrom cut him off. "Who will carry your message back to the other griffons when you're in three pieces on the snow, hmm? If Father does agree to let them come here?"

"I would trust that you would repay my sacrifice," Artorius answered, though he continued with a chuckle "supposing they even touch me. I assure you, I am tougher than I look. I only need a weapon. The largest you have."

"I can't convince you, can I?" Under his breath, Maelstrom couldn't resist adding "...like talking to a brick wall."

Artorius shook his head. "I cannot be swayed, no. For a knight, my oaths are worth more than my life."

"Mobius, god of mercy, give me patience when I am found wanting." Tan hooves paced up and down in the street as Maelstrom weighed the two impossible options the griffon had set before him. Artorius watched the other pony pace, seeing Maelstrom's tri-colored mane occasionally flick as he glanced in the direction of the wall where danger approached, and back to his own form. With an arpeggio of hoofbeats, Maelstrom's patience face grew sterner, seemingly aging a decade in the span of moments, and finally he cast his gaze up to the sky, where even through the snowy clouds, the vague hint of the sun's presence could still be detected, trawling its inexorable path across the heavens. "Fine. Beyond Father's sword, most everypony uses Legion-issue gladii." Maelstrom looked Artorius' towering height up and down once and shook his head. "But they'd be like daggers to you. Hmm… Ah. Can you fly?"

"For a bit," Artorius agreed. "Where?"

"Back to the palace. There's a weapon that would suit you perfectly on the wall."

"Is it sharp?" Artorius asked. "A ceremonial sword won't do me much good in battle."

"No," Maelstrom replied with a hint of amusement. "It's a warhammer."

Artorius' laughter was far from just a 'hint' as it barked out over River Rock, following after Maelstrom on spread griffon wings.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

On the snowy fields outside the north wall of River Rock, a solid two miles up from the banks of the icy-ridden Volgallop, Artorius' protesting wings lowered his leonine paws onto the sheet of white. It took little effort for the griffon to balance on them, keeping himself upright so that he could hold a weapon in his avian claws; part of being a knight was to hold such a stance for some time, after all. And the weapon in question brought a smile to the corners of his beak.

The block of charcoal-toned steel on the end of a long-ish shaft had once belonged to a crystal soldier, and a lieutenant to Warlord Halite. The mare, Castigate, had led a brutally successful offensive on the right flank of Halite's main forces, cutting off River Rock from any hope of reinforcement from the earth ponies at their old capital of Amber Field. Alas, the offensive came just as Commander Hurricane had first begun to negotiate with King Lapis IV to provide soldiers for the unicorns to defend themselves in exchange for food and land for his refugees. Rather than risk injuring his soldiers flying down to meet the crystals in melee, Hurricane simply set about making constant torrential rain and hail fall on the crystal forces—not just for a day or two, but for three months of siege, until the ground was so muddy that it was impossible to even drive a tent peg into the ground sturdy enough to hold up shelter. Castigate left her warhammer where it lay when she and what was left of her besieging forces returned to their homeland with what few prisoners and spoils they could bring themselves to carry.

Hurricane presented the warhammer personally to Lapis, and Lapis hung it on the wall. And there it hung, until Hurricane's grandson unceremoniously yanked it down and dropped it into the hands of an eager griffon knight.

Artorius liked the feel of the weapon. Its head was small for a griffon warhammer, but its shaft was easily long enough for him to hold it in a two-handed grip. In his mind, he decided it must have been incredibly awkward for a pony to hold, before he tamped down on that criticism and tried to focus on the moment. That, he thought, was surely what his teachers would have advised. Grizzled old Tapfer, his mother Aella, the inscrutable apothecary… Even his friend Tsume—

"Sighted!" shouted a pegasus clad in a scout's lorica squamata armor, its collar and wing slits accented with furs to guard against the cold. "Commander, it's chasing somepony."

"Thank the gods." Maelstrom, hovering overhead with a stormcloud not far below his hooves, hadn't been particularly subtle about declaration. A brief cheer went up from the pegasi on the ground behind Artorius in their dispersed, battle-ready formation (the usual 'tortoise' the Cirrans favored on the ground being of little value against a subterranean enemy). "Remember, they'd be excecuted even if we saved them. Um… you, scout." The young soldier's eyes locked on the mare who had first given the announcement. "Cut them down. You don't need to kill them; just a blow to slow their pace should do it. We'll let the beast do the rest."

"Hold a moment, scout." The voice that spoke came from a mare near Maelstrom's side. Artorius' eyes quickly picked her out from the ranks manning the stormcloud battery. Unlike Maelstrom, not only did she bother to wear armor at all, but her outfit was painted with a golden trim, and her helmet bore a tall black crest indicative of some commanding rank. Her next words were spoken at little more than a whisper, but they were clear to Artorius' sharp ears (the senses of a griffon being, by and large, sharper than our own as ponies—at least until one applies magic). "Permission to speak freely, Commander Maelstrom?"

"Granted, Legate Wrest." Maelstrom nodded to the substantially older mare, probably not far off from Cyclone's age, and even lowered himself to hover about as close as two pegasi can.

"Your father would carry out such an execution himself, Maelstrom," said Wrest.

Maelstrom shifted nervously between his shoulders in the air. "Yes, well… I mean, I suppose I could… But I'm not armored, and—"

The young commander's words weren't actually cut off; it was Artorius' attention which was stolen when his sharp ears picked up a different speaker altogether.

"Help!"

It wasn't the word that so distracted Artorius as it was the voice crying it out: a shrill, warbling, desperate voice that even a griffon unused to ponies could hardly mistake.

"A child!" Artorius spread his wings, but then froze—not out of hesitation, but rather out of realization that unlike so many recent battles, he was not fighting alone. "Cirrans! I will bring the foal to safety. Let us form a line and be ready when the beast arrives."

"Artorius, wait—!" Maelstrom's protest fell on ears that, despite their twice aforementioned sharpness, seemed suddenly deaf. There was no hope of stopping the griffon—save perhaps bucking a bolt of lightning into his back, and praying to the Cirran god of mercy that it would stun him without inflicting permanent harm.

Artorius' wings ached as they carried him into the air—not just the sore ache of muscles overworked, but the deep, biting ache of cold slipping deep between feathers to bite at what had already begun to blacken from its earlier gnawing. But the young knight was nothing if not stubborn, and having fought through axe wounds, broken limbs, and even the biting of the dead, he had more than the willpower to cover a few hundred paces of open ground even in the icy cold.

The wind whistled past Artorius' feathers. Frozen wind stung his eyes. The snowfall seemed to turn, as it only can for the truly swift, to be flung into his face instead of merely downward from on high.

Speed stole away all definition from the drifts of the snow on the plains outside River Rock; only a white mass remained. And in the middle of it, a speck. One that swiftly grew closer.

One that cried out "Please! Anypony!"

The foal in question was an earth pony colt, brown of coat with a slate gray mane—only remarkable in just how unremarkable he was. Far more worthy of attention were the growing cracks and fissures in the frigid soil and ice behind him, mounding up like entrenchments, or the fault line of an earthquake.

Having seen a great mass of soil turned to liquid and watched a great beast swim beneath it, I can say the fenrir moved with less agility through the earth—though only just. And since any more nuance would perhaps require me to enchant this book with an image, I think that description shall suffice. The earth rippled in such a way that Artorius could see the vaguest hints of the creature's enormous foreclaws peaking up above the snow as it burrowed, as long as the span between his shoulders and more than capable of striking his heart with a single blow.

A less courageous warrior (or, it might be said, one with half a brain and/or the remotest sense of self-preservation) might have felt a very different chill settle over their heart than that of the weather. Fortunately for the young colt so close to death, Artorius was far too brave and far too stupid to turn back. And so, angling the ridges of his shivering wings forward and tucking his borrowed warhammer into an armpit to have both his talons free, Artorius angled into a dive.

It was a clever plan, at least I assume, having not bothered to reach back in time and try to read Artorius' mind at the moment in question. (At a certain level of literacy, one resents the idea of returning to foal's picture books). Namely, snatching up the foal, carrying him back to the line of reinforcements, and fighting the fenrir together with Maelstrom's forces would offer considerably less risk against the gigantic creature than trying to take it on single-hoofedly. Or, rather, single clawedly.

Unfortunately, I cannot say for sure whether or not that was Artorius' plan, beyond my inference based on how he stowed his hammer. For as Artorius wrapped his talons around the barrel of the screaming young colt and exclaimed "I've got yo—ooof!" just about as eloquently as such a phrase could be uttered by any creature, he discovered that force required to pull up from his rescuing dive was more than his injured wings could really take.

Forced into a roll more by his momentum and the laws of physics than any tactical consideration, the most the knight could do was to tuck his wings and forelegs around the child he had mostly failed to rescue, protecting the young colt's body from the terrain even as Artorius himself rolled and slid across it… right toward the broken ground where the fenrir was rapidly approaching.

Artorius had just enough time to dig the claws of his leonine paws into the snow and arrest his motion, and to lift his head up to take in his surroundings, before an enormous muzzle erupted from the ground mere inches from his beak.

The smell of carrion and copper—no, Artorius corrected himself, blood—washed over the griffon as the world seemed to slow. It was the approach of death, a feeling not entirely foreign to Artorius, but nevertheless hardly a welcome one. This time, though, laying on his side with his legs splayed out behind him, there was no question that he would not be able to ready his weapon, let alone stand, before the teeth swallowed him. And though, to his credit, Artorius son of Theod made the attempt with all the honor any creature calling himself a knight ought to have in their final moments, his intuition was proven correct.

To the watching pegasi, there was a great deal of confusion at just how they were supposed to feel about Artorius' heroic—if ultimately vain—sacrifice. On the one hoof, he had died trying to save a young pony with no thought to his own well-being. On the other hand, he was a griffon, and therefore the world was better for his death.

Now, I know in my prior text I've chastised readers who are too clever by half, assuming I cannot possibly have died in a situation with this sort of tension, because being the foremost necromancer in the world, and having died enough times to reasonably call myself a professional, you're probably better off betting I do kick the bucket in any situation where the threats against my life are remotely on par with my magical capabilities. All that being said, I didn't just start telling you the story of this random young griffon because the idea of wasting your time amuses me. Unlike yours truly, Artorius never became immortal in anything but the cop-out sense of song and fable and legend and so-forth, so unfortunately, those of you who hate fun do in fact get to cheat with him.

To the pegasi watching from the ground nearer River Rock's walls, or from their posts manning the battery a few hundred feet overhead, the fenrir seemed to pull itself up out of the ground and tilt its head back as if to let out a howl like a normal wolf whose maw could not compete with a small designer closet for storage area. However, instead of a howl (or a bass rumbling more akin to a localized earthquake, as such a creature's vocal cords would more likely produce), the sound that escaped its mouth was a fierce metallic twang and a crack. Immediately, the creature shook, and it yelped in agony. And flying out of its mouth (not on wings, but by the force with which the fenrir's gigantic head had been flung backward), the pegasi could see Artorius, clutching the rescued foal against his side rather like a hoofball in one claw, and the upper half of the borrowed warhammer in the other. Its shaft had broken midway down the handle, shearing through not only the grip but what appeared to be a metal core (or 'tang' if one wants to borrow the terminology of swords). Judging by the smear of red on the jagged bottom tip of the handle, it was safe to assume either the force of the fenrir's jaws snapping shut, or Artorius' own arms, had driven the splintery mess into the roof of the beast's mouth.

Tragically, while Artorius was now exactly where he wanted to be, in the air above the creature, he was rather worse for the wear. One of the tercel's hind legs had been punctured by a lupine tooth and was visibly drawing a ribbon of red in the sky. Worse yet, when Artorius spread his wings, one of the appendages twitched and jittered, obviously broken and completely unfit to carry weight.

And so, Artorius was reminded of the classic aphorism: 'what goes up must come down.'

Ever one to treat wordplay like a battle, Artorius seemed to parry that aphorism and retort with one of his own: 'if all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail.'

How he was even conscious with two of his limbs broken, I can only ascribe to the strength of his innate griffon magic. Artorius didn't even seem to notice the pain. His mind was on the colt in his arm, and the hammer in the other. "It'll be okay, little pony," the knight tried to say calmly. Alas, given the wind rushing past both his own ears and the colt's, he was forced to shout, and it didn't seem to offer much comfort.

Nor, one supposes, did the fact that the fenrir had collected itself from the pain of what was essentially a giant toothpick being rammed into its palate. With its head still tilted back, it opened its mouth for just a moment, and then aimed to bite right through the center of Artorius' torso with one of its formidable canine fangs.

With one wing out of commission, Artorius had no hope of juking the attack by flying upward, even for a passing moment. Diving into the creature's mouth a second was the sort of insane idea I would come up with, but without magic to back it up, was an obvious act of suicide even for the unusually bold griffon. (Or perhaps he was just worried about the colt he was protecting). But then, the only option that seemed to be remaining was to let the teeth close on him.

And essentially, that's what happened. Artorius stared at the fenrir's approaching teeth, raised the broken hammer, and let gravity add to his already considerable arm strength. There was more than enough force; all that remained was getting the timing right. And as the teeth grew close, it was the wash of the beast's foul breath that gave him his signal.

The hammer came down on the face of the fenrir's fang, right near its gum line. The result: the tooth splintered, cracking all the way through its base, just as the jaws closed around Artorius. The tooth was pressed into Artorius' chest, but rather than going point-first, its tip fell into the mouth, and its flat normally outward-facing edge was rammed into the griffon's belly—still carrying more than enough force to knock the wind from his his lungs and break a rib or two. The colt in Artorius' grip was pressed tight to the side of the tooth as well, probably a bit painfully, but he managed at least to slip below the line of those fangs which were still attached, and so only take a bit of a bruising jostle.

The pain of having a tooth sheared completely off its root by a blow from a hammer was, understandably, enough to get the fenrir to roar in agony again. And in so doing, it again opened its jaws wide. That was all the chance Artorius needed. He let go of the hammer completely, letting it fall into the throat of the beast below him, and wrapped his now free arm around the broken stump of the tooth. And as he too fell into the creature's throat, all that remained was to aim the point of the tooth at the most tender, vulnerable flesh.

The fenrir's roar turned rather grisly and wet when one of its own fangs pierced the side of its throat from the inside. Still not even fully emerged from the snow, the beast thrashed and tossed, and then in a few moments, slipped into unconsciousness.

"Is it dead?" one of the pegasi watching asked, the first to break the silence that swept over the plains.

"Never assume a wild beast is dead," Maelstrom replied, his tone making it clear he was quoting some work of ancient wisdom, though he didn't bother to provide an attribution aloud. "Um… You three. On me. We'll slit its throat, make sure we finished the job. Maybe pull Artorius out, if he survived."

"What about the other wargs?" one of the other ponies asked.

Legate Wrest shook her head. "No creature is going to watch their leader die, or cower, and then still take on battle themselves." Her eyes stayed firmly locked on Maelstrom as she spoke, and she nodded once. "Be careful with that griffon, Commander. He might well be the best warrior in River Rock."

A merciful finish to the fenrir came swiftly, but extracting Artorius took a good few minutes longer; his injuries made squeezing out through the fenrir's wounds inviable, and so eventually Maelstrom gathered a full two dozen ponies to pry the beast's jaws open again and let Artorius victoriously walk out.

"Here, little one." Artorius directed the little colt, who he had still kept tucked under arm through the whole affair. "Your own kind."

"I… I… thanks, mister." I cannot understate how impressive it was that the colt even remembered that level of manners, visibly shaking as he was from his experience. With Artorius' prodding, the hesitant colt took two strides toward Maelstrom and his soldiers before collapsing on the snow, still well inside the fenrir's maw.

He must have been six or seven by Maelstrom's guess, and he was obviously starving; rather like Graargh when I had first set eyes on the bear, it would have been a trivial matter to count the colt's ribs even from a few strides away. He had no cutie marks, nor any particular markings of note.

"What's your name?" Maelstrom asked.

The colt shook his head. "I… I don't remember."

"You don't remember your own name?" one of the legionaries at Maelstrom's side asked, before both Artorius and the commander in question shot her harsh glares.

"Trauma can make things hard," Maelstrom observed. "Do you have family, kid?"

The little colt answered that question all too completely when he glanced at the fenrir's teeth, opened his mouth to answer, and began to shake violently without finishing so much as word.

Maelstrom stepped forward from the line and placed a wing over the colt's shoulders, both to warm him and to comfort him. 'No need to talk about that anymore. Here, why don't you come with me? You can be my little brother. We'll get you something to eat back up at the palace."

"O-o-o-okay," shivered the anonymous colt.

Maelstrom went so far as to lift the colt onto his back before turning his attention to Artorius. "You can't walk back like that."

"I can limp a bit," Artorius protested. "I—"

"You two, go and fetch a sledge," Maelstrom directed his soldiers, cutting off the griffon's protest. "Your… knightly honor was well appreciated, Artorius, but nopony is going to look down on you for needing help back to your bed."

With an indignant huff, Artorius hung his head. "Very well."

And so, after only a short wait for the wooden sledge to arrive, Artorius was treated to something that may well have been unique in the history of Cirran-griffon relations: a full escort by legion pegasi through the streets of what had become, in a way, their capital city.

It might have been a perfect blissful end to the story, had a group of scouts not flown up to Maelstrom and his entourage just a few dozen strides from the gatehouse of the castle.

"Trouble, Commander."

"The other wargs?" Maelstrom guessed. "Tell Legate Wrest she's authorized to use the battery we provided—"

"No sir," interrupted the guard. "With apologies for interrupting sir; it's more of them!" Pointing toward Artorius reclining on the sledge, the armored pegasus even felt the need to clarify "Griffons."

"More griffons?" Maelstrom asked more to himself out of shock than any need to confirm.

It was Artorius, however, who spoke up with the most useful question. "How many?"

"Two, maybe three hundred," the scout reported, facing Maelstrom despite answering Artorius' question. "We didn't approach. Most of them were pulling skywagons."

"No…" Whispered Artorius. And then, hauntingly, he added "There should be more. There have to be more."

"What should we do, sir?"

Looking rather like the shivering colt on his back had, Maelstrom froze in place. His eyes jumped in their sockets between Artorius and the scout, back and forth and back again. His wings twitched, but they did not unfold.

"Sir?"

"Rouse the legions," Maelstrom finally ordered. "Everypony."

"Maelstrom, please!" Artorius called out from his resting place. "If it is Magnus' forces, not only do you have my blessing in fighting them, but I would gladly fight alongside you. But if it is my mother and ours, I beg you, hear them out."

"You're not going to listen to a griffon, are you?" the scout asked. "Sir, you've heard what Magnus did to your grandfather's messengers—"

Maelstrom finally seemed to find himself, turning to the escort around Artorius and pointing as he rattled off orders. "You two, take Artorius to the dungeons. Be gentle with him; I need him restrained, but I will not have him hurt. And put this colt with my brothers and sisters. You three, rouse Legate Fell and Legate Ramble. Have Wrest bring her battery. Make sure everypony is ready for combat, but I don't want any hostile action taken before I give the order, or I fall out of the sky. The rest of you, on me. Understood?"

"Sir," the pegasi answered with more-or-less synchronized salutes before dispersing.

"And Artorius?" Maelstrom asked as he lifted the young colt from his back, setting him down on Artorius sledge. "What is your leader's name?"

"She's my mother, Aella," Artorius offered. "If… If something happened to her, they might be led by Tapfer; you can't miss him, since his beak's broken down the middle. Or failing him, the Apothecary, or Tsume—"

"I need to go, Artorius," Maelstrom interrupted, spreading his wings. "I give you my word I will hear them out."

And then, with a pump of tan wings, Maelstrom was gone, and a fear gripped Artorius far colder than that he had faced in the mouth of the fenrir.

6-2

VI - II

A Cold War

For Aella, even having the opportunity to surrender was welcome after crossing the seemingly endless snow. When the Cirrans flew out to meet her forces, she knew that if they chose to fight, her griffons would stand no chance. There may have been a few hundred still alive, but by her estimate, there were seven real weapons between them.

The leader of the pegasi that had flown out to meet her was younger than she had expected, but more welcoming than she had dared to let herself hope—which was mostly just to say she wasn't met with swords drawn. He introduced himself, and then (rather meekly for a commanding officer) asked her to surrender her 'forces' (if one could call them that) and their weapons. Normally, such a request would probably have been met begrudgingly, but Aella surprised the young soldier by not only agreeing, but doing so enthusiastically—with only the stipulation that they be detained somewhere warm.

Many words followed, but not many of them were of substance; the Cirrans collected the griffons' weapons (in fact there were only six, plus the more bladed selections from the apothecary's tools), secured the various wagons of mostly-depleted supplies which the more fit of the griffons had been pulling with them, and led the mass in small groups down into the dungeons of Burning Hearth Castle. The Cirran leader was kind enough not to lock the groups into separate cells, giving free access to the dungeon hallways and effectively using the space as a large improvised dormitory or barracks where the griffons could congregate. He did, however, post a considerable guard at the door with orders not to let the 'guests' leave.

Aella, however, was pulled aside swiftly; the young commander informed her that they would have a great deal to talk about, but that he would allow her someone else to join their meeting in case she needed a second voice to account for the griffons needs, or to help her translate Equiish or Cirran. And while Aella's Cirran and Equiish were both arguably perfect, she wasted no time in gesturing over the Apothecary for their meeting.

The old griffon, whose face rather resembled a charcoal owl behind a pair of thin spectacles, and whose hindquarters were similarly closer to drab gray than a golden tan, was hesitant to answer the order. Aella proved quickly that she didn't need to speak aloud to convey the importance of her demand, though; a firm glance brought the aged tercel in line.

So it was that, within the hour of the griffons arrival, Aela found a (rather undersized) mug, visibly steaming, being slid in her direction across the top of an absolutely ornate wooden table in a small sitting room with features that, while pony-sized, were entirely alien to the Cirran culture she had known in her youth.

"This is hot chocolate," the stallion explained, electing not to mention it was the only chocolate in River Rock, at least to his knowledge as its steward. Such was diplomacy. "To ward off the cold, and hopefully warm introductions. I hope there aren't any hard feelings from your initial reception. I am Prelate Maelstrom Stormblade," the tan pony with the striped mane offered by way of introduction. "And I am guessing you are Aella. Do you—"

"You know of me?" Aella interrupted, speaking in a sudden rush. "From Hurricane Haysar? Or my son?"

Maelstrom steepled his wings as he sat back in his polished wooden seat, noticeably built for somepony of a more formidable build. "Artorius."

Visible relief washed over Aella, and the old griffon at her side smiled as he placed a claw on her shoulder. "Can I see him?"

"He is recovering from some wounds at the moment, but he should be well enough to see you when we are done talking." Realizing how that probably sounded to the griffon's mother, Maelstrom immediately winced. "That is, he—"

Behind his spectacles, the apothecary rolled his eyes. "I tried to warn you he would pick a fight with the Cirrans, Aella."

Maelstrom shook his head frantically. "No, nothing like that, I promise. He volunteered to help us with a monster problem outside the city. We tried to convince him to stay back, but…"

"He has his father's stubbornness," Aella completed. "Believe me, I know; Still, I cannot express how grateful I am to hear he is here, and more-or-less well." Then the hen dipped her 'bald' white head low and interlaced her talons in a sort of seated bow. "Thank you, Maelstrom Haysar."

"Oh, no, I'm not Emperor, Aella. My father is still alive and well. He's just away from River Rock momentarily."

Aella sighed in relief, and then shot a slight smirk in the far older griffon's direction. "And you say ponies don't live that long."

"Unless Hurricane was uncommonly… how does one say in Equiish, Maelstrom? Virile? A prolific Deckhengst?" The apothecary waited for a moment for Maelstrom to chime in, but the young stallion was far too flustered by the abrupt pivot into a discussion of the virility of his grandfather to answer quickly. After a few silent seconds, the old griffon waved his talons in the air. "In any case, Aella, I would bet Maelstrom is Hurricane's grandson. Am I right?"

Maelstrom nodded once and coughed to clear his throat—really, a naked attempt to refocus himself. "Yes. On all counts. Grandfather—Emperor Hurricane—passed a few years ago. My father Cyclone is the Emperor, the 'Haysar', now." Nodding to the old griffon, he couldn't help but raise a brow. "How did you know?"

"Regarding Emperor Hurricane: twenty years ago, when he had come to Dioda looking for your… it is 'goddess', yes, and not 'empress', for Lun?" Maelstrom's quick nod was all the old griffon needed in affirmation before continuing. "We do not draw a difference for Magnus. In any case, he had only just lost his wing when Celeste brought him back across the sea, and some venom still racked his side. I treated him—not that his wounds were within my skill; only Lun could do that. But I… Aella, we say diagnostiziert, do you know the Equiish word?"

"Diagnose? Rather, 'diagnosed'?"

"Yes, that. I diagnosed that the wound had gotten past the muscles of his side and affected his heart. It wouldn't kill him that very moment, of course, but I told him that when old age claimed him, it was sure to be his heart giving out. Am I wrong?"

"I… assume so?" Maelstrom shrugged. "He passed in his sleep. That's all I know."

Maelstrom felt suddenly very nervous as the eyes of the older griffon locked with his, squinting with honed avian focus over the tops of his spectacle lenses. While hardly his elder sister Sirocco's equal with pegasus magic, to say nothing of even coming close to Cyclone or Hurricane's skills, Maelstrom still had enough experience to tell if magic was being used to try and intimidate him. But the apothecary wasn't forcing the issue with magic; rather, there was something about the old griffon's personality that seemed to burrow into Maelstrom, and make the young stallion wonder if perhaps his lie had a smell.

Then, mercifully, the old griffon reached up to his face, removed his spectacles, and rubbed them against his fur coat—just below where the feathers covering his upper body ended—as if to clear some speck or mote of dust from view. When the spectacles rose to rest again on the griffon's beak, it was as if they were on a different griffon entirely. "As for how I knew you were not likely to be Hurricane's son, that is just a matter of arithmetic. Aella, he only has… I would guess sixteen years to his name. Am I right, Prelate?"

Aella's eyes widened, and she leaned over to the apothecary's side, speaking in a whisper that didn't quite manage to avoid reaching Maelstrom's ears. "He's younger than Artorius? We're negotiating with a child?"

"Ponies mature much faster than griffons in their early years," the apothecary countered in his distinct accent. "But, to give clarity, you are negotiating with a child. I have never had any pretending of leadership. I don't want any part of it. I am only here to ask for medical supplies, and offer my services to smooth whatever deal you make." With an obvious hint of snark, the old griffon added "My lady."

Aella responded with an amused, or at least good-humored sigh. "Well, Maelstrom, that does bring us around to the point of our talk, doesn't it? As you said before, I am Aella, the leader of our ragged little group of rebels against the tyrant god Magnus. This is our apothecary."

Maelstrom nodded to both griffons in turn, though his gaze lingered on the elder of the two. "Do you… not have a name? Or…?"

"I earned one in Magnus' service," the tercel replied, both his well-aged humor and his intimidating presence replaced with trepidation. "So when I turned against him, I discarded it. Being 'the apothecary' suits me more than well."

"You fought alongside Magnus?" Maelstrom asked.

"I have not 'fought' in a quarter of a millennium," the apothecary replied. "But in the interest of honesty, I treated the wounded on Magnus' side."

"Not literally at his side," Aella added, with trepidation to match the doctor's. "None of us were close to him. A few of us, like myself, are Canii; we were former auxiliia for Cirra at the beginning of the war. But when Emperor August ordered all griffons in Cirra be wiped out, we weren't presented with much choice, whether we liked Magnus or not. Our rebellion came later, when—"

"If I may," the apothecary interrupted, "Aella, this story will still be here when I have my bandages and my needles and water."

Aella nodded firmly. "See, I brought you for more than you thought." Then, turning to Maelstrom, she nodded. "We have a very long story, and we are more than glad to tell it, but I promise it isn't going anywhere. Right now, several of our companions are sick from the cold, and none of us have eaten well in weeks. We thought Magnus did not know where our encampment was, and our sentries only gave us a few minutes warning before his forces would have reached us. We left without the supplies we would have needed to safely fly here from Dioda like your late grandfather did. So please, I have to beg you, some of us are starving. I'm more than happy to offer whatever services we can provide to repay you, and Cirra, but—"

"I sent some food already," Maelstrom interrupted. "We don't have enough supplies to feed such a large group, so I will offer my apologies that it isn't much, but hopefully it will be enough for the moment."

"A harsh winter?" Aella asked.

"Yes," Maelstrom agreed. "And it has been since it started, twenty-five years ago."

"Magnus is doing this?" the apothecary asked. "His power reaches this far from Dioda?"

Maelstrom shook his head. "A different monster. I'll explain later. I… Not much grows here. Suffice it to say, I hope you like fish."

"We thank you for sharing what you have, then," Aella replied.

"Though I hesitate to impose further, I must insist also about medical supplies," the apothecary offered. "Most importantly, boiling water and clean linen. As I said, if you supply me, I will gladly repay you by offering my services to your forces."

"That will be easier," Maelstrom offered. "Firewood, we have in abundance, and I can certainly see to clean cloth. In fact—" Maelstrom then turned in his seat to face the stout door of the meeting room and raised his voice a good bit. "Centurion, send word to have all the hearths in the winter hall lit, and get started boiling snow in the cauldrons. Gather clean bandages too. You have permission to commandeer anypony you need."

"Sir," came the acknowledgement, just before Maelstrom turned back to his griffon guests.

"We can't thank you enough, Maelstrom," Aella offered. "I know it may not seem like much, but you're saving our lives by letting us stay here."

"Well, there is a part you won't like," Maelstrom countered. Naturally, that phrase produced some worried looks on both griffons' faces. "There's still a great deal of hatred for griffons among our forces. Especially some of the older generations. I believe our soldiers are disciplined enough not to act on their own. But, for the time being, I'm going to have to insist you remain under lock here in the castle—at least until I'm able to get the city ready for the idea of griffons wandering the streets."

"I…" Aella swallowed, but nodded. "I understand. If that is what it takes for both us and your citizens to be safe, so be it."

"There's one other thing," Maelstrom added. "How many of your group know about my grandfather's trip?"

Aella frowned and stroked the bottom of her beak in thought. "I think you, Tapfer, and I were the only ones there who have still survived."

The apothecary, to whom she seemed to have been speaking, nodded. "Glum and Brunhilde stayed to hold off Magnus when we left…" A wave of visible regret washed over Aella's face at that grim reminder, though the apothecary seemed more jaded to his own words. "And Theod, of course."

"Artorius' father?" Maelstrom asked, remembering the name from Artorius' own introduction..

Aella nodded. "He died fighting alongside your grandfather and Celestia… Another long story for a later day." This time, rather than a concern of time, it was obvious to Maelstrom that the hen was avoiding the subject to spare her own feelings. "So yes, only the apothecary, myself, and one other were there. But we have not exactly kept his presence a secret. I suspect most of us have heard mention of what happened. Why?"

Maelstrom steepled his wings again and sighed. "If you want shelter here, I'm going to have to stipulate that there be no talk of my grandfather's return to Dioda."

"Of course," Aella agreed.

"Why?" the apothecary asked. When Aella shot him a far harsher glare than even Maelstrom, the old griffon placatively held up his talons. "I do not mean that I will not comply. I just… I am, you would say, colored curious?"

"There was… a lot of debate about returning to Dioda," Maelstrom explained. "Some ponies only wanted us to stay here long enough to build up our forces and our strength before we returned to take on Magnus. When Grandfather put his hoof down that he intended to abandon Dioda… there was rebellion." Maelstrom was quite certain he had not even given the implication that his father Cyclone had anything to do with said rebellion, and yet he suddenly found himself under the apothecary's piercing gaze just the same. "So… Grandfather kept his return to Dioda a secret. He never said where he found Luna. And if the secret came out, it could make an already unstable situation worse."

"Wise," the apothecary replied.

"We will keep your secret, Maelstrom," Aella concluded, looking more at her companion than at Maelstrom. Though when she said "We can never thank you enough," at least those words were given in Maelstrom's direction, and with far less hostility in her gaze.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

Legate Wrest was waiting when Maelstrom delivered Aella and the apothecary, along with the latter's surgical tools and his bags of various salves and poultices, to Burning Hearth's dungeons. Hers was a stark contrast to the grateful nods and smiles he got from the griffons through the door, despite the fact he had quite literally placed them in the darkest, dingiest, and often coldest part of Burning Hearth Castle. But knowing that he would not escape whatever conversation the far more senior soldier wanted (despite her comparative lack of rank), Maelstrom begrudgingly waved her closer with a wing once he had locked the dungeon door.

"Permission to speak freely, Prelate?"

Maelstrom, with a sense of foreboding, glanced backward over his shoulder—not to meet Wrest's gaze as she followed behind him, but to make sure he was far enough from the dungeon door to be out of earshot of the griffons. "Go ahead."

"We should kill them," Wrest said, completely dispassionately.

"What? Legate, my Father ordered Artorius not be harmed." Maelstrom shook his head as he set his hoof on the first step of a spiral staircase that would lead up to his office, where quill and parchment awaited to carry a message that would summon Cyclone's authority home.

"That order died when three hundred griffons followed him," Wrest rebutted, iron in her voice. "One griffon, we could tolerate. We trust the Emperor has his reasons. But think, Prelate! My centuries are restless about taking in so many griffons. And frankly, I agree with them."

"You want a second Red Cloud War?" Maelstrom asked sharply.

"Better than bowing our heads and pretending they didn't slaughter us," Wrest answered. When Maelstrom continued up the stairs without offering a reply, the armored mare bashed a hoof into the stone bricks of the stairwell wall, sending out a crack that echoed like rolling thunder up and down the stairwell. "You don't have anything to say?"

"The conversation is over," Maelstrom answered flatly, continuing on his way. "I intend to send a message to Father explaining what has happened. I won't take action unless he orders it. It is far easier to ask forgiveness for not having killed them sooner than to raise them from the dead."

There was more than a tinge of snideness in Wrest's voice when she asked "And how do you intend on feeding them in the days it will take him to get back?"

"I'll re-allot rations, and have the griffons fish to pull their own weight."

Wrest scoffed. "And how do you intend to keep Equestria a secret, if the griffons are out able to walk the streets and the docks? What happens if one flies down to Trotsylvania? What if they meet a ship's captain? Will you keep all of River Rock in on your little lie?"

This time, though Maelstrom was again silent, it was far clearer that he had no answer.

Wrest saw his weakness and pressed. "Even if you do let them fish, and if every one of them can fish as well as three ponies, do you think that will be enough? A griffon needs five times the food a pony does. I won't insult you asking how you intend to make the rationing work. We both know what we have now isn't enough. Either you have another plan about how to feed an extra legion of mouths, or you're intending to take food out of Cirran mouths to feed griffons when the city is already on the brink of starving. And then the only question is, when pony meat is on the menu, is it us eating or them?!"

"I think I have a plan," Maelstrom told her, curtly, his voice trying to make it clear the conversation was over by tone alone. His hooves had carried him to the castle's main floor, and since the upper floors of the keep were not connected to the castle's towers, it was as high as his path would carry him before he ventured into the inner halls.

Legate Wrest had clearly already had such a realization well before their talk began, because when Maelstrom opened the door and stepped into Burning Hearth's main hall, he found the room filled with nearly all of Wrest's 2nd Legion, fully armored and standing in formation.

Wrest spoke to Maelstrom in a quiet tone, approaching from behind to loom over the younger stallion, who clearly took his size, like his coloration, more from his aunt than his father. "The Second is interested to hear what you have to say about where their family's food is going to be coming from in the next few weeks, Prelate. Would you like to tell them? Or were you trying to lie to me?"

"I should have you executed, Wrest."

"Who's going to do it, colt?" Wrest answered. "Every legionary in River Rock knows you're a coward. A parchment-pusher."

"So? What's your point? I won't order their deaths."

"I know," Wrest replied. "I'm not asking you to. All I need from you is to stand aside when the time comes, and let somepony braver do the dirty job that needs doing. I'm not afraid of your father, or the lash, so long as I don't have to hurt any of his family in the process." Then Wrest nodded to Maelstrom. "Now go. Send your letter, and see to your brothers and sisters. The new one will need your attention."

Maelstrom, to his credit, tried to build up some courage in that moment to stand up to Wrest. But as his gaze met soldier after veteran soldier, and not a single one had any sympathy in their expression, his resolve withered to nearly nothing.

That 'nearly' is a great deal of credit indeed for a pony in such circumstances.

"At least give them a few days. If Father returns—"

"It would take a miracle to get him back before food grows scarce," Wrest replied. "But out of respect for your father, I will give the chance for that miracle. But nothing more. Our oath is to Cirrans first. Never forget that, Maelstrom."

And thus, Maelstrom made his way up into the castle proper, and reflected for the first time with sympathy on the unease that seemed to hang over his father constantly.

Rarely does one know in advance that one's quill will change the course of history. Maelstrom found the weight suited him ill, as he wrote thus:

Father,

More griffons have come to River Rock. I have confined them per your orders, but there is not enough to feed them for long. I fear they will starve, and it will be as if we killed them.

The Legion sees this too. They want blood. And they do not fear me. I do not know how long I can hold that bloodlust at bay.

I will fulfill your orders as best I can, Father.

I pray to Mobius that I will live to see you again.

Your son,
Maelstrom

7-1 Herd It Through the Grapevine

VII

Herd It Through the Grapevine

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

VII - I

Sole Sisters

A flesh-and-blood (or rather, keratin) hoof steepled itself against its icy skysteel counterpart. The click of their brief union before parting and tapping together again was crisp, audibly pointed, and emblematic. There was no metallic ring as so many metal surfaces give, persisting after the collision. It sounded and passed, a quality that for all its muted volume it shared most of all with a crack of a whip, or of thunder.

"I'm sorry you've had such a hard day, Your Majesty."

Gale sighed, and visibly winced, but she didn't raise a vocal objection to the term from her seat at the opposite end of Hurricane's sitting room. There was, perhaps, something to be said for the fact that the unicorn daughter had secured Hurricane's chair (the very same one he had chastised me for sitting in when I had first seanced King Lapis), and that Typhoon was left to recline in Queen Platinum I's seat.

"What do we do, Ty—er, Commander?" Gale asked.

Typhoon's tan shoulders shrugged. The military mare had shed her black armor, at least, though its absence seemed to do nothing for the sternness of her posture, nor any other part of her body language. "Now, we decide who we blame."

Gale hung her head. "Just say it. It's my fault."

"That isn't true," Typhoon replied, lowering her hooves. "Whether what happened today was an accident caused by high emotions, or an actual attempt on your life, we cannot allow the public to believe that violence in the streets is a way to influence our government." Typhoon waited a moment, and gently adjusted her autumnal tricolor mane with a wing. "I would think I know you well enough to know your resolve is stronger than to be shaken by a few ponies shouting at you. But even if I'm wrong, and you're giving up on trying to integrate pegasi and earth ponies into the Stable, we can't let you take the blame for this."

A heavy breath left Gale's body, shifting her even lower into Hurricane's seat. "I… I guess I just assumed that's what you'd lead with. It seems like fucking everything else that's happened has somehow been my fault."

Typhoon bore a small smile. "It may not mean much coming from me, since Rain being in the Stable is to my advantage, but I think it's a good idea."

"Well, if I ever get the damn deal worked out, you owe me opening up some commissions for non-pegasi. Real officers, not auxilia engineer bullshit."

The request got Typhoon to smile a bit more. "I'm not going to force anypony to retire before they're ready, so those openings may take some time. But we'll keep making progress. I assume we'll need to loop Puddinghead in on this?"

Gale waved a hoof in the air. "Eventually… I'm not about to try and tackle earth ponies in the Stable yet. It's enough of a fight for Rain, and the nobles are way less snobbish about pegasi than earth ponies. But all that doesn't matter two shits right now, does it?" A low growl of frustration escaped Gale's chest as she leaned her head back on her neck and stared up at the ceiling. "If we're not blaming me, that leaves what? The civilians and the Legion?"

"Those are the two options I see." Typhoon tapped her hooves together again and closed her eyes. "Which brings us to the hard decision."

"What's hard about it?" Gale asked. "We can't blame the crowd; they're the ones who got hurt!"

"They are the ones who took hostile action," Typhoon countered. "I won't—I cannot stand for the Legion being blamed for following their training."

Gale scoffed. "What the fuck are you talking about? The Legion exists to protect Equestria! It's literally their job to manage this kind of thing without ponies getting hurt."

"No, for the dozenth time, it isn't." Typhoon's brow furrowed, and she closed her eyes. "I apologize, Gale. This is something your mother and Puddinghead and I have been arguing about in private for some time." A deep breath preceded what Gale immediately inferred was a set of points Typhoon had grown used to repeating. "The Legion's job may be to protect Equestria, yes, but it is an army." That last punctuated word was emphasized by a click of hoof on metal prosthetic. "Made up of soldiers." Another click, accompanied by the firmest of Typhoon's pointed looks. "Their training assumes the ponies in front of them are the enemy, and the subject of their protections are miles behind them. The Legion are not, and cannot be, city guards. You can train a pony to be a soldier, or a guard, but you can't expect the same pony to do both—unless you're comfortable with your guards treating civilians like they're enemy combatants."

Gale cocked her head. "So… why not form a separate group? Is this one of those 'the Legion is pegasus culture' things, or—?"

"Mobius, no, nothing like that. It's the almighty bit. Always bits." A distant look swept over Typhoon's face, and her eyes turned to the room's sole window. Judging by the shimmer in her ruby eyes, she saw through the drapes, and somewhere out onto the horizon. "They want the Legion as soldiers to push out our borders, to seize more land. And they tell me it's to keep the land we already have safe from all the monsters that crop up, but half the time I feel like I'm the one who actually cares about that. But then they want the Legion to deal with policing our cities, too—all right up until I explain the price tag. And then we end up with exactly this kind of mess. But that is absolutely not the fault of my soldiers. They saw a situation that posed a threat, and they reacted exactly the way they were trained to."

"Okay," Gale nodded. "So I'm with you that we need some kind of formal guards that aren't the army. But if somepony's to blame for this… is it really that hard to get the Legion not to break out swords on some rowdy… city ponies? Even just not to take swords out to guard duty at all?"

Typhoon let out a huff of breath. "It isn't that simple, Gale."

"Why not? I'd think a Legionary ought to be able to take most ponies on the street in a hooffight if it came to that—"

"And what does it look like for the rest of the Legion's morale when I force soldiers to stand on the streets unarmed and one of them gets killed? Or for that matter, what happens to the way the Legion looks at the civilian population? When suddenly they're put constantly on edge, because they do deal with the city's criminals, and sometimes those ponies are armed—but now they aren't."

"I don't see why going without weapons has to lead to that," Gale answered dismissively. "I mean, they're soldiers. They signed up to get in fights; that's the point of the job!"

This time, it was Typhoon's turn to roll her eyes. "You shouldn't assume you know what it's like to be a soldier, Gale."

"Shouldn't I? I went in and fought Wintershit, didn't I? What's a few angry earth ponies compared to that?"

Typhoon's eyes focused on her sister, and they narrowed harshly. "You chose that, Gale."

"And they chose to be Legionaries!"

"Yes, Gale, they did. Many of them, because it's a job. Or because their parents pressured them into it. But no matter why, once they're in, they aren't choosing their own fights anymore. That's part of what it means to be a commanding officer. It's one thing to equip your soldiers well and ask them to fight, knowing they might be hurt or killed; it's completely another to throw away lives like they're replaceable or worthless. Not only is that cruel, and a violation of everything it means to be a commanding officer, but when the Legion realized how you viewed them, there would be mass desertion. You wouldn't have a Legion left to command."

"Alright; you want to talk about commanding officers. Who was the centurion in charge?" Gale asked.

Typhoon's brow fell further. "Pinnacle. He's a good stallion, Gale—"

"You're the one who said we had to blame somepony. I'm fine just letting it fucking lie. Better than blaming the victims." Gale made a sort of nasal rumble of disgust, as if she was intending to use the room's floor as a spitoon. "Fuck. Now I'm suggesting blaming some poor bastard who probably didn't do shit because it's convenient… And the worst part is the more I think about it, the more I think it's probably right."

"It absolutely is not. I will not ruin one of my own soldier's lives—"

"I'm not saying you fucking arrest him, Typhoon. I'm saying you say it was… some watered down bullshit; 'a loss of control of the situation' or whatever. You know, something political."

"That isn't how I do things, Gale," Typhoon answered critically. "If you're willing to compromise the loyalty of your own subordinates, blame one of your knights, but I won't have any part of it."

Gale scoffed. "As if any of those geriatric fucks could kill somepony even if they wanted to. But in all seriousness, Ty—"

"I'm not going to pick on Commander when we're in private, but at least please use my full name."

"Ugh. Fine. Typhoon, nopony is going to buy any of the knights are to blame, because they were all clustered up around me or by the wagon when everything went to shit. We might not know who started this shit, but everypony there knows it wasn't them. As much as somepony being dead means there was a huge fuckup, the legionaries did a damn good job keeping the crowd behind their lines and mostly away from the knights, let alone me." Gale rolled her eyes. "As much as that would be convenient for both of us."

"You think the fact that it is convenient matters? I thought you knew better."

"I do know better! I…" Midway through her fierce words, enlightenment hit Gale like a particularly anachronistic freight train. Her chest, puffed with young rage and verbal bloodlust, sagged down on a dull exhale, and she slowly shook her head. "Mom was right. Fuck."

"What?"

"Bullshit like what's 'convenient' does matter, because we're never going to be in agreement. Because the right thing for you to do comes from the fact that you answer to the Legion first—probably before the rest of the pegasi if we're being honest."

"I don't—"

"Save your damn breath, Ty. I know it, you know—even if you won't admit it—and every fucking pony on the street knows it. But I don't owe the Legion shit, and where I'm standing, ponies shouldn't get murdered in the streets, even if they are rowdy or drunk or fuck knows whatever else they get up to."

"So you're willing to compromise on your morals because we're at an impasse?" Typhoon asked, obviously irked by the accusation of her loyalties to her constituents. "You would blame somepony as innocent as one of your knights, if it were convenient? You should know better."

Something about the judgemental, almost motherly tone in the voice of the mare who was, at least ostensibly only Gale's older half-sister set off a spark in the young queen. "Should I?" Gale leaned forward from Hurricane's seat, and then rose to standing fully. "Dad taught me to own up to my own shit. Even if it's a mistake." Gale took a firm step forward. "I'm not going to say anypony did anything on purpose. I'm not saying having the Legion be our street guardsponies is perfect. But at the end of the day, when somepony gets fucking stabbed, it's hard not to blame the one holding the sword. I'm not going to stand by and let you blame Satchel for her own death. So where I'm standing, either we compromise on somepony else, or you tell me how far up the chain you want the blame to go."

Typhoon brought her hooves together and didn't part them. She leaned forward in her own seat, and Gale caught the way her wings half-extended—potentially a way of letting of the heat and stress a pegasus torso builds up with feathers wrapped around it… but for a soldier of the Legion, also a threat.

"I cannot endorse turning this on the Legion, Gale," came calm but firm words. "Not on a Legionary. Not on a Centurion. Not even on my own head. I cannot put my name to it. It would do more harm to Equestria than sparing the crowds would heal."

"Why?" Gale pressed.

"Because I'd be putting you over them!" Typhoon finally snapped. Then the Legion mare brought her frigid prosthetic hoof up to rub her temple. "Because the Legion would see I favored my sister over them. And that is not the kind of trust one regains."

"It's just words! And I mean, fuck, I'm already doing you a favor getting Rain into the Stable, right? You can't call that a trade? If anypony in the Legion asks, tell them that was a deal we made, for all I care. Or if that isn't enough, name your godsdamn price. Give me something."

"I can't."

Gale practically shouted her well worn question. "You can't even compromise? Why? Why are you being so fucking stubborn on this?"

It was fatigue at that same question that drove Typhoon's tired answer as she deflated back into her seat, eyes wandering to the window once more. "You wouldn't understand. You've never been part of something like the Legion."

"And who's fucking fault is that?!" Gale roared, going so far as to light her horn, reach out, and grab onto Typhoon's chin—all to twist her head back and once more lock their eyes. "How many gods-damned years did I ask you—not even for an officer's commission, like Dad handed you on a silver fucking platter, but just a rank-and-file job? And no, I'm not stupid enough to think that's changing now that I'm wearing the fucking crown, but really? You have the motherfucking audacity to play that card with me?"

"You were too young," Typhoon answered tersely, eyes narrowing again. "You still are."

"Says the mare who got handed a Praetorian Centurion's title at sixteen." When Typhoon's eyes narrowed even further, Gale took it as a sign she'd landed a blow, and took a further pace forward across the sitting room. "Oh, right, you were just saying how I was too fucking young; you probably still think I believe all the bullshit fairytales about how you were so inspiring and such a good fighter that you somehow actually earned that! And believe me, I know being born into this Queen bullshit makes me one to talk—but at least nopony pretends I somehow earned it!" Gale was fuming at that point, striding forward until the sisters were easily in hoof's reach of one another.

"You don't know what you're talking about, Gale."

"Don't I?"

"You don't want to be in the Legion that young."

"Why not? It worked out for you!"

Compared to her earlier words, Gale had thought it a small jab. But when Typhoon's wings shot wide, and in a sudden terrifying hiss, ice coated her chair and the entire wall behind it in a gargantuan silhouette of her wingspan reaching from the floor of the room to the ceiling—and almost a foot thick in its blue-white center—in that moment, Gale realized she had gone too far.

"Typhoon, what did—"

"Go," Typhoon ordered, visibly quivering in place—though whether through exertion, or rage, or fatigue, or stars know what else, Gale could not say.

Gale hesitated for just a moment, raising a hoof as if to reach out and support her sister.

Typhoon raised her head and glared. And though there was no more ice, something like frost seemed to cloud her ruby eyes, and the very air in the sitting room dropped twenty, perhaps thirty degrees in the time it took to draw breath.

And so, heeding her sister's wish, Gale left her alone.

Only in the frigid embrace of loneliness did Typhoon allow herself to cry.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

The Retching Wretch was, perhaps as its name implies, not the nicest bar in Everfree City. Originally built in the basement of an alchemist's shop on the southern side of the river Coltlumbia, at the most moist end of the aptly named Down Town district, the business was popular enough with the poor and downtrodden that, courtesy of an economy of scale, it soon came to occupy all three floors of the building, and expanded into a semi-closed balcony that leaned out over the river on supports that, if I'm being generous, could be called twigs with delusions of grandeur. Said balcony, while apparently sturdy enough to hold rowdy drunks and miserable masses alike above the river's waters, had a noticeable slant to its floor on some days, when the crowds were at their biggest.

The bar's name at that time was not, in fact, the name it opened under; rather, it came to be called The Retching Wretch after the fourth of fifth time that somepony, drunk to the point of being sick, made the mistake of leaning over the Coltlumbia to relieve their stomach, misunderestimated the slope of the floor, and plummeted about ten feet into the cold and surprisingly deep waters below.

Two mares (of varying familiarity to our story thus far) sat at a corner table, slanted that day at about a five percent grade, exhibiting varying degrees of fascination with the alcohol in front of them.

"...yeah, up here in Everfree, we don't get any fabric like that. I can get unicorn made stuff without too much trouble, but the best fabrics have to get shipped in from the earth pony trade guilds. And I guess they usually get taxed once in Lubuck, and then again at the ports here, so they cost a foreleg and a hindleg." Lark concluded the thought by tilting back a bottle of some cheap ale in her magic.

Her companion, a pink-orange sort of pegasus mare who wore a distinctive headdress over her dark green hair, nodded. "That may be, but what you do with the fabric is still amazing. I am surprised more Equestrians do not wear clothing more often. The designs you make are so beautiful; if we had such clothing in my home, I would surely wear such outfits every day!"

The second mare in question was Somnambula, the youngest of Star Swirl's traveling companions, and a longtime friend of Gale and Lark's—albeit more distant than that duo, as her frequent travels meant she could only join her Everfree City friends once in a blue moon. I myself had only met the mare twice—once upon my very first awakening after defeating Wintershimmer, and once at Gale's birthday party—but since she has not majorly appeared in our story, I will note she was something like Blizzard's age, and that she favored the traditional eye makeup and spoke with the traditional accent of her homeland, Mahrdina.

"You'd better not let Gale catch you saying that. She hates dressing up. And I'm sure if you gave her the option, I'd bet she'd take what you're wearing over Equestrian fashion any day. It's certainly lighter…" Lark took a brave swig, and a hint of a blush accompanied the words "a lot more see-through too."

"Hmm… do you think she would like to trade, then?" Somnambula's drink, wrapped in her feathers, was only hesitantly nursed with a miniscule swig. "Or you, Lark?"

"You think I can afford dresses like that?" Lark scoffed. "Believe me, I'd trade you in a heartbeat. But being a hoofmaiden doesn't pay that well."

"Whyever not? Surely, if not to out of respect for you, the nobleponies would at least pay their servants well to make sure their secrets are kept?"

"Oh, I'm sure the real 'noble-enough' hoofservants make good bits. But it's a miracle I have the job at all, and old Platinum didn't exactly want to let me forget that. Maybe I can ask…" Her words trailed off as Lark took notice that a figure was wandering toward them with a beer held by her lit horn. She wasn't drunk enough to be lost, at least judging by her steady gait, and given how far out of the way she had to go to even be pointed at their distant (and slanted) corner seats. Her mane was a rather hideous brilliant blue, streaked with blonde highlights, riffed back in the fashion Lubuck's richest and most ambitious brokers of stock and futures would embrace some two hundred years into her future, and her eyeshadow made that manestyle seem conservative by comparison.

"Hey, miss; booth's taken!"

"You think I don't fucking see that, Lark?"

The voice (as well as the language) were unmistakably Gale's, but from her appearance, Lark had to do a double take. "Gale?"

"You think I put on all this makeup so you could call my fucking name out loud?" Gale hissed as she slid into a seat (increasing the grade of the already sloped balcony). "Hi, Somna."

"Gale!" Somnambula answered enthusiastically, though quietly.

Gale was, only moments later, nearly tackled out of the booth by the force of Lark's embrace. Her only saving grace, really, was the fact that Gale was in her own lean way a surprisingly powerful mare—especially for a young unicorn noble. Lark would later memorably reflect that hugging Gale sometimes reminded her of a rock. In that moment, though, she tersely opened with "Holy shit; I heard about what happened—are you okay?"

"I'll survive," Gale reluctantly and hesitantly replied. "I just got out of talking with Typhoon about it."

"Ah, that is good!" Somnambula announced, showing both admirable optimism and damning naivete. "But then… why are you wearing a disguise?"

"You think anypony wants to see me out on the fucking street?" Gale took a heady sip of her bready beverage. "And it's not makeup; it's a potion I picked up from Spicy when we were visiting. I guess horn magic has a hard time with manes and tails, or something. Not that I could do that kind of bullshit even if it is possible."

"Is that why your real mane color is showing through in places?" Lark asked. "The potion is wearing off?"

Gale shrugged. "Beats me; I never tried it before. I only had the one. But I needed to talk to somepony who isn't wrapped up in all this shit, and I'm not exactly the most popular pony in the world right now."

"Well, we're glad to have your company, Your Majesty," said Somnambula.

"Fucking can the title, right now," Gale answered tersely, before hanging her head. "I'm sorry… I shouldn't snap. It's already got me in enough trouble today. What did you two hear about the Stable?"

"There was a riot," Lark answered. "Somepony died. And you, uh… didn't get the lands everypony wanted. Did you shout at the ponies there, or—"

"What? No! Well, I mean, I shouted at the Stable a bit, sure, but not anypony outside." Gale waved a hoof in the air. "I meant I shouted at Ty."

"Ah," Lark acknowledged with a sagacious nod.

"You yelled at Commander Typhoon?" Somnambula asked. "Is she not your sister? Or… half-sister, I guess?"

"Half-sister. Aunt. Mom, sometimes. Take your fucking pick." Gale sloshed down another sip of her beer and slouched down on the table. "But now this whole 'Queen' thing has ruined all of that too."

Lark raised a brow. "I… maybe I got the wrong impression, but you never seemed to be that close to the Commander. Not since I've known you, anyway."

"It was better when I was little," Gale admitted, staring into her drink but refraining from another sizeable swallow. "I don't even know what changed. I guess just… realizing it was always going to end up this way. That us being friends would get in the way?" Gale's willpower came up short in that moment, and she drained a too-long-by-half swig of the oaty stuff, before letting out a satisfied sigh, as if some weight had been lifted from her shoulders. "I hate it."

"You hate being Queen?" Lark asked over her own beverage, leaning back into the unnatural curve of their seats without apparent care for the danger it represented. "It's not like you to give up on something that soon."

"Fuck no," Gale snapped, raising a forehoof across her torso as if about to elbow her friend in the ribs. Then, dejectedly, she lowered the limb slowly. "I still want to do things. But… arguing with Typhoon, I realized the things Mom used to say are true. All the shit I hated." Gale slipped into her royal voice, and though she emulated the elder Queen Platinum's voice, there was less mockery in the emulation than usual. "In diplomacy, everypony is the hero of their own story, and the villain of everypony else's. Perspective is a mirrored sword; remember both the blade and the looking glass. Sometimes the most noble sacrifice is one's own moral superiority. That stuff."

"I don't follow…" Somnambula noted. "Why would one be called noble for sacrificing their morals?"

The perfectly innocent question saw Gale lower her muzzle until her horn and forehead rested on the tavern's table. "It's a shitty thing to do to blame one of my old knights who's near retirement anyway. But it would be a compromise Typhoon and I need, because she won't blame the Legion, and it's better than hurting all of Equestria's faith in my rule by letting the blame fall on the victims."

"Celestia…" Lark muttered. "Are you actually going to blame one of the knights? One of the old ones you don't like? Gauntlet, maybe?"

"I have no idea," Gale admitted. "But no… I don't think I can pick on somepony I don't like.
I'd have to talk to them ahead of time, give them some bits so they could retire in comfort. And they'd hate me for it. Maybe all the knights would, but… Fuck, I don't know. Maybe I just bite down on the fucking blade and let Typhoon blame the rioters. At that point, either way I'm just as shitty to somepony who doesn't deserve it, and it's just a matter of how much it hurts me."

"Well…" Somnambula hesitated. "You know we are here for you. We are your friends, Gale. But if it is advice you need, perhaps—"

"I don't need advice. I know I could go to Mom. Or Aunt Chrysoprase. Or use that spell Morty taught me and talk to whatever dead ponies I damn well please. I just need to breathe for two seconds. Today has been, bar none, the shittiest day of my life. My big plan for un-fucking the mess Mom made of the Stable might be up shit creek before it's even started, somepony is fucking dead at least in part because of me, and now my sister won't talk to me." Gale drained another swallow of her drink, discovered she had drained it, and then floated some coins to a passing waiter. "And I know, 'boo hoo, you're the fucking Queen of the Unicorns'... I just guess I thought that somehow I'd be able to keep it from shitting all over my personal life."

Lark set a hoof on Gale's shoulder, looking her dead in the eyes. "Gale, you're allowed to want some sympathy. You don't have to shoulder everything on your own."

"I'm worried I do," Gale answered, fleeing her old friend's gaze in favor of staring into a new beer as it was delivered by the aforementioned waiter. "I'm worried the more I realize Mom was right, the more I'm gonna turn into her. And I'll fuck over everypony close to me, like I did when Morty and I visited Castle."

"What?" Lark asked. "What happened?"

Gale refused to answer until she had raised her new mug to her lips for another too long drink. "Morty got in a fight with Castle about nobles. And Morty was in the fucking right, no questions asked. But I played along with Castle and Chrysoprase because I didn't want anypony to know about us."

"What about you?" Somnambula asked. "Oh, wait… are you a couple?"

Lark chuckled. "You didn't hear Gale gave him a hornjob in the middle of court?"

"I was distracting Ty and Mom because Aunt Luna was being a bitch," Gale grumbled.

"Oh, bullshit, you were enjoying it." Lark chuckled. "I know how into it you can get, remember?"

Somnambula, blushing slightly, looked between Lark and Gale with her wings ever so subtly raised at the shoulder as the other two friends shared a rather fierce staring match. Finally, the poor mare shook her head to clear her thoughts. "No, I had not heard that. And, Gale, though I know I haven't known you as long as Lark, I would like to think four years is enough time to have gotten to know the kind of pony you are. So have no fear; you will never become the mare you fear."

Gale chuckled, but a dark part of her mind couldn't resist wondering aloud "Is that worse?"

"You could always be like your Dad," Lark noted. "I mean, he was pretty great, right? He sure seems nice to me, and of course everypony knows the stories—"

"They're mostly bullshit," Gale interrupted. "But hopefully you're right."

"If not him, perhaps Typhoon?" Somnambula suggested. "Your argument aside, she seems like a noble enough mare." Then, with hesitance in the form of a wince, she added "I mean 'noble' as in 'good', not like your suitors. And if she was close to you… I mean, if she is close..."

"I know what you mean, Somna. But yeah. Ty and I used to be close, when I was little. She'd let me fly around on her back, and she'd take me to see the Legion train, and… I dunno, sister shit. But these days, it seems like she's got a stick up her ass that she's a lot more worried about than me."

"If you had to stick up your ass, Gale, it'd probably be the first thing on your mind," Somnambula observed.

Lark and Gale both stared at the desert mare for a few good seconds, before turning to each other with almost matching looks of confusion.

"Did I say it wrong?" Somnambula asked. "I thought that would be how you made that joke in Equestria."

Lark let out a laugh she clearly didn't respect, while Gale hung her head in her hooves, disappointed in herself at finding the mistake so funny. "That's perfect, Somna."

"I only can hope it helps," Somnambula answered. "So what came of your argument?"

"I… don't know? I mean, we've argued before. When she wouldn't let me join the Legion, that sort of shit. But today, I guess I said something that set her off completely, and I have no fucking clue what it was."

"Are you looking to apologize?" Somnambula asked.

Gale answered with a shrug. "Personally, yes. As Queen… I don't know if I even should. I still don't think she's right. But… Probably? I mean, I assume so. I dunno if you've ever seen her really use her magic, Somna, but usually she keeps a pretty tight lid on her ice. But whatever I said, it made her let her ice out."

"A lot?"

Gale nodded. "You remember what I told you about Solemn Vow's corpse? Under Morty's house? Like that."

"Holy shit," Lark whispered. "What did you say to make her do something like that?"

"I don't know!" Gale answered. "That's what I came here for."

"Why?" Somnambula pressed, leaning forward over the table. "Do not get me wrong, I would love to help, but she is your sister. Apart from my brief offer of marriage, I did not exactly know the mare."

Somnambula's reference to an offer of marriage was the result of some complex Mahrdinian customs about the relationship between rulers and their priestesses, combined with a misunderstanding of Commander Hurricane's age and marital status at the time. It would perhaps take too many paragraphs to explain fully here. Suffice it to say that Somnambula, three years Gale's elder, had been merely sixteen at the time.

"And surely if you want advice on Commander Typhoon, your own family would know better than us?" Somnambula concluded.

"Dad's asleep, and if there's anything he talks about even fucking less than what happened to him in Dioda, it's Ty. So my next best idea is Frostfall… but for that, I need a chariot up to Cloudsdale, and it's the middle of the night—"

"I don't mind," Somnambula offered. "If you have a chariot, that is. I don't own one myself."

"You're sure? It might be a late night."

Somnambula shrugged. "Better than staking out sirens for three days in the hills. And it is for a good cause—not just for Equestria, but for you two as sisters."

"Are you sure you want to do this tonight?" Lark asked. "You might be able to just talk to Typhoon in the morning, face-to-face. A lot of problems calm down with just a night's sleep. And if you'll forgive me being really honest, you kinda jumped down Somna's throat just for calling you 'Your Majesty'. Do you think maybe you need a break yourself?"

Gale answered by staring down at her bottle, and then affording herself another drink. "Probably. But tomorrow, I'm starting the day off having breakfast with Peanut to talk about smoothing things over with the earth pony delegation to Parliament. And who knows how busy I am. I don't want to let this hang if I can help it."

"Alright," Lark agreed with a nod. "But you need to let us come with you."

"I—Lark, this isn't your fight."

"It will be if I have to sit through another awkward-as-fuck breakfast at your Dad's place, and it's even worse because you and Commander Typhoon are on the verge of killing each other. You need somepony to make sure you don't lose your temper at Frostfall too." Lark nodded across the table. "I don't mean to speak for you, though, Somnambula. We need you for the chariot, obviously, but you don't need to stick your nose in this. Gale has a tendency to cause problems.and you probably don't want to get roped into them."

I will note, for the sake of the reader's understanding of Gale's trust in her hoofmaiden to accompany her on such a diplomatically perilous task, that Lark accompanied that final sentence with a heavy-hoofed wink in Gale's direction, which caused the latter mare to let out a not-especially subtle chuckle.

Somnambula, bless her heart, cocked her head to the side for a good three seconds, and then broke into a smile. "Ah, this is another joke about intimate romance?"

7-2

VII - II

Of Storms of Yore

"What…" Frostfall grumbled at the sound of a hoof on her door. Squinting in the dark, wondering if something had fallen over her eyes, she finally realized that, no, it was still the middle of the night when no sane or reasonable pony would be knocking on anypony else's door.

But the battery of knocks came again anyway.

Sitting upright in her cloud bed and throwing aside her covers, Frostfall looked out her bedroom window; judging by the moon's steady pace across the sky, it had to be just past midnight.

It took a good few more knocks and a good few more grumbles, but the Auditoris of the Cirran Legion finally made it to her own front door in the moonlight. "This had better be important," she announced to whoever was standing on the other side, even before she opened it.

She only barely avoided a knock to her own face. "Whoa, I—easy with the hoof!" Rubbing her eyes with a wing, Frostfall let out a throaty grumble that turned rather quickly into a yawn. "Who are you kids?"

"Really, Frostfall?" When the sound of Gale's voice coming out of a mare who wasn't Gale-colored caught Frostfall's sleep deprived mind by surprise, Gale decided to move the night along by muscling past Frostfall into the small hallway that was the entrance to the mare's home. "The Lookout is probably still open; I'll come find you two when I'm finished."

"We're gonna find a private tub in the baths, actually," Somnambula answered, waving with a wing. "Have a good talk."

"What? Who was…" Frostfall pinched her muzzle between her leading feather and the next one down her right wing, as Lark took the opportunity to close the pegasus' front door on her behalf. "Gale—Your Majesty—what in Celestia's name are you doing here in the middle… where did you go?!"

"Kitchen," Gale called, followed by the distinctive pop of a cork from the neck of a bottle. "Sorry for barging in so late, Frostfall, but it's important." When the older pegasus mare made her way into her own kitchen, she found one of the bottles of marelot (which the sharp-memoried reader will recall were purchased shortly after Frostfall's encounter with Graargh), uncorked and poured into a pair of glasses on the little 'table-for-two' she kept in the corner of her space. "Here," Gale offered, already seated at the far side of said table, sliding one glass toward the empty opposite seat. "I don't know if this is going to be a really easy talk, or really shitty, but I figured I'd get ahead of the curve."

Frostfall sighed, but she slowly walked over to the table. "You know I keep that wine for Typhoon and I to share."

"Yeah, I've heard. To deal with me. Well, I'm the one who woke you up so damn early, so I figured—"

Frostfall, midway through taking her seat, gently deflected the glass. "I'll listen, Gale, but I don't think I want to share that with you."

"Did I do something wrong?" Gale asked, looking down at the wine. "It was just sitting there on the counter, still in a case—"

"There's nothing wrong with the wine. But…" Frostfall hesitated, obviously considering what she wanted to say. At last, she settled on "Sharing it usually leads to other things, Gale. Things that I don't really want to share with you. And certainly things I shouldn't share with you while I'm also sharing them with your older sister."

Midway through a sip of wine, Gale's face turned a red color rather reminiscent of the drink in question. As urgently as she could without spilling, she lowered the glass to the table and pushed it aside. "Right. Sorry. Um… well, I, uh, I guess I'll get to the point then. So, Ty and I were talking about what happened in front of the Stable, and—"

Frostfall held up a hoof, and Gale cut herself off in respect for the motion. Only when there was silence did the legionary speak. "Are you sure you should be having this conversation with me, then, Gale? I'm not going to go behind Typhoon's back, and if that's what you're looking for—"

"No." After a disbelieving moment, Gale repeated "No! Come on, Frostfall, give me a little fucking credit? This isn't about politics. That's just how it got started."

"If it's between you and Typhoon, I have a hard time believing it isn't politics."

"It's—ugh, fuck—look, she's my sister. And I'm not going to let Mom stepping down just throw that away, even if we don't have much in common anymore. So let me ask my godsdamn question, and if you think it's 'too political' you don't have to fucking answer—but at least hear me out?"

"Alright," Frostfall agreed. "I'm sorry for cutting you off."

"It's fine," Gale deflected, waving a hoof in the air like Frostfall's minor offense had given off some odor. "And what we were talking about isn't that important. What matters is, we got to arguing, and I said something that I'm pretty sure hurt Ty. And I feel like I need to apologize, but I don't know what the fuck I said that was so wrong."

Frostfall raised a brow. "Typhoon is a strong mare, Gale. I'm sure she's probably already gotten over whatever you said—"

"She made ice," Gale interrupted. "I don't think she did it on purpose, either. But it was a lot."

Frostfall winced, and then was quiet for a surprisingly long moment. Then she swallowed, building up words. "I see. And… how much do you know about pegasus magic, Gale?"

"I know ice comes from sadness. And I know Ty's the best ice user in Equestria, so she usually has better control over it than to just blow up like that. That's how I fucking knew I needed come up here and ask you."

In the ensuing silence, Frostfall reached a wing over to her glass of wine, lifted it up to her face, and stared into its rich red depths. "Do you know what a 'wing memory' is?"

Gale shook her head.

"It's part of how we train new recruits—I guess just new pegasus recruits—to use their magic." Frostfall meaningfully tapped her leading feather against her wine glass, and a spiraling pattern of frost slowly spread across the surface. "If you ask somepony to come up with a memory that made them feel angry or sad or whatever emotion you're looking for, most ponies can come up with something. But for most ponies, the feelings in those memories fade away over time. We call them 'feather memories', because they're really only on your fringes, and you lose them just as easily as you molt… I'm guessing you understand that, right?"

Gale rolled her eyes. "I know what molting is, yes."

Frostfall chuckled softly. "I suppose given how attentive Commander Hurricane is to his pruning, you'd have to. Anyway, 'feather' memories are common, and they're quite normal, but they fade in magnitude over time, so they don't make for very strong magic. Still, that's healthy; it makes for stable legionaries who aren't going to lose control of the magic they're learning to use. And by the time a memory does fade, you've usually had enough practice that you can will some magic into being without needing a specific memory." Frostfall tapped the frozen side of her wine glass. "For most ponies, it isn't terribly strong, but it's enough to fling a few icicles or freeze a raincloud, if your element of choice is ice, or make a smokescreen or a bit of fire… you get the point."

"But obviously Ty isn't like that," Gale observed.

Chilled wine was raised to Frostfall's lips, seemingly without thought. When she felt the cold liquid hit her tongue, she winced, swallowed hurriedly, and set the glass aside once more. "No. Typhoon, and I suspect your father, and maybe a dozen other ponies have what we call 'wing' memories. Because, at least as far as we can tell, they're permanent. As much a part of you as your wing."

"Maybe my dad's a bad example, then?" Gale joked.

Frostfall shook her head. "I know you know what I mean. But the reason I bring this up: a wing memory isn't just a source of magic; it's not a one way road. When you have a memory that strong, whether it's good or bad—and it's usually bad—the more you use it to fuel your magic, the more that memory and the magic become the same thing. Meaning, when somepony else does something to bring up the wing memory, the pony will sometimes use their magic without meaning to. And the more you lean on that memory for your magic, the worse it gets."

"So that's what happened with Ty?"

"I'd guess so," Frostfall agreed. "Since I've been in the Legion, ponies with wing memories get pulled aside for special training, and from what Typhoon tells me, it's mostly about making sure they learn not to rely on those memories, and instead practice their magic with feather memories of the same element—so they don't have outbursts and hurt somepony. But… well, the Legion gossip is that Commander Typhoon is the reason we have that rule now."

"Ty's that bad? This is the first time I think I've ever seen her freeze like that." Gale frowned as her own words hit her ears. "I mean, freeze around her… you know."

"I understand," Frostfall agreed. Then she turned away from Gale and toward her still slightly frosted glass—now beginning to collect condensation—once more. "You have to remember, Gale, almost all of our knowledge about pegasus magic beyond flying and moving clouds comes from the studies your father ordered with Archmage Star Swirl, after the Red Cloud War. Before that, Cirra used to think the accidental bursts of magic some pegasi let off were the acts of the gods, not something to try and repeat on purpose. Typhoon is probably older than what we know about pegasus magic."

Her explanation drawing to a close, Frostfall hesitated heavily. The wings on her back pulled tight against her chest, and her breath caught a moment in her throat. It took nearly a minute before finally, mercifully, she completed her thought. "I don't know what Typhoon's wing memory is. I asked her once, and with how she reacted…" For a moment, the mare found enough energy to vigorously shake her head. "Whatever you do, don't ask her. Mobius, you might be better off just admitting you don't know what you said was wrong, and telling her you're not going to pry."

"That's a pretty shitty apology. Well, sorry about whatever I did that made you re-live your worst, darkest fucking memory; I don't know what the hell it is, so I'll probably do it again someday, but I feel really shitty about it, so maybe that makes you feel better?" Gale let out a scoff. "I think I'll press my luck."

"Well, apart from Typhoon, I would guess your father probably knows…"

"Fuck that," Gale muttered. "He won't even talk about his own time fighting wars, let alone somepony else's. He'd just tell me to talk to Typhoon."

Frostfall nodded, and then, rather abruptly, chuckled.

"What?"

"Just remembering the first thing he ever said to me. Typhoon brought me home for dinner one night—you were there I think, years ago—"

"I remember," Gale agreed.

"Hurricane walked up to me, and the very first thing he said was 'I hear you're dating my daughter'. So I flat out asked him 'Is this the part where you tell me that if I hurt your daughter, you'll kill me?'"

Gale shared a hint of Frostfall's earlier humor, taking another sip of her (more-or-less stolen) wine.

"I was just joking," Frostfall continued, "but I remember he said 'I don't have to. She's already proven she'll do it herself.' Which, at the time, I thought was just 'oh, she's the Commander of the Cirran Legion, of course she doesn't need her dad to look out for her, which is why what you said reminded me." Frostfall took a sip of her own, now quite 'sweaty' glass, and this time swallowed without hesitation. "Now I'm remembering another weird old Legion joke."

"Hmm?"

"Well, um… look, a long time ago, during the buffalo campaign, when I was still just a fresh recruit who was good with ledgers and a crush on the Commander, my Legate apparently noticed that I blushed one time when she walked by or something. I don't remember what it was, but Legate Grassroots tried to warn me off, um, pursuing her. She told me 'Commander Typhoon has killed everypony she's ever slept with'."

Gale shrugged. "She didn't kill you."

"No. But she sure didn't go easy on me." Frostfall sighed, but there was good humor in it, and again she indulged in her wine. "And before you make that into some double-meaning, Gale, I mean in the Legion sense. I might not have been flying back and forth to Everfree like her messengers, but I probably covered twice as much air with how many messages she made me carry back and forth on the front."

"Okay, now I'm curious: what ultimately won her over?"

Frostfall rolled her eyes. "Maybe it was that I was the only pony who even tried. But probably, it's that I wasn't that much older than you, and all that flying gave me a good figure."

Gale frowned. "I was serious."

"So was I," Frostfall noted bitterly, taking another sip of wine.

"Something wrong between you and Typhoon?" Gale asked. "Maybe I could help—"

Frostfall shook her head firmly, placed her wings on her table, and used them to brace a swift rise from her seat. "I'm sorry I can't help you more, Gale, but the only place I can point you is your father. Everypony else I can imagine who'd know is dead. Now, I do need to get some more sleep."

"Yeah, that's…" Gale trailed off. "Actually, just humor me: who are you thinking of? That's dead, I mean?"

Frostfall raised a brow, staring at Gale for a painfully long moment before she finally spoke. "Either your aunt Twister, or Typhoon's mother, Swift Spear. But… look, just don't do anything rash, okay? Typhoon loves you, Gale. You're her sister. You'd be surprised how often she talks about how she used to take you riding on her back to go flying around Everfree."

"That was a long time ago," Gale answered sourly, stepping from Frostfall's kitchen out into the hall, toward the door out. "Doing things the 'we're sisters, we can get along' way is how I got into this fucking mess in the first place. So even though it makes me want to throw up, I'm trying it Mom's way."

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

"You're going to do what?" Lark asked, midway through sliding aside to make room for Gale in a heated tub of the Cloudsdale baths. "Don't you want tall, pale, and handsome to do that kind of crap?"

"He showed me how a little while ago," Gale explained, rolling her neck. "It's actually pretty easy magic. And if anypony knows Ty and might actually tell me a damn thing, it'll be her mom." Gale scoffed. "Plus, from what I hear, she's way less of an asshole than mine."

"I have seen Star Swirl speak to the dead once or twice," Somnambula agreed, clearly enjoying the warm bathwater as a hearkening back to her homeland. "Though, given I understand he is a very powerful wizard, I guess that does not say much about how easy it is to do."

"Well, it's a fuck of a lot easier than learning to teleport," Gale (accurately) concluded—lest anypony tell you, dear reader, that necromancy is somehow intrinsically too complex to be considered a school with its own basic cantrips—before she lit up her horn. "Let's see… first I run my magic up to my neck, and find that chain…"

"Chain?" Somnambula asked. "Is this a unicorn thing? I do not see a chain anywhere in this room."

Lark shrugged. "I promise, I don't see anything either—"

"Quiet. I'm concentrating." Despite the harsh words, Gale grinned. "There. And if I slide along it… woah, okay, that's still a weird feeling. All that blood."

"Blood?" Lark asked, nervously.

"It's not real," Gale answered. "Alright. And what did Morty say about the Summer Lands? Happy memory, happy memory…"

Perhaps there is something to be noted about the fact that the memory Gale chose was one to which Frostfall had alluded only perhaps a quarter of an hour earlier: a memory of a much, much younger princess of the unicorns, clinging firmly to her elder sister's bare neck as the two cut through the thin sky above Cloudsdale.

"Swift Spear. Swift Spear. Swift Spear."

"Ah!" That gasped out syllable came from all three voices in the pool that did not belong to Gale. And, by virtue of the number 'three', you can be assured that I had taught Gale well.

"Ghost pony!" Lark announced, leaning back.

"You did it, Gale," Somnambula declared, overcoming the sudden appearance of another pegasus rather more quickly.

The mare in question (underneath the glow of Gale's cerise magic) was something like manila or khaki in color, and her mane and tail were an equally unambitious brown. In age (as well as in general shape, for hopefully obvious reasons) she rather resembled Commander Typhoon. "Who are you three young mares?" Swift Spear asked, after a moment to take in her surroundings. "And are these the Cloudsdale baths?"

Gale took the lead with a nod. "Um… Legate Spear, I'm guessing? This is Lark, and Somnambula. And I'm…" Gale hesitated for a moment, prompting a raised brow from the soul in the water before her. "It probably means the most to you to say I'm Gladiopocellarum Aura. But you can call me Gale."

"You're my granddaughter?" Swift Spear asked with some amusement. "A unicorn granddaughter? Typhoon or Cyclone?"

"Not exactly." Gale ran a rather wet hoof past the sizzling magic on her horn to adjust her mane. "Dad—um, Hurricane—remarried."

"Ah." Swift Spear smiled at the revelation. In fact, I would call it a credit to her character to note just how unreservedly glad she was at that news—though most of us who've lived enough to have truly loved like to believe that we would wish our significant others the best after our passing, in my considerable experience with this subject, most ponies aren't quite that that benevolent in practice.

Though, lest anypony reading become too disillusioned with our so-to-speak 'dearly departed', most ponies do come around to the idea; it's merely that first moment that tends to bring out sour feelings.

Swift settled down into the hot pool, sighing in mostly imagined comfort—the extent to which an ethereal spirit can experience warmth or immersion is a subject for a very different tome—and looked between the three living mares before once more settling on Gale. "Well, I'm guessing you magic'd me up for a reason, but if you don't mind, I would like to hear about how things are going for the family. Can I ask who the lucky mare is?"

"Queen Platinum," Gale answered flatly.

I sometimes find that, when I look into another pony's eyes while they are deep in thought, I almost feel as if I can see gears churning, belts and chains grinding away toward a conclusion. But at the core of any pony, deep in the heart of their metaphorical brain-machine, there is something small, something personal, some fundamental truth that provides the energy to keep the machine going. Usually, something simple, like a waterwheel or a treadmill.

In Swift Spear's ghostly mind, those gears began to turn so rapidly that their teeth began to glow orange with heat. Foul smoke erupted from the machine as it ground together, ungreased and unhinged, but still plowing forward. And at the core of her being, one could just make out a hamster wheel, spinning at a dozen revolutions a second. But though the wheel was still spinning, the hamster was stone dead.

After a solid ten seconds, it was Somnambula who broke the silence. "Um, Gale… is Miss Spear alright?"

"Well, it's not like Gale could have killed her again," Lark joked. "Miss, you there?"

"I… You're joking me," Swift Spear said. "You can't… you can't be serious. This is a joke, right?"

Lark slowly shook her head. "Not only is that true, but your, uh… reverse step-daughter?... is Queen Platinum the Third."

"You…" Swift buried her muzzle in a wing (which, being partially translucent, was not exactly as effective as the motion might have been in life. "Mobius have mercy, you're all serious, aren't you? But… how? Hurricane loathed her."

Gale shrugged. "Well, by the time I was old enough know any better, they were getting on well enough to have have me—"

"Getting it on well enough," Lark contributed.

Gale shot Lark a flat glare, before turning back to Swift and dropping into her exaggerated 'old unicorn' accent. "You see how far the quality of the help has fallen these days? But in all seriousness, I have no idea how they got together. Some ponies say it started out as a political marriage to try and keep Equestria together." Gale hesitated then. "Actually… do you know what 'Equestria' is? You died before everypony came together, right?"

"Yeah. At the very end of Cyclone's uprising. But I did hear a bit since then, from Celestia, and Hurricane."

"It is good you are still able to talk to one another—"

"Wait, what?!" Gale snapped. "You talked to Dad?"

Swift Spear retreated slightly at the accusing question. "Is there something wrong with that? It was almost twenty years ago; he'd just lost his wing."

"Fucking hypocrite…" Gale muttered. "Dad gave my… gave a friend of mine a ton of shit for using necromancy like this."

"You're going behind Cane's back?" Swift asked with amusement. "I suppose I should have expected you'd be like Cy and Ty. How are they?"

Gale drew in a breath as she wrangled her mind away from her frustrations at her father. "Cyclone's as good as you can expect. It's cold as fuck in River Rock, but I guess being able to light yourself on fire probably helps with that. He has a fucking ton of kids. And he gives great hugs; I feel like he could probably choke a dragon to death."

"You've met him face-to-face?" Swift asked, obviously surprised. "I… I didn't think that your mother would want… I mean, given what happened—"

"I didn't exactly ask her permission when I went on my trip," Gale admitted. "And yeah, that's the only time I've ever actually met him. He does seem kind of lonely."

"Do Typhoon and Hurricane visit him, at least?"

Gale shook her head. "Dad sometimes talks about wanting to, but he can never convince Ty."

That comment was perhaps the first thing Gale said that truly brought any sort of distress to Swift Spear's expression. "Ah. I… I suppose that's to be expected, if their fight was as bad as Hurricane said."

Gale shrugged. "I mean, it must have been pretty fucking bad for Cyclone, since he's got a crippled wing now, but as far as I can tell, all Ty got out of it was a badass eye scar."

"I think there may be more wounds there than you see, Gale. Typhoon and Cyclone were the best friends in the world, once upon a time." Swift concluded that thought by hanging her head, closing her eyes, and drawing down (the sound of) a deep, filling breath. "But I suppose growing up the way they were, both chasing after Hurricane, Legion politics were bound to come between them sooner or later."

"Is that what… what gives Typhoon her ice?" Somnambula asked.

Swift cocked her head. "Typhoon has always favored ice, even since the very first day Hurricane taught her the first thing about magic."

Gale nodded. "I don't think that's what we're looking for, Somnambula. I didn't say anything about Cyclone last night. But, Swift… well, to make a long story short, Typhoon and I had an argument last night. And I'm trying to make it up to her, but I don't actually know what I said that bothered her. We were thinking it might have to do with whatever memory she uses to make her magic so strong."

"Typhoon's magic is strong?" Swift asked. When all three living mares expressed their confusion that the question even needed to be asked, Swift offered her raised wings to hold them at bay. "I don't mean to demean Typhoon; she was perfectly practical with her ice magic because she put a good bit of practice into it, and most ponies would say she was near the top of the Legion with it, in terms of practical use. But she never made that much. Typhoon was always about precision—in her magic, her flying, her swordplay. Cyclone was the one everypony talked about for huge shows of his magic. Well, him and 'Cane, but a lot of stories about Hurricane got exaggerated in those days. Ever since the story about him fighting Magnus got out—"

"Time the fuck out, what?!" Gale stood fully up in the pool, sending a splash over Lark and Somnambula's faces (and straight through Swift's).

"I know I'm not your mother, Gale, but I'm certain Cane doesn't approve of that kind of language."

Gale completely ignored Swift Spear's protests. "Dad actually fought Magnus? That isn't just some made up 'Commander Hurricane is the best soldier ever' bullshit? You're serious?"

Swift let out a sigh, but nodded. "I'm surprised he didn't tell you himself. It wasn't anything glorious; he certainly wasn't winning. It was at the battle of Nimbus, right near the end as we were falling back. Silver and I came and rescued him, and even with all three of us, it was pretty much everything we could do just to get out of the room alive."

"Was he really gigantic?" Gale pressed. "Could he really make wind? And—"

"Gale," Lark interrupted, harshly.

"What?"

"It's the middle of the night, and I don't know how long these potions last, but I'd feel a lot better getting back down to solid ground before I try to sleep. You can always cast this spell again, right?"

"Oh. Um… yeah, sorry. I guess I lost track of time." Gale shook her head. "So, Swift, um… thanks. I… would you mind if I talk to you again?"

Swift smiled. "I'd be very happy to. Maybe next time get the whole family together?"

"Well, Dad would probably have a heart attack if he knew I knew how to do this, but maybe after I talk to Ty again, I'll bring you up so you can talk to her."

"I'd like that very much. And I'm sorry I couldn't help, Gale; it sounds like whatever happened to Ty happened after I died. But it's been very nice to meet you."

Gale smiled. "Well, um, I think I'm supposed to warn you that there's a kind of funny feeling when I let go of this. Ready?" Only a moment after Swift Spear's phantom nodded, the magic around Gale's horn vanished, and with it, the deceased mare likewise disappeared.

7-3

VII - III

Her Majesty's Secret Weapon

Gale spent the night in her quarters in the Royal Palace, preferring to leave Typhoon her space at Hurricane's villa (though I'm not certain Typhoon was actually still there by the time Gale left Cloudsdale… but I suppose it's the thought that counts). That evening, I am given to understand her 'aunt' Luna attended to her fraught sleep personally, though you shall have to be understanding, dear reader, that observing dreams dreamt so long ago is, while not impossible, not worth the effort of their recitation here. Suffice it to say that, come the morning, Gale summoned the royal carriage, took quiet note of the fact that the number of knights accompanying it had doubled since the prior day's events, silently accepted Sir Chiseled Gem's offer of a leg up to enter its lonely confines, and gave directions to visit the home of the one Chancellor Puddinghead and, more relevantly, Secretary Peanut Gallery.

Upon her arrival, Queen Platinum III was led to what she could only regard as an elaborate greenhouse by one of Puddinghead's servants, built into the earth pony leader's home under the pretense that you could call a room a 'conservatory' even if it jutted twenty strides out of the side of the structure and had not only glass walls, but a full glass roof as well. There, she found the anachronistically bubblegum pink coat of one Secretary Peanut Gallery (but in all seriousness, speaking as an archivist: ponies should have the decency not to be colored after items that haven't been invented yet), occupied with a watering can as he tended to what appeared to be an elaborate collection of fresh herbs.

"Good morning, Peanut," Gale greeted.

Peanut Gallery grinned around the handle of the watering can in his teeth, but took a few solid seconds to finish his watering before he turned. "Gale; sorry about making you wait there. Good morning to you too." The earth pony politician strode over to Gale's side, and then extended a foreleg, offering a hug, which left Gale with a brow raised in curiosity. "I heard about what happened yesterday," Peanut explained.

"And you're offering me a hug for it?" Gale chuckled, before stepping forward and accepting the embrace. "Aren't you supposed to be pissed? Mom said she had a deal with you about voting in Parliament."

"Well, I won't pretend it's not going to be a problem for us," Peanut answered, releasing Gale and taking a step back. "But… between you, me, and the plants, I admire what you're doing. I think it's the right thing for Equestria as a whole."

Perhaps a testament to a rate of becoming jaded that would put the most potent of petrification spells to shame, Gale only barely perked up at that. "But let me guess. You're not in a position to act on that admiration?"

Peanut raised a concerned brow. "What gave you that idea?"

"Star Swirl. My dad. Aunt—sorry, Grand Duchess Chrysoprase… take your fucking pick, honestly."

"I see…" Peanut nodded, and then glanced into the house for a moment. "I can't help you for free, but I can help you. Do you want me to cut to the chase, or can I offer you somewhere nicer to sit while we talk—maybe over some tea, or breakfast?"

Gale's eyes widened at the revelation that a deal was even a possibility. "Um… Alright, let's hear it."

"Alright." Peanut wandered toward the door that connected the 'conservatory' to his father's house proper, and from a small table near the door, he retrieved a tightly folded newspaper, which he lifted with a hoof, almost purely as a prop. "Obviously, the front page story was about what happened outside, but I was more interested by what you said to the Stable the day before yesterday. Since it's all second-hoof—you have no idea how much I envy the Stable for its rule banning reporters, sometimes—I do have to ask: how willing are you, actually, to go behind the Stable's back?"

"What do you mean? You want me to lie to them?"

"No, no. Nothing like that." Peanut put down the paper again, and then laid a hoof on top of it. "Like you apparently said in your meeting, the Stable doesn't officially get any sort of a say in your assigning of domains and noble titles. You only need them to play along because of the stalemate in Parliament over actually allowing settling of the land."

Gale couldn't help but let out a well-intentioned scoff of disbelief. "Wait, are you suggesting you're willing to push the settlement bill through Parliament without any mining reduction from the Stable?"

Peanut nodded somberly, and with some obvious hesitance. "I need you to understand, Gale: I can't promise anything. It's going to be a hard battle. But it's a battle that Dad and I agree is in the best interest of the earth ponies… for a price."

"Alright," Gale grinned, before a little voice (the voice of her mother, in fact) tamped down on her excitement. "What's the price?"

"The first domain you assign to a non-unicorn goes to an earth pony instead of a pegasus," Peanut stated firmly.

Gale chuckled. "You want to be a baron? Lord Gallery, of the House of… heh, 'the House of Parliament'?"

Peanut shared in the off-the cuff joke, though he shook his head as he chuckled. "Gale, I hope you know I don't mean myself. I can't accept any sort of position that would put you above me; I'm in line to succeed my father as Chancellor. That would be like you taking a position in the Legion."

"What would be so wrong with that?" Gale asked, suddenly defensive.

"I… you're joking, right?" When Gale continued to wear a confused expression, Peanut raised a hoof toward his temple; only a glance at its slightly dirty state from tending to the greenhouse caused him to scrape it clean and brush it against his chest before he soothed himself. "If I became a noble, every time I did something as a favor to you, ponies would be asking if I was doing it because I'd been ordered to."

Gale shrugged. "So you quit when you become Chancellor? That's what I was always going to do with the Legion—"

"You actually asked?" Peanut snapped out, before shaking his head. "I'm sorry; it must be different for you, because Hurricane is your father. I just… I can't imagine how many questions that would raise."

"Can we get back to the deal?" Gale asked tersely. "Did you have somepony in mind, if not you? Or did you want me to just grab the next earth pony I met on the street?"

Peanut shook his head, slightly amused at the idea. "Thankfully, I did give this a thought. Would you be opposed to Grainwood?"

"Grainwood?" Gale asked. "Isn't she on the Taghfart? You don't want somepony from Everfree that you can control a little better, instead of a Horseatic League representative?"

Peanut nodded slowly. "In a perfect world, I'd name Representative Bond or Mrs. Rosemary. But I need to sweeten the deal for the League if I'm going to get any of them to endorse voting for the settlement bill without the mining restriction your mother promised. It's going to take a lot of work to whip my own loyal votes in your favor after... well, if you forgive me for being blunt, after you broke our deal."

"My Mom's deal."

Peanut nodded. "True, but that doesn't make much difference to most of our representatives. So the story I'm telling them is that I'm playing the long game. We're going to keep giving you domains, you're going to keep putting earth ponies and pegasi in it, and we're going to use that opportunity to work toward getting domain land mining and inflation in check in the long term, instead of having to cut a costly deal every time inflation spikes and Tough Smith's 'invisible hoof' needs a firm nudge."

"A… what? Invisible hoof? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"Horseatic League economic theory. Tough Smith, the most senior Tagfahrt envoy, wrote a book: 'Wealth of the Equestrian Tribes'. The 'invisible hoof' is his way of describing how economic changes on a large scale happen even when nopony is consciously acting toward them." Peanut wandered over to one of his plants, a sizeable sample of spearmint, and bit a single leaf off between his teeth. He chewed it for a good few moments, before swallowing and then turning back to Gale. "There is one other thing I need you to do if this is going to work."

"Ah… you want me to marry you, I'm guessing?" Gale asked, fully cynical in her tone.

Peanut winced at the condemnation in her voice, and then shook his head. "No, no. This is in my interest, I'm not going to throw it away holding that over your head. I need you to whip some votes for me."

Gale turned her head nearly sideways. "Um… what was that plant? Did it make you lose your mind? I'm not exactly going to be the most popular with the unicorn delegation already, and they sure-as-Tartarus aren't going to be on my side if I come asking them for their votes so I can go behind Aunt Chrysoprase's back on the Stable thing."

"Then it's a good thing I'm not suggesting you whip unicorn votes," Peanut told her. "Talk to Commander Typhoon. Get the pegasus delegation to vote in favor. Use the plan to give them noble titles to get her buy-off if you have to. Whatever it takes; if the unicorns are going to vote against the settlement bill, I have to have the pegasi, and it's theoretically against the Legion's interest to pass that bill, even if only barely. Remember, the earth pony delegation may have a plurality of the votes, but we need a true majority to pass the bill."

"Oh…" Gale sighed.

"Is there a problem with that?" Peanut asked. "She is your sister… I had hoped that would make things easier."

"It'll be fine," Gale explained. "I just… don't worry about it. I'll work on getting you those votes."

"Just let me know when you do; I won't start moving too openly until I hear from you. I'd rather not bring this to a vote on the floor and then have it not pass. That's a bad look for the secretary."

"I understand," Gale answered. "Well, there's no time like the present then. Thank you, Peanut. Really."

"My pleasure, Gale. I wish you a wonderful day."

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

From Peanut Gallery's home, Gale returned to Hurricane's villa. Presumably, she intended to speak to her father, but she found the home in the terribly rare state of being completely abandoned: not just by Queen Platinum I being about town somewhere, and Commander Typhoon carrying on her business as the head of the Cirran Legion, but Hurricane and even Blizzard gone as well (presumably in one another's company). Without any particularly good idea where to seek anypony out, Gale decided she would rather spend the time in the company of a friend, and so set out again in the direction of the Ridge (on hoof), hoping to catch up with yours truly.

Her timing was less than perfect, as I had already left for my reading lesson with Archmage Diadem, but at least unlike her previous stop, I had not left my household abandoned. Perhaps justifiably, she found herself quite surprised when a featureless wooden face greeted her knock on the door.

"Woah, um… hi… new golem."

"And greetings to you too, Your Majesty," said the polished ponyquin, speaking with a slight Lubuck accent.

"You know who I am? You don't sound like Angel…"

Gale's trailing off came from the fact that the 'golem' leaned slightly past the threshold of the door to glance up and down the street over Gale's shoulders, making sure nopony else was close by. Then, utterly dropping his accent, the wood-bodied stallion nodded. "We met once before, a couple of days ago. Please, come inside and I'll explain."

"That voice…" Gale scrunched up her whole face in thought, before releasing it in a lightning bolt 'eureka' moment. "Sol—" This time, her abrupt cessation of speech was accompanied by the violent slamming of the house's front door, courtesy of a wooden hoof. "…emn Vow," she finished, far more timidly.

"At your service, my queen" Vow answered, stepping away from the door and giving Gale one of the most practiced formal bows imaginable, including one forehoof held away and adjacent to his body as his muzzle nearly touched the floor.

"Morty raised you already?" Gale asked. "Actually, is he around?"

"Morty is, unfortunately, not in right now. I'll be glad to take your message for him, if you would like. Though, if you'd prefer to wait, I wouldn't mind keeping you company. There are some things we ought to discuss about your and Morty's goals for the future." As he spoke, Vow gestured toward a side hallway. "Will you let me whip you up a meringue pavlova, or a few tarts or something? I've been missing cooking in Tartarus, and making breakfast for Morty got me in the mood to do some more challenging dishes."

"I… well, it is almost lunch time," Gale admitted. "Sure."

"Excellent!" Despite not having a mouth to smile, Vow's body language made it altogether clear he was giddy at Gale's acceptance. "I can never be grateful enough to Morty—or you, for agreeing to keep my little secret—but it really is a shame not to have a real mouth anymore."

"I would think a horn would be the bigger loss," Gale observed. "Weren't you a big time wizard?"

Vow chuckled. "I was older than Morty when I died, and he's already by far my better at magic, so I don't know if 'big time' really does my talents justice. Honestly, most of what I was able to achieve with magic came less from extreme skill, and more from not being picky about what kind of magic I was using." As he had been reflecting, Vow reached the door to the house's kitchen, and pushed it open without hesitation. He was halfway across the floor to a rack of knives by the time Gale stepped into the room, and only then did he stop and turn to face her. "Do you want a chair? A cushion?"

"I'm fine, um… actually, what do I call you? Do you prefer 'Vow'? 'Solemn'? Or should I come up with a bullshit nickname like I did for Morty?"

The dead stallion gave a wooden shrug, turning back to his knives. "I usually went by Vow with my friends. The only pony who called me 'Solemn' was Typhoon."

Gale blinked in shock. "Typhoon called you by a special name? Did she hate you that much?"

Vow, who had already formed a mouth in his otherwise featureless face to pick up a knife, demonstrated that he didn't need the mouth to speak when he shook his head. "Not at the time, no."

"Really?" Gale watched intently as Vow retrieved a small box of ripe strawberries from the kitchen's enchanted icebox. "'Cause she offered Morty to pay for this house, if he'd let her burn it down."

"And here I thought twenty years might have worn down that edge at least a bit…" Vow shook his head slowly, setting down the strawberries and the knife at one apparent 'station' in the kitchen, before moving back to the icebox to fetch some eggs. "Well, I shouldn't bore Your Majesty with stories of Typhoon from twenty years ago; they're hardly relevant to today. I mostly wanted to fill you in on how I'm helping Morty, and how you fit into that picture. And then, if you'd like, I might offer my services as a sort of… clandestine advisor?"

"Well, if you want to help, old stories about Typhoon might actually be the most useful thing you can give me right now."

"Hmm?" Vow warped his blank wooden face to form an eyebrow ridge, solely for the sake of raising it. "Now I'm intrigued. Is this about the debacle outside the stable?"

"How do you know about that?"

Vow chuckled. "Unlike my young master, I'm quite literate, and newspapers are cheap. And more than that, years learning from your mother taught me to read between the lines when it comes to politics. But I suspect I'm missing some context on how Typhoon fits into that situation. It seems like a purely unicorn conflict—or, at most, ties in with the earth ponies who were expecting the deal on mining limits to come through."

I shall spare you yet another full re-iteration of the circumstances with a brief summary: Gale detailed to Solemn Vow the full details of her argument with Typhoon over where to place blame for the Stable incident, and then of Peanut Gallery's offer of circumventing the Stable of Nobles to grant Gale domains to assign.

As she spoke, Vow gathered flour and sugar and a few other ingredients, and began deftly mixing them, making full use of the magical flexibility of the wooden body I had created for him (presumably making up for the lack of a horn he was more used to). By the time Gale was done with her story, she saw Vow placing a tray of tarts into an oven—one he had not bothered to light or stoke in any way, though the sight of a few subtly glowing runes inscribed on the iron walls and a visible layer of condensed cloud near the top of the chamber suggested there was more magic to his baking than one might expect of a usual pastry chef.

Vow finally answered her as he walked back over the station where he had set his strawberries. "Well, you're in luck—of a sort. But as with any problem solved by pure luck, there's going to be a catch."

Gale's muzzle wrinkled. "Another one of Mom's quotes?" When Vow frowned around the handle of his knife, she waved a hoof dismissively. "Don't mind that. How do you mean 'blind luck'? I was actively looking for an answer."

"With me?" Vow asked. "You didn't even come here looking for me; you came here looking for Morty, no? But that's irrelevant to the catch. I can tell you what you want to know, but the problem is, there are very few ponies alive who know what I can tell you. And when you reveal that you know, Typhoon will want to know who told you."

"It's a secret?" Gale asked.

"Without a doubt," Vow agreed. "Typhoon told me in utmost confidence, only after years of knowing her. I don't know who else knows, but it isn't especially hard to guess."

"Okay…" Gale nodded. "So, tell me, and then we can figure it out?"

Vow let out the sound of a sigh, set down his knife and nodded with namesake solemnity. "Gale, do you know who Tempest's father is?"

Gale shrugged. "All I know is he died fighting Cyclone's rebellion."

Vow's wooden muzzle swung from side to side with all the weight of a pendulum. "Tempest's father died fighting on behalf of Cyclone's rebellion."

"Oh. Shit." Gale swallowed. "Ty was fucking a traitor?"

"I'm afraid it's worse… Perhaps I should just tell you it all as bluntly as possible. Tempest's father was a stallion named Shattered Gem."

"Gem?" Gale asked, brow raised. "Like Chiseled Gem? The head of the knights?"

"Sir Chiseled Gem is Tempest's paternal grandfather," Vow explained, with a nod. "Shattered was his son."

"Wait… but you said his dad died fighting on behalf of Cyclone. Why the fuck would a unicorn ever sign on for that?"

At that, Vow hung his head. "I can't guarantee I know all his motives. But the lesser Gem was a twisted, vile creature; and yes, I do say that knowing who I lived to be. Cyclone needed a… what is the pegasus term… a casus belli to justify his rebellion to his own troops, and win over as much of the population as possible. And the best possible justification he could imagine was if his own younger sister, the carefree daughter of the Emperor himself, were stolen away by unicorns—presumably murdered. And Gem, the son of the head of the unicorn army—as sad and depleted as it was by that time—was the perfect pony to arrange it. He agreed to hide Typhoon in the dungeons of Burning Hearth, and keep her unharmed until Cyclone was ready to free her.

"The only problem is, Gem didn't completely keep his end of the bargain. He locked her up, certainly, but… well, there's no gentle way to say this. While Typhoon was in his care, Gem took advantage of her. He and his repulsive subordinates."

Gale stumbled with words for a moment, before finally shaking her head. "They raped her?"

"For virtually the entire time she was imprisoned. Eventually, Star Swirl discovered her and freed her, but the damage had already been done. She was… if not your age, younger, I think. She killed Gem, rather brutally, but that didn't give her much solace either, as she described it."

Gale's legs fell out from behind her, and she stared past Vow, into a blank space that certainly wasn't in the kitchen. It was a gray void. A place where words regretted were the mountains that made the horizon, and dust swirled in an endless dance.

"Per your conversation with this 'Frostfall' pony you mentioned: that is almost certainly the memory that makes her so terrifyingly powerful with her ice. The night she told me that story, the ice flowed off of her wings for hours—not as violently as you described in your argument, but I imagine no less frigid."

"Why did Typhoon trust you enough to tell you that story?"

"That is a story for another time, Your Majesty," said Vow. "Not that I intend to keep any secrets; just that I don't want your dealing with your sister to be clouded by any other complicated history. Now, if you'll humor me: who do you think knows the story I just told you?"

Gale cocked her head for a second—presumably not in thought so much as at the way Vow had posed the question. "Well, Typhoon, obviously. Tempest… maybe?"

"That one, I cannot answer. He certainly did not know when I died, but given he was only a few years old then…" Vow completed the trailed-off thought with a shrug.

"Dad has to know, given he would have been there when Typhoon was pregnant, and he was basically Tempest's dad too…"

For just the barest hint of a breath, some ripple of expression slipped over Vow's blank face.

"Um… Honestly, I have no clue who else."

"There are two more that I know of. One, I can hardly fault you, because you never had a chance to meet her. Namely, your father's sister, Twister. I can imagine why you would have seanced Typhoon's mother first, but Swift Spear died in Cyclone's rebellion, so she never would have known what happened to her daughter. Whereas Twister might still be alive today, were she not quite such an effective player in defending the Legion to the public."

"You killed Aunt Twister?" Gale asked, frowning. "Dad and Typhoon talk about missing her sometimes…"

Vow shrugged. "You know who I am, so while you have my apologies, I doubt they mean much. I will suggest you seance her some time, if only to enjoy the company of a truly pleasant, and remarkably quick-witted mare. She was your father's queenpin in the Equestrian Senate, and I was never going to abolish exclusive pegasus control of the Legion as long as she was alive, but for what it's worth, I very much enjoyed her company."

Gale winced at that. "Holy shit."

"Was my bluntness uncomfortable?" Vow asked, opening the oven and removing the tray of tarts without bothering to use any sort of handle or cloth whatsoever—the wood, being magically reinforced, simply did not care about the heat.

"It's… in a sort of taboo way, it's refreshing. The honesty, I mean, not the murder. Obviously. I just always feel like ponies like Mom are thinking that kind of shit, but they're all smiles. Or worse, it's the other way around, and they hate your fucking guts but they put on the show for the sake of politics." Gale shook her head. "Why the fuck am I venting at you of all ponies?"

"Because I cannot betray you, any more than I could betray Morty, without risking losing my immortal soul and my one chance at escape, and returning to an eternity of suffering in the deepest pit of Tartarus, reserved only for traitors so vile that they can speak the way I just spoke and actually mean it?" Vow had slipped into an almost poetic tone as he finished that small diatribe, and he chuckled when he was done. "I tease just a bit, but in some sense, I am your most loyal confidante, because you hold nigh-infinite blackmail over me. And lest that make you uncomfortable, that is a situation that I entered into knowingly and willingly. Though, perhaps that's more a concern of Morty's than yours."

"I'm not gonna lose any sleep over you feeling a little uncomfortable, no," Gale answered. "But I do appreciate your help. Now, who's the fourth name?"

"Sir Chiseled Gem," Vow answered simply. "I know a little bit better than you could, because I know he occasionally offered to look after little Tempest—and when Typhoon expressed she wanted him to keep his distance, he still insisted on at least sharing quite a few bits with her. But even without that knowledge, I would hope it's fair to assume he might know because somepony would eventually tell him what happened to his son." That last explanation finished, Vow began to assemble his sliced berries onto the fresh tarts.

"Ah. So, I'm guessing you suggest I go to Gem?"

"In this case, I don't really have a suggestion," Vow answered. "You're going to know whether it's easier for you to come up with a story that led you to Twister, or to Gem, or if you can somehow get him to speak, your father. I can't guarantee Twister would talk either; in that regard Gem is your best bet. But of course, it's going to be hard to justify that you went to Gem if you didn't already know what happened to begin with." Vow shrugged. "Without knowing how well you know those different ponies, I think a list of options is the best I can do. Well, that, and a couple of tarts."

"A couple?" Gale asked. "They're both for me?"

"One needs certain things to enjoy a tart. A tongue, an esophagus… you get the idea, I'm sure." Vow chuckled, and after a couple of strides, produced a knife and a fork for Gale. "There is one last thing I can offer you, and that is a word of warning about Peanut Gallery's offer."

"You think I should turn him down? You think I shouldn't go behind the Stable's back?"

"Defensive, are we?" Vow teased, leaning against the counter. "Whether or not stabbing the Stable in the back is a good move depends very much on what your future goals are, beyond this multi-tribal Stable idea, and how much you're going to need the Stable's help to accomplish them. Certainly, I would think having the Stable on your side would make it much easier to justify titling Morty."

"You want me to title Morty?" Gale asked. "That will completely give up the game about trying to take him as a suitor, and—"

"We're taking care of that," Vow interrupted. "We're going to arrange for Morty to build up a domain, some sort of claim to a minor title on a presumably dead branch, and enough popular good will that your recognizing him will really just be a formality. Morty was very explicit that he didn't want his pursuit of your hoof to harm your rule."

"Holy shit…" Gale muttered. "You really have this planned out, don't you?"

"It isn't all that different from what I was doing two decades ago. Just slower, because I'm not allowed to assassinate anypony this time. Though we may eventually have to have Morty duel Star Swirl over the Court Mage's title, and if it does come to that, I somehow doubt Morty could win that duel without killing the old bastard."

Gale swallowed. "Star Swirl might be my closest ally in the Stable. I'm not exactly sure getting rid of him is a good idea."

"Your Majesty, with respect—you have Celestia's direct endorsement, in the flesh. Nopony in the world could challenge that claim."

Gale had, despite her own efforts to the contrary, become quite the reader of faces from her various tutors in the political arts and her long hours spent in her mother's company in various chambers of the Equestrian state. Vow's face, as featureless as it was, could have fairly been called a bit cheating, but Gale could have sworn she saw just a flicker of something in that moment.

Vow, however, was the senior statespony, and pushed the conversation on before the observation could even settle. "Returning to that final word of warning, though: if you do take the young Secretary up on his offer, you may wish to control his new noble more carefully than most, or you may wish to force him to choose a different earth pony representative."

"Why? What's wrong with Grainwood? The fact that she's with the Horseatic League?"

Vow chuckled as he shook his head. "No. The fact that she's Puddinghead's spymaster."

"No she's not! She's not even a centralist; she's Horseatic League! Plus everypony knows Mr. Shade is—son of a bitch…" In case Gale's flow of dialogue did not make this abundantly clear, her eyes widened in realization midway through her objection. "Would she even have been old enough to have been the spymaster twenty years ago?"

"Coincidentally, there was a sudden opening in the ranks immediately above her position that jumpstarted her career at just about that time," Vow joked with unsettling mirth. "Em Dash had a bit more political insight than Puddinghead, and realized that even though I was ostensibly anti-Legion only, the rising tide was going to benefit us a lot more than the earth ponies." Actively forming a cheek just to grin, Vow added "The wonderful part about killing spies is nopony is allowed to make a big deal out of it."

"Okay… So if Peanut is trying to sneak his spymaster into the Stable, you suggest I turn him down?"

"Well, I wouldn't say that. When you were ignorant, Grainwood's introduction to the Stable would have been the earth pony's gain and your loss. Now that you know, if you're careful about how she is used, she can just as easily be your asset. If you aren't comfortable manipulating her—whether in an ethical sense, or in your confidence to lie to a professional spy to her face—may I suggest giving her to your… Chyrsoprase is your great aunt, correct? In any case, I think Grainwood would make quite a peace offering to the leader of the Stable, if you offer her up on a silver platter, as it were."

"She's a pony," Gale observed tersely, pulling her tarts closer with her magic and lifting her silverware.

"I'm afraid whoever you insert into the Stable is going to be treated like a pawn on the board of the great game, Your Majesty, and very much not like a pony unto themselves. Unless you intend to elevate them to a fully Ducal title, where they would have real power in their own right, their influence in the world is going to be completely decided by what house they find themselves bannered to. If it makes you feel any better, though, I will encourage you to remind yourself: Grainwood is an extremely intelligent mare, and she almost certainly chose this life for herself even knowing its ups and downs. If the newspaper was accurate with your other proposed choice, Iron Rain is almost certainly to be the more miserable of the two new nobles. And if you intend to give one of them over to the… shall we say the 'weeping and gnashing of teeth' that is being bannered to one of the other Great Houses, well, you can at least assure yourself that the earth pony can hold her own."

"You think Rain can't?"

"I think Iron Rain is very good at solving problems she can attack with a gigantic sword she stole from a griffon sixty years ago. The Stable isn't that."

Gale nodded, looking down at her tarts, but still not quite yet taking a bite. "Well. You've been very helpful, Vow. I think I need to go find Sir Gem once I finish these, and then talk to Typhoon and set things right. But I think I have a plan for turning this fucking Stable disaster around."

"Well, then, as one last parting thought: Typhoon adores the flavor of calla lilies. Just avoid the dark red ones." Vow stepped away from Gale, beginning to tidy up the kitchen while also obviously giving her room to eat.

"What's wrong with dark red?" Gale asked over his shoulder.

"I used to give her those," Vow answered cryptically.

Though that parting thought went unquestioned—Gale's mouth being full of tart—it did set spinning no small few further wonders in her own mind, all filed away for her next visit with the dead stallion.

The tarts, by contrast, were both simple and delectable.

7-4

VII - IV

Queen Platinum's Ploy

Sir Chiseled Gem held the title of Grand Commander of the Order of the Argent Chain, but even that prestigious title had been a hard fall for the stallion. Born a landed count to the esteemed House of Studded Gems, banners of King Lapis' House of the Rising Sun, it was a foregone conclusion that the young unicorn would receive a minor military command the moment he completed his studies as a squire of the aforementioned knightly order. What was hardly such a given—for even nepotism can only carry one so far—would be that his courage in battle would carry him to summary command of the entire Diamond Guard (that is, the historical unicorn national military) at the age of forty-two.

Unfortunately for Gem, by the time he was given his post, the Diamond Guard's days of relevance were already numbered; the campaign against the crystal barbarians in which he had earned both his fame and his commission had been fought alongside the then-mercenary forces of one reasonably well-known pegasus stallion: Commander Hurricane. And while it would be a historical disservice to demean Gem's capabilities as an inspiring leader, or a capable fighter in his own right, it would also be nothing short of utterly stupid to claim the Diamond Guard were useful as anything more than reserves in any conflict where the Legion, with their enormous mobility, air superiority, and ability to control the weather, were present.

Perhaps, then, it is no surprise that when Equestria was founded, and the decision was reached that a new nation should have only one organized military, Sir Chiseled Gem's duties vanished out from beneath his hooves, and he was left with only the titles of leadership over a knightly order almost entirely ceremonial in purpose ('ceremonial purposes' being the exact terms of the original constitution of Equestria under which the unicorn monarch was allowed to maintain the service of her historical knights).

It was this arc of the preeminent Equestrian knight's life that lingered in the forefront of Queen Platinum III's mind as she walked (the scandal!) from my home on Ridgeline Way to the Chapel of the Silver New Moon. The amusingly named structure was the successor to the Order of the Argent Chain's original headquarters, the Chapel of the Silver Moon, which had been 'lost' when River Rock was abandoned to eternal winter.

The Everfree chapel was a modest building compared to the temple to Celestia where Gale had first introduced me to Count Halo. It was still a stone building at its base, but up about the height one would mark a story, its walls switched over to wood. Only a single stained glass window could be found high on the wall, depicting glittering white stars in a dark sapphire night sky, and a single perfectly circular dark-tinted void where one might imagine a new moon, outlined in shining silver. Beneath its light, two rows of pews (cushioned, but hardly ornate) led up to a stone altar with a carving of Luna new enough that it depicted her with wings, instead of the old unicorn style where she was imagined merely to have a longer-than-average horn. Beside it, a silver ceremonial brazier and a basin sat unlit and unfilled respectively, and overhead, a silver chain with twelve links hung on a board mounted against the wall opposite the door.

Also very much unlike Celestia's temple, the chapel seemed to only be host to a single pony that afternoon.

Gale had expected to find Gem in an office or some sort of personal quarters—she had never actually been inside the chapel before, and so had no idea Gem's personal space consisted of a glorified broom closet off the side of the main chamber—but to her surprise and convenience, he was standing just before the altar when she entered. Well into his eightieth year, Gem had clearly put on a touch of weight since the campaigning days of his youth, though hardly so much that he looked like he had any trouble carrying on his days or his duties. He wore a single sword at his side, much as he had the day prior at the events outside the Stable of Nobles. Unlike those events, instead of a full suit of armor, painted sapphire and then sealed to a radiant shine, he simply wore a silver sash, wrapped in one loop around his waist and one that swept up across his back, over his right shoulder, and then down underneath his left foreleg.

The stallion was occupied polishing a length of much finer silver chain than the one hanging on the plaque overhead as Gale approached, such that she could probably have reached out and touched his shoulder by the time he noticed her presence. However, rather than stumbling or flailing at the presence of his sovereign, Gem maintained his focus and continued his task even as he acknowledged her. "Your Majesty. I apologize, I wasn't expecting your company."

"That's my fault," Gale answered. "I didn't know I needed to talk to you until a few hours ago."

"Oh?" Gem's horn gently faded as he lowered a rag damp with some polishing mixture into a small bowl on the side of the altar, before finally turning and lowering himself into a bow as formal as one could reasonably expect from a stallion of his age. "And how can this old stallion help the crown?"

"Well," said Gale, "Firstly, I wanted to thank you for your assistance at the Stable yesterday."

"Well," Gem answered with a moment's hesitation, before he offered her a gentle smile and a dip of his head. "I don't want to give the impression I'm happy about what happened yesterday, but it felt good to be useful as more than just a decoration in the corner of the throne room."

Gale stepped up to the altar fully, glancing down at the chain Gem had been polishing. "Sounds like this will be an easy question, then. Would you be interested in having a command again?"

Gem scoffed, raising a brow as he did. "Your Majesty, you flatter me… but I'm a stallion well past my prime." He glanced to the chain on the table, and lifted it momentarily in his magic as he spoke. "Don't get me wrong; I still relish the vows I took before your grandfather. It isn't a question of desire, I assure you; only ability. Romping around the frontier is a job for younger ponies with better joints."

"You kept up with my pace pretty well yesterday," Gale countered, though a flow of sympathy slipped into her tone.

The comment was answered by Gem with a heavy sigh. "I did… and I'm afraid I'm paying for it today. When I'm done with my duties here, I have an appointment with Lady Menage to get my hooves on some balm for my right hip. It'll be everything I can do to get home after that."

"I could lend you the Royal Carriage."

Gem chuckled at the suggestion, good humored but dismissive. "I think that might be a step too far for poor Sir Gauntlet, forced to cart around his old friend instead of the Queen he's sworn to serve." The knight shook his head, ruffling the silver sash on his shoulder with the motion. "I can hire a chariot if it comes to that, Your Majesty. Your stipend is quite generous. But I'm afraid I'll have to turn down your offer."

"You haven't even heard it," Gale answered, audibly frustrated, before taking a moment and a harsh breath to center herself. "Sir Gem… what I'm offering you will not require you to leave Everfree City."

Sir Gem looked at Gale very much as if she had grown another head. "I… forgive my skepticism, Your Majesty, but what kind of leader stays at home while his forces are in the field?"

"Well, you wouldn't have to do that either." Gale shook her head. "I'm sorry; I should have led with the idea. Typhoon and I were talking about what happened yesterday, and we were discussing the need for a city guard that isn't made up of Legion soldiers. Ponies who aren't trained to kill, so we don't have disasters like yesterday."

Gem again raised a brow, but there was far less skepticism in his expression. "Well… perhaps I shouldn't have turned you down so abruptly. But even if this is a good fit when I have heard all the details, my Queen, I still cannot promise you more than a few years of my services."

Gale nodded in agreement. "Look, the reason I need you is you're basically the only unicorn military commander still alive. It would be a pretty bad look if I grabbed somepony from the Legion after yesterday, when the point is not to have the Legion's style of fighting running the guard. So if I don't get you, I'm basically down to hiring a Horseatic League mercenary company to train up some guards. Which would work in a pinch, but they're pricey, and at the end of the day, they're not exactly the friendliest ponies either. But I promise, our first priority will be finding somepony who can take over full time, once we've got the basics built up."

"I think I can be of service for such a cause," Gem said, breaking into a grin despite his own best efforts. "But now I do have to stick my nose in your business... how do you intend to pay for this? We'll need to hire hundreds, maybe even a thousand ponies. And won't this offend the pegasi? Since the Legion is guaranteed to be Equestria's only military?"

"It was Typhoon's idea," Gale answered. "And the entire point is for it not to be a military. It's a force of guards, not soldiers. Which… kinda sounds like a nitpick, I know, but it's the kind of nitpicky bullshit I'm pretty sure I can get to stand up, especially since Typhoon was in favor of it. I'll deal with getting everypony on our side, don't worry. Yesterday makes the need for this pretty obvious. As for paying for it… I have a plan that should get funding into law. But in the worst-case scenario, I'll pay out of my treasury funds. Even if the best case plan works, I want you to get started as soon as possible."

Gem raised a brow. "Your Majesty, you might well bankrupt the House of the Rising Sun before the year's end. Wages for a thousand ponies add up terrifyingly quickly, I assure you—"

"It won't come to that. If it honestly comes to bankrupting the royal line or keeping the guard, I'll marry Peanut and we'll get the earth pony coffers to keep things afloat."

"I… I see you are determined. Very well." Gem took up his chain from the altar, and draped it over his neck, before magically joining it loosely in front—the effect was rather like a necklace lacking a pendant, though the magically joined links had just enough more weight that the symbol of his knightly devotion still dipped down in 'V' shape, rather than looking like an edgy collar. "By your leave, I shall begin to make some discreet contact with a few other ponies I think may be helpful. Do you have a name for the organization?"

The question caught Gale flat-hoofed. "Um… well, I guess in my head I was just thinking something like 'the city guard'. But I guess the point is eventually to be for more than just Everfree, so that wouldn't work. And 'Platinum's Guard' is a little dumb, isn't it?"

"Certainly, if you want to avoid the other problem of your sister's Legion, I would avoid any name that links the guard too closely to the unicorns. Otherwise, we may well end up ostracizing the other two races."

Gale shook her head. "Fuck."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Sorry, just… it's another case of Mom's way of doing things being right in a way that makes me feel shitty. Um, I think that after yesterday, if my plan is going to work, I need this to really be a thing I'm doing. But you're right about the Legion being all pegasus officers. We should make a point to make sure you fill out your staff with the other two tribes. Ideally, when you're done, we replace you with an earth pony, or maybe a non-Legion pegasus. But the name really does need to be about me—that way everypony will see this is the answer to what happened yesterday."

"Hmm…" Gem closed his eyes in deep thought, and then uttered three words that have survived a thousand years of Equestrian history.

"The 'Royal Guard'?"

A pause settled between the two unicorns, a meaningful weighty quiet. It was as if, somehow, they could feel in the air that the phrase Sir Gem had made up off the cuff would somehow change the way the very concept of a 'guardspony' would evolve for literal centuries to come.

"Eh," said Gale, "I'm not sure I'm in love with it, but it'll work for now."

There is nothing, nothing as permanent as a temporary name.

Sir Chiseled Gem stretched a hoof across his chest and offered Gale a bow. "Then let me thank you, Your Majesty, for finding a place for an old stallion one more time. Once I've made some inroads and found a few good candidates, I will request a meeting with your chamberlain. In the meantime, is there anything else I can do for the crown?"

Gale shrugged. "Just indulge a little curiosity. Yesterday, you acted like you didn't know Tempest."

"Well, I haven't met the young stallion—"

"Tempest said he knew you, even if it was a long time ago," Gale interrupted, pointedly maintaining momentum in the conversation. "It isn't a problem, Sir Gem; I'm just wondering if there's going to be some sort of issue…" Gale let the uncertainty hang in the air as she finally yielded space in the room.

Nervously, but also with notable confusion, Sir Gem frowned. "Is there an issue, Your Majesty?"

Gale sighed (theatrically, though with enough subtlety to give her plausible deniability). "I had your past looked into before I came here to ask you about this idea for the Royal Guard." (Lest anypony be confused about something I omitted from the story, this was a lie.) "Mom and Dad both speak very highly of you. But there was one concerning thing I read about, and I'm worried about a potential conflict of interest. When Tempest was a very young foal, I found a few records of you giving quite a lot of money to Typhoon… You're a knight, Sir Gem, and I trust you will be honest with me, so I suppose I'll just come out and say it. Are you Tempest's father?"

Gem winced. "No, Your Majesty! I…" Put awkwardly on the spot, the stallion swallowed. "I give you my word, I would never have violated my honor as a knight, nor the trust of my friend Hurricane, by taking advantage of his daughter."

"I'm glad to hear that," Gale admitted. "But because this is a sensitive situation, I am going to need more of an explanation."

Gem frowned, but his eyes refused to flee from Gale's gaze. "I promise, it is a purely personal matter. A shame for me, but not because of any action I took. At least, not directly. I give you my word, on my honor as a knight, and on the argent chain that symbolizes my oath, that I have not done anything to compromise my loyalty to Your Majesty, nor your mother before you, nor her father before her."

"Also good to hear," Gale pressed, "but I really do have to insist on an explanation, Sir Gem." When a flash of regret flickered over Gem's face, Gale mirrored the expression—albeit for a different reason. Thoughts of just how fully she had given in to her mother's lessons on interequine manipulation and diplomacy, and the pain they caused the objectively innocent old stallion before her, stung her with self-inflicted accusations of hypocrisy. Still, she pressed on. "I give you my word, the goddesses as my witnesses, that I won't spread whatever shame you're holding onto unless I absolutely have to." Again, Gale felt a pang of inward pain, neglecting to mention that her plans already called for just such a 'necessary' revelation.

But then, as Queen Platinum I had so wisely taught her, she already knew the answer to her question. The only purpose to the exercise was establishing that Gem had told her.

"Very well," Sir Gem answered, bowing his head slightly. "I am not Tempest's father; I am his grandfather. My late son was…" And there, hesitating on words, Gem's eyes broke from his sovereign's gaze for the first time, unable to sustain his pride and his knightly integrity. "...he slipped onto a dark path," the knight at last admitted. "I failed him as a father; I was too consumed with my career and my oaths, and I didn't see what he had become until it was too late."

Gale—fully knowing the horrible implication of what she was about to dig up—steeled herself and felt her core tighten in disgust even as she feigned ignorance. "So, what, he got Typhoon drunk one night? They had a little fling?"

Sir Chiseled Gem shook his head, and a slight tremor slipped into his neck as he did so. "No, he… Shattered's little gang thought they could get some kind of power if they helped Cyclone lead his insurrection. Cyclone betrayed Commander Typhoon into my son's care, and he—"

By that point, Gale's stomach couldn't take pushing her knight's pain any further. That, or she simply felt Gem had gotten far enough in his story that she could believably make the final jump. I cannot say for sure; I only know that she cut him off with "Celestia!" And then, in the ensuing moment of silence. "Sir Gem, I'm sorry; I didn't know…"

"Your Majesty has a right to know; it could affect my service," Gem offered by way of consolation to Gale's feelings, perhaps mistaking her own twisting gut at lying to his face and hurting him for some kind of bitter sympathy. "But if you will allow me to take my leave, I am afraid I find myself in need of my balm and a night's sleep."

"Of course," Gale agreed, and as she watched Sir Gem walk out of the chapel, she quietly wondered whether it made her a better queen or a far worse one, that she wanted to throw up.

7-5

VII - V

Two Best Sisters Play

Gale arranged to meet Typhoon over a private dinner at Everfree's premier Cirran fine dining restaurant, Nimbus. Despite being named after a city so harsh and devoid of comforts that its name became synonymous with militaristic minimalism, the restaurant of Nimbus was a lavish structure that loomed in the sky just outside the city's southeastern wall—well separated from (and below) Cloudsdale.

Gale approached not with a private chariot, but instead availing herself of the restaurant's chauffeurs, three teams of pegasi whose sole purpose was to fly patrons up the restaurant for their reservations, and then back down when their meals were finished. The restaurant was exclusive ('exclusive' here meaning obscenely expensive) enough that the carriage the employees brought for her was utterly empty. She found herself grateful for the space; the road had brought more than a few judging eyes.

As she pulled herself up into the floating carriage, in her solitude, her thoughts turned to Sir Gauntlet whose aid she had spurned so callously. Perhaps the protection of the royal carriage wasn't simply a matter of weary joints and diseased horns.

The rich purple calla lilies she'd purchased—slightly blueberry flavored, as the florist had demonstrated with a free sample (in between stammers at having the queen show up in-pony to the tiny stall on Ventral Avenue)—were the first thing she held aloft as she stepped out of the carriage and onto a wooden platform at the side of Nimbus. The polished planks offered a treated magical surface for ground-bound ponies who, while perfectly capable of standing on condensed cloudstone, often found the experience unnerving.

A maitre'd waiting to greet the visiting royal was flabbergasted as the flowers lead Gale's way. "Y-your Majesty, I… that is, the house had not dared to assume you were on a date this evening. Should I fetch some candles? Perhaps a private balcony instead of a room—"

Gale rolled her eyes, and yanked the flowers away from the pegasus stallion's extended wing. "I'm meeting with my sister, not a date."

"Ah, my mistake. Your sister—wait, you mean Commander Typhoon?" After swallowing nervously, the stallion adjusted himself back into formal posture as if he hadn't at all been taken by surprise. "Well, Your Majesty, let me be the first to welcome you to Nimbus."

"I've been before," Gale answered, before catching herself and sighing. "Sorry; it's been a shitty day. Thank you for the warm welcome, and the short-term reservation."

"Our door is always open to any of the three crowns," the maitre'd answered, using that curious expression for the early Equestrian triumvirate, given Gale's office was the only one of the three that actually came with a literal crown, rather than a hat or a helmet. "Now, would Your Majesty prefer to wait for the Commander in our waiting room, or to be seated at your table? We've set aside the looking glass room for you."

"The table will be fine," Gale answered, quietly curious that Typhoon hadn't yet arrived.

Nimbus was built rather like an enormous tiara, taking the shape of a substantially wide but relatively thin arc of rich dark wood and cloudstone. In place of analogous gem fittings, the structure's face was covered in enormous windows. Behind them, tables were arranged in arced rows of what would in a more modern day be likened to stadium seating, guaranteeing that each and every guest had a view looking down on Everfree City.

The looking glass room was, to continue the tiara metaphor, the centerpiece of the restaurant. Rather than relatively squared corners to its windows, the wall of the chamber was constructed with a massive oval window, four ponies tall at least, set in a gleaming silver frame. It had been polished to the point that only the early evening sun's angled rays gave any hint there was glass in the setting at all.

Compared to the majesty of the view, the square table for two seemed utterly quaint. A small bouquet had been provided by the restaurant, though by Gale's judgment and her recollections of florist lessons she'd been forced to sit through as a foal, it was entirely for decoration—the flavor combination of rhododendrons and tulips alone would have been disgusting, to say nothing of the addition of a hibiscus.

The maitre'd pulled out her chair for her, and Gale found herself curious that the restaurant-provided, cushioned and objectively comfortable seat gave her the same chilling feeling as she observed when her mother had first placed her on the Platinum Throne. She contented herself not to think of the issue when the host provided her with a pair of menus, bound in leather like they were invaluable tomes of magic.

"Would Your Majesty like a drink before the Commander arrives? I can give you a moment to peruse the options, or—?"

Even as he started asking the question, Gale had flipped open the skinnier of the two menus, read it at a speed to make book-bound Archmage Diadem jealous, and placed it shut on the table near the host. "A cocktail, with the Braymen twenty-one year. Make it medicinal, if you would."

In the modern day, the drink Gale ordered would be referred to as an 'old-fashioned', made with stronger, alchemist-produced bitters instead of the increasingly more popular blends that were designed solely for their inclusion in alcohol. And, though I am by no means an aficionado of whisky myself, it is worth nothing that no few ponies I have met throughout the long years of my life would consider the use of a twenty-one year single malt whisky in a cocktail to be something akin to a war crime.

The maitre'd blanched at the order, though for a different reason than the aforementioned whisky snobbery. "Your Majesty, I should warn you, that is the strongest earth pony liquor we carry. It is… exceptionally potent."

"Yeah, that's why I led with it; that way, I can have something lighter once Typhoon gets here."

"O-of course." With a forced smile that, Gale reflected, would not have gotten him ten feet in politics, the host disappeared to place the order. Her Royal Majesty, Queen Platinum the Third, was left to look down on her home and reflect.

Beyond the looking glass window, the grand 'X' of Everfree's twin rivers dominated the view. Tracing the skyline from overhead, she occupied her mind naming the city's districts. The palace sat so close to the crossing of the two rivers that it might have been the buried treasure on a map, its blended architecture dominating a district of elaborate but otherwise low-roofed structures. Not far away was the temple of the rising sun, 'Aunt Celestia's most loathed structure, and the grandest of the religious structures in the temple district, all done up in stained glass and oriented to trace the path of the sun even though it wrought havoc on the otherwise grid-aligned streets. Next to the temples was Riverward, modest in its ambitions but, for its low roofs and ample street space, appearing perhaps the most alive when viewed from overhead. Then came the Markets, with its huge flat squares and warehouses. Though the markets had their famous sites: the Broad Bazaar, the Gray Market, the Gilded Guild guildhouse; from overhead the roofs were so similar, it was almost impossible to tell which was which. From there, Gale traced her eyes to the Gates district—not that Everfree had only one gate, but that those were the most elaborate, and also the most well traveled (since the eastern portion of Equestria was relatively well settled, with settlements like Lubuck and Platinum's Landing contributing considerably to Equestria's economy, while the western side of Everfree was still mostly uncharted frontier). Then came Down Town, amusingly featuring the tallest height of its average buildings—albeit because they were stacked atop one another like balancing blocks or pick-up-sticks or whatever other dexterity game you care to imagine being blown up to the size of buildings. After that came the docks, pretty much exactly like any other river docks you've seen in any other city in the world, and upriver from them, the district ponies simply called the Bridge for what are presumably obvious reasons. On the city went, past Little Lubuck, the Guilds District, Horntown, the Ridge, and Gale might have commented on all of those and the smaller, more informal districts still, had her gaze not been pulled away by the door to the room swinging open on the opposite side of her.

Commander Typhoon walked like somepony had fed her soul through a laundry wringer, but nopony had bothered to tell her bones. Her posture was, as ever, starched-uniform stiff, but her eyelids (and the subtle bags beneath them), along with her wings and her ears, suggested a horribly long and trying day. She nodded to Gale silently, and allowed the maitre'd to seat her, and only then actually took in the room—first with a flare of her nostrils for a breath of the restaurant air. "That smell… are those calla lilies?"

"I asked the florist what tasted good today," Gale lied, smiling across the table at her older sister. Gale noticed that, as Typhoon rested her prosthetic hoof on the tabletop, the perpetual mist surrounding it was thicker than usual. "Could you tell just by the smell?"

"A… well, an old coltfriend of mine used to get them for me." Ty glanced away. "It ended badly. But they're still tasty. Let's just talk about something else." When Gale's mind filled in the name of the stallion who had recommended the flowers, however, she couldn't help but wince—gasping as she did. And the noise pulled Typhoon's sharp, military eyes instantly from her memories. "Something wrong?"

"No, I just… I thought you always preferred mares." It wasn't the perfect cover for her reaction, and Gale couldn't help but suspect Typhoon would call her on it. Gale knew she would normally have been curious, not shocked. So she decided the best thing to distract from the issue was putting her hoof back in her mouth, just like it had been the last time she spoke to Typhoon. "Especially after I heard..."

"Hmm?" Typhoon cocked her head, not following.

"Ty, I wanted to apologize to you. For two things, I guess. First, I know what I said last time we talked hurt you. It was cruel. I was being a bitch. On purpose; I'm sure you know. But I didn't mean to cut deep like that."

"Water under the bridge," Typhoon insisted, waving her wing dismissively. "Besides, you had no way of knowing."

"No. But… well, the second thing I need to apologize for is that I do now."

Typhoon winced, and then her eyes simply didn't widen again, glaring daggers at Gale. "Dad thought your apology was worth my secrets?"

"What? No!" Gale shook her head and her hooves fervently. "It was Sir Gem. And before you get mad at him, he tried to tell me it was a bad idea. But… well, you know how knights get when the Queen gives an order."

Typhoon's expression withered from a scowl to a tired frown, and she massaged her temple with a feather. "What all did he tell you?"

"He told me about you, and his son. What… what happened to you during Cyclone's uprising. And that he's Tempest's other grandpa, besides Dad. Does Tempest know?"

Typhoon shook her head. "I told him his father died in River Rock. But I'm pretty sure he assumes it was another loyal soldier. Don't tell him."

"I wasn't going to," Gale insisted. "I promise, Ty, I would never tell anypony." Then she swallowed. "Is that your… what did Frostfall call it? Your 'wing memory'?"

"One of them," Typhoon answered coldly, reaching forward to take a calla lily between two feathers. Frost spread from her feathers to cover the flower, and she bit off its head with a notably icy crunch, before letting out a small sigh of comfort. "I forgive you, Gale. But I hope you can see now, Gale: not every secret is about power." With a sharp intake of breath, she added "Digging them up is like ripping off a scab. What are you drinking?"

The sudden change of pace gave Gale just a moment of pause. Then she grinned. "A whisky cocktail. The strongest earth pony stuff they had."

"Didn't Dad teach you anything? We're at Nimbus, and you ordered an earth pony drink?"

"If I want a beer that tastes like it's from a country nopony younger than Dad has even fucking seen, I'll drink something he brewed himself. Then I can suffer through hearing how he grew up on that little farm in Zephyrus, and bla bla bla… but sometimes, I just want to take the edge off the fast way. You know? It's why I hide real liquor instead of beer in the royal carriage."

"You hide alcohol in the royal carriage?"

Gale broke into a wide grin. "Of course!"

"How?" Typhoon pressed.

And so they continued a deeply personal and utterly banal series of conversations which bear little value in repeating, except to remind you once again that Typhoon and Gale were family, and that Gale looked up to her older sister in every regard except the physical. They joked about Hurricane, discussed the most minor of inconveniences and shared struggles of leadership, and even (briefly) touched on the subject of romance—though Frostfall was such a lovely mare, I won't be so rude to her memory as to share how that actual comparison turned out.

At last, though, after putting away what should easily have been a feast for four—a steak each (Cirrans…), a salad that the waiter had warned them normally served six, three baskets of bread, a small cauldron of rich carrot soup, and a honeyed spongecake, all washed down with three bottles of wine, two cocktails, and despite Gale's objections, two bottles of 'Old Cirran' ale—after all that, the conversation slowed.

When the maitre'd entered the room to check on his increasingly lucrative table, and to offer post-meal comforts—a second desert, further drinks, perhaps a smoke—he found Gale running a hoof down the bridge of her muzzle, a look of consternation dominating her expression.

"You're wanting to settle what we were talking about earlier?" Typhoon asked, steepling her wings in a posture I always assumed must be uncomfortable for a pegasus. "If so, Your Majesty," Typhoon chose that term carefully, and though she did not emphasize it by her tone, she did pause a moment to draw attention to the title. "Then even though I forgive you, my position hasn't changed."

"I didn't expect it to, Ty." The shortened name earned a brief but pointed frown, which Gale promptly ignored. "I'm not going to blame the Legion. And I'm not gonna blame you in particular either… well, except I guess as much as I'm also gonna blame Mom and Puddinghead for not having set up your guard idea in the first place."

Typhoon cocked her head. "You're going to set up a domestic guard force for Everfree City?"

"Everfree first," Gale nodded. "But if it isn't a complete disaster, we'll spread it all over Equestria. I'm calling it the 'Royal Guard', because I need to play up that it was my idea—I have to come out of this with some kind of win. But for it to work at all, I need your help."

"I'll say whatever you need."

Gale shook her head. "Not 'say', Ty. I need votes. Pegasus votes in parliament, for two things."

"Okay?" Typhoon leaned back in her seat and lowered her wings, a bit disarmed by the proposal. "Name your price."

"Exactly," Gale agreed, and when that reply confused Typhoon further, she clarified with another single word. "'Price'. I need votes in Parliament to either raise taxes, or to reallocate some money from the Legion to move it away from the forces you're paying to do guardwork right now. Probably both if we can manage it."

At the mention of the loss of money to the Legion, Typhoon frowned, but she gave a slow nod. "I… can probably do that."

"I also need those votes to allocate our new frontier territories into noble domains; that comes with the usual trade of Iron Rain getting a noble title, and the promise of more to come with time."

At that explanation, Typhoon outright cocked her head. "You got the unicorn votes to pass that?"

"I don't yet. But between you, me, and the wall, I have the earth pony votes. So…" Gale took a deep breath and grinned. "So tomorrow, I'm gonna go talk to Aunt Chrysoprase, and tell her I got the settlement bill without the tax increase, and I'm gonna get to appoint whoever the fuck I want to noble titles in the Stable. So the only choice she really has is whether to whip the unicorn votes for me in Parliament, or look like a complete godsdamned moron when my bill passes using only earth pony and pegasus votes."

Typhoon blinked slowly, and then asked "How?" And before Gale could answer, she continued "I hope this doesn't come across as rude, but… I didn't think you were that good at politics? That's the kind of a coup I would have expected from your mother or Aunt Twister."

Gale shrugged. "Peanut handed me most of it on a silver platter. The only catch is I have to put an earth pony in the stable first—but I hope you trust me that I'll get Rain in too."

"Who'd he ask for?"

Gale caught herself from blurting out a spy, and stared at Typhoon for a notable moment before bringing herself to answer "Grainwood. The merchant from Lubuck."

"Huh… Any idea why?"

"Trying to play nice with the Horseatic League. Or at least, that's what he said when I asked." Despite the technical truth, Gale's gut twisted itself in imitation of a fine Lubuck pretzel. "If I had to guess, he's trying to make a play to get in bed with me… or well, pretend to anyway. But you get my point."

"Making nice since not being a unicorn puts him at a handicap?" Ty chuckled. "Alright, Your Majesty. I can't promise unanimous, but you've got a deal."

7-6

VII - VI

A Harsh Deal

Grand Duchess Chrysoprase frowned when one of the Stable's servants entered her office. "I trust this is important?" she asked, depositing her quill into her inkwell.

"My apologies for interrupting; Queen Platinum is asking to see you." The mousy young mare, a third-daughter of some baronet Chrysoprase was sure she could come up with the name of if she spent a few seconds tracing family trees in her mind, kept her eyes locked on the floor of the office. "Should I tell Her Majesty that you will be out when you're done, or—"

"Oh, Sisters, no," Chrysoprase corrected with a gentle (and calculated) chuckle. "Her Majesty certainly counts as important. Please, see her in."

Nodding nervously, the filly departed, and when Gale entered a moment later, the way the only slightly older Queen carried herself told Chrysoprase everything she needed to know about how the subsequent conversation was going to proceed. Nevertheless, she quirked a brow, and asked the obvious question anyway. "How can I be of service to the crown, Your Majesty?"

Gale, failing to suppress a grin at the sensation of victory over the stubborn ways of the Stable, answered with a hint of pride much more befitting yours truly. "Things are going quite well for me, actually; I stopped by because I wanted to do you a favor by letting you know the state of some negotiations, and then I was thinking we might make a trade."

"Oh? Your kindness with the gift of knowledge is appreciated, then." Chrysoprase leaned back on her seat and steepled her forehooves. "But do go on."

"At tomorrow's meeting of Parliament, the settlement bill is going to pass," Gale explained.

Chrysoprase raised a brow. "Hmm… Are you certain? You'd need at least half of the unicorn body of votes, and while I'm certain you might have wrangled some to your cause—"

"I don't need any unicorn votes," Gale interrupted, bringing even greater surprise to Chrysoprase's brow. "I made arrangements with Typhoon and Peanut Gallery. I have enough pegasus and earth pony votes to get the bill through."

"Really? I'm very curious what you had to trade away to make that miracle a reality. But let's set that aside. What concerns me most is the optics of unity between the crown and the Stable. You would willingly go behind the back of your own tribe?"

"I'm not stupid enough to think that's a good look," Gale answered with a nod. "But I think I made it clear in my speech to the stable that if a bad look is what it takes to move Equestria forward, that doesn't bother me. That's what I want to make a deal about." Gale helped herself to a seat in front of her great-aunt's desk. "Peanut wants an earth pony on the stable before I name a pegasus. He suggested Grainwood. And because he presented her as just a Horseatic League representative, and the choice as his way of building up some unity and goodwill within the earth pony tribe, I'm pretty he doesn't know that I know who Grainwood really is."

"Which is…" Chrysoprase prompted.

"Puddinghead's spymaster."

Grand Duchess Chrysoprase raised her brows in genuine surprise, though perhaps not for the reason Gale would have liked to believe. A moment later, she leaned fiercely forward. "Your allegation does make a certain kind of sense, Your Majesty. But I assume you have evidence to back these claims."

Gale winced. "I… Well, a mare does have to have her secrets."

"Perhaps. But your offer doesn't seem especially valuable if I can't verify it." Chrysoprase glanced across her desk, lifted a piece of blank parchment, and unrolled it in front of her. "Do you have a better offer?"

Gale scoffed, and then stared deep into her Great Aunt's eyes. I generally refrain from digging too far into Gale's mind in describing these interactions, but I fear without some description of her thoughts, her next comment might seem insane.

I've highlighted before that Gale, despite her deep hatred of the idea that she might become like her mother, had learned more than a bit of the raw skills that underlie statesmareship: oratory, history, negotiation, and so forth. One skill she had practiced more than any other, however, and that was the art of reading another pony—honed not with Platinum's hired tutors, but in countless hours staring into Iron Rain's eye during their duels, and learning to read the thoughts in the older mare's head by the way she moved, and even more over card tables with Tempest and Lark, or whatever nobles happened to be at hoof, fleecing everypony of whatever happened to be on the table for coin despite probably being twice as inebriated as anypony else present.

Chrysoprase was a harder foe than any against whom Gale usually practiced, since she was trained in hiding such things—in cold fact, by Gale's own admission, Chrysoprase was far and away her better. The Grand Duchess, however, suffered a massive handicap to her 'score': the fact that her bluff had called up heavy and painful emotion in the aged mare. And so, Gale found herself at an advantage, and called.

"You already know," Gale prodded.

"I… beg your pardon?"

"You didn't doubt me at all. You were surprised when I said Grainwood was a spy, but you don't sound like you don't believe me. You're not asking for proof to convince you; you're asking because you want to know my source. And you let a little emotion slip; did I worry you? Which means this was a secret you were keeping from Mom, and you've lost an advantage you have over me."

Chrysoprase gritted her teeth for a second, took a short breath, and then nodded. "Your Majesty is more competent than I had given credit for; that's my mistake. You've read me like a book." That was a lie, but one which slipped past Gale effortlessly. "I will make arrangements with my representatives in the Stable in exchange for Grainwood. Congratulations on your victory, Your Majesty. Might I treat you to a drink before you depart?"

Gale did, in fact, take the offered drink—and despite how ominous Chrysoprase's timing might have been, it proved not to have been poisoned. Satisfied and wearing a smile after an exchange of political words—an hitherto unheard of reaction for the young unicorn monarch—Gale departed Chrysoprase's office.

No sooner was she out of earshot than the office's bell, summoning a servant, rang ferociously with Chrysoprase's urgency. The Grand Duchess' demands were simple, and in a matter of less than an hour, they were carried out.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

Star Swirl the Bearded teleported into Chrysoprases' office about three-quarters of an hour after Gale left, carrying a gnarled wooden staff and wearing a bandolier (rather like the one he had arranged for me during my duel with Wintershimmer) equipped with an array of potions, scrolls, and miscellaneous magical accouterments.

"You said there was some magical danger?" the old wizard demanded before the noise of the 'pop' of his teleportation had even left his fellow noble's ears.

Chrysoprase sat with raised brows for a moment before she collected herself and nodded to a seat. "I didn't mean of the sort that needed violence for its resolution; I'm sorry if my messenger failed to capture the nuance of my request."

For that admission, Star Swirl let out a groan. "And I was rather busy… but very well; I'm here now. Am I to be wearing the hat of the Duke of House Zodiac for this meeting?"

"No, your pointy one will do just fine, Archmage." Chrysoprase chuckled, and offered the old mage a glass of wine from the same bottle which had been decanting on her desk since Gale's departure. "But I'm glad you came quickly; it is a matter of serious concern to me."

Star Swirl took a seat and refused the glass of wine with a wave of a forehoof. "Let's skip the pleasantries and get straight to the problem."

Chrysoprase gave a nod. "Earlier today, Queen Platinum came into my office to offer me Puddinghead's spymaster on a silver platter."

"The new queen, or—"

"Just as you are very precise with your magic, Archmage, I am very precise with noble titles. The elder Platinum is now the Queen-Mother. But for the sake of being explicit, I mean…" And here, Chrysoprase let out a sigh. "...Gale."

"Ah." Star Swirl raised a brow. "That seems uncharacteristically cut-throat of her."

"Towards me, perhaps, but certainly not toward…" Here, Chrysoprase hesitated. "What I am about to tell you, I need your word you will keep secret."

"So long as it does not lead to the harm of another pony, you have my word."

That, evidently, was good enough for Chrysoprase. "Miss Grainwood is Puddinghead's spymaster. That much I've known for something like twenty years. Puddinghead—or more likely, Grainwood herself—generally put forward the idea that her role belongs to Mr. Thrown Shade, who is generally successful in acting the part enough that those who go looking tend to wind up assuming he is the ultimate power behind the earth pony espionage apparatus. Their ploy is quite effective; it would probably have fooled me, had I not known about her appointment the very day Puddinghead granted it all those years ago."

"I assume you're referring to Solemn Vow?" Star Swirl asked.

"The very same. Obviously, I didn't know that he'd found out about the change in power because he assassinated Grainwood's predecessor—honestly, even now that's an assumption—but he did use the fact that he knew about the new spymaster as a piece of information to push himself into our good graces."

"Very well." Star Swirl nodded. "But Solemn Vow has been dead for all those years you're talking about—a brief resurrection by Wintershimmer in the recent debacle notwithstanding. So I fail to see your concern."

"My concern," explained Chrysoprase, "is that Her Majesty just isn't skilled enough to have figured this out on her own."

"So Platinum—the Queen-Mother, I mean… she told her?"

"Platinum doesn't know either," Chrysoprase explained. "Vow only told me. He'd already won her over with his speeches against the Legion and Hurricane, after what happened to her late husband. But all that is to say: I'm worried that Her Majesty might be… how do I put this? Cheating at the Great Game?"

Star Swirl cocked his head for a moment, his magically-oriented mental gears a struggling a bit with the political finery of the question, before he finally spoke up between his bushy beard and moustache. "You're worried Coil is following Vow's path?"

"From where I sit, the metaphor is painfully obvious. Wintershimmer's student, come to Equestria, seducing the Queen for his own political gains—"

Star Swirl chuckled at that. "I am quite confident that whatever relationship exists between our young new Queen and Morty isn't in the interest of a political career. I have my concerns about Morty's use of unethical magic, but it certainly isn't because he's a murderer or a conspirator like Vow. He's a young stallion facing a very difficult question about his future."

After waiting for a moment, Chrysoprase nodded. "Would you care to elaborate?"

"I wouldn't, no." When Star Swirl's comment earned a disapproving frown, he elaborated. "Morty is not a political threat to you."

"To me, I'm sure," Chrysoprase replied, before taking a sip of wine. "But you'll forgive me if I tell you that I learned a hard lesson from Solemn Vow twenty years ago, and I am not about to take it on faith that a stallion in a black and red jacket, willing to murder an upstanding member of the Stable in cold blood and in open court in front of the Queen and Lady Celestia alike, is simply 'a good pony'."

"He's not like Vow."

"I recall that in the aftermath of Vow's murders, you admitted that he had told you in confidence that he had been Wintershimmer's apprentice."

Star Swirl sighed. "He disclosed that to me in confidence, and because I believed Wintershimmer had mistreated him, I promised to keep his secret. Besides which, he was very convincing in demonstrating that he wasn't a competent mage."

"Precisely," Chrysoprase agreed. "You've been fooled before. And if we had pooled our knowledge then, perhaps we would have spared the lives of some of Vow's victims."

"This is different, Grand Duchess."

"It isn't to me," she insisted, before picking up the still-decanting wine bottle, and lifting it fully to her lips with magic in a rather ignoble motion. A drop ran down her lips like blood before she dabbed it away with a hoofkerchief. "Our new queen could topple Equestria, or she could truly make it a better place for everypony in it—unicorns especially. Even if the Coil colt isn't another Solemn Vow, though—and you admit you question his ethics, so that's hardly a given—even if he is truly good, I cannot take that on faith. I need to know your concerns, so that I know whether I need to suspect it is his influence on Her Majesty that is leading her down a bad path for Equestria, or if I need to pursue other leads. So let me reiterate: I am not asking you to divulge your secret because I want to hurt the colt. I am asking because you telling me will be far less painful for him than what he will experience if I am forced to… dig."

Star Swirl sighed, and hung his head. "I promised him."

"And I can see you intend to take that promise very seriously." Chrysoprase looked away from the old wizard and down at her desk. "I will have to pursue this by other means. Do you happen to know if Lady Luna is occupied this evening? Or, for that matter, if the guest house on the end of Muffintop Row is still occupied?"

Star Swirl frowned at the first question, and winced at the second. "There's no need to invade his privacy like that, I swear—"

"If it wasn't clear, Archmage, I cannot let this matter drop—neither in my obligation to the Stable, in pursuing what source was able to give the Queen this information, nor in the risk that Coil may be the next Baron Card. I apologize for presenting you with this challenge of your ethics, choosing between making Coil suffer my methods or breaking your promise to him. You have my sympathies. But my sympathies to you do not, and cannot, outweigh those I feel for Duchess Pearl, and Master Em Dash, and Senator Celsus, and Twister Stormblade, and all Vow's other victims. I trust you understand. That concludes our business; the door is behind you, though you are of course welcome to teleport back to whatever it was that had you so busy before my message arrived. Good day, Duke Zodiac."

Chrysoprase didn't even wait for a reply; she lowered her eyes to a blank sheet of parchment, dipped her quill, and began to scratch out a letter.

But Star Swirl seemed to disagree with his dismissal. The old hairy wizard drew in a heavy, guilty breath, and let it out through nostrils that rippled from the force of the huff. His wrinkled eyes closed and his already creased brow grew still more scrunched beneath the belled brim of his ridiculous hat.

"Mortal Coil didn't manage to defeat Wintershimmer without taking some harm himself. He has managed to contract the Scourge of Kings."

Despite having 'won', Chrysoprase was hardly pleased; instead, her magic dropped the quill, creating quite a blot of messy ink on the top-left corner of her page. "I don't follow."

"I cannot put it into smaller words," Star Swirl answered, raising his eyes to match Chyroprase's disbelieving gaze. "He is dying; his horn is rotting."

"I wasn't aware the disease was transmissible outside the royal line; is he contagious?"

Star Swirl shook his head firmly. "It was a side effect of the power of his magic, and its overuse in their duel. I doubt there are four other unicorns in Equestria who could replicate his unfortunate discovery. Alas, because of the peculiar shape of his horn, when he uses magic, it is far worse for him than any member of the royal line. I told him each spell would cost him a year, rather than just a day like it was for late King Lapis."

In perhaps the only display of sympathy I ever won from Chrysoprase, she muttered "Goddesses…"

"Which is why Morty wants to repeat Wintershimmer's last horrible experiment, and transplant a new horn onto his head."

"Ah." Chrysoprase nodded. "I do remember hearing about the victims of that experiment. But if Coil is proposing that kind of murder, surely—"

"The experiments would not need to be repeated," Star Swirl explained. "The only pony who would have to endure the suffering is Coil himself. I admit, on the topic of ethical dilemmas, his is more abstract than a question of murder. Some magic should not be preserved. And as Count Halo discovered, that is not the only element of Wintershimmer's research that I am hoping the colt will not pass on."

"Ah," was all Chrysoprase had to say in response. "So to reiterate, Coil isn't a player of risk in the Great Game because he is too concerned with the question of whether or not his horn will kill him?"

"That," Star Swirl agreed, "and however strong his friendship with the young Queen might be, I doubt her problems are worth shaving years off his life to solve with magic. Especially given I am at her disposal for those kinds of things." There was a bit of notable disgruntlement in Star Swirl's voice at that added comment, before the old wizard rose to his hooves. "Hopefully that spares you some work, Grand Duchess."

"If only," Chrysoprase answered with fatigue to match the wizard's tone, and then some. "The Stable's needs are never fulfilled. But I thank you for your time, Archmage, and for laying my fears at ease."

But after Star Swirl teleported away, the letter with the awkward blot on its upper corner was nevertheless finished.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

I won't bore you with yet more recitation of the politics that led to the creation of the Royal Guard, and the enshrinement of the House of Rain as banners of the House of the Rising Sun, or the House of Sticks (a made-up surname for Grainwood's benefit) as banners of the House of Gullion. Suffice it to say that Gale's conspiracy with Typhoon and Peanut went off without further major hitches.

There is, perhaps, some irony to those of you who know your history in the fact that the Commander of the Cirran Legion, and her entire delegation to Equestrian Parliament unanimously approved the creation of the Royal Guard. But at least in those lazy late-summer days in Everfree, the soldiers of the Legion were more than happy to have a proper force of guards fulfilling the role of civilian policing. The Equestrian newspapers celebrated Gale's statesmareship (though some more conservative editors still derided her erosion of the lines between the three tribes), and she found herself more and more busy with the matters of administration that followed.

If only this had been the culmination of the story of her early rule, and not merely a stepping stone.

8-1 Dead Mare Walking

VIII

Dead Mare Walking

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

VIII - I

The Morty-ifying Ordeal of Being Known

"...so all the illusion actually did was make her see as though her eyes were a hoof's width to the right. But she thought I had done something with her ear or her back or something. And the whole day, nopony would tell her what was wrong—because nothing was—but from her perspective everypony was staring just slightly off the left side of her face."

Blizzard's gentle laugh and raised brow made the crowded streets of Horntown seem more like home despite being surrounded by strangers on all sides. And, in turn, Blizzard seemed at least relatively less consumed by abject terror of said strangers learning her true origins.

The six reminders I had given her that as far as anypony knew she was just another pegasus probably didn't hurt either.

Vow had acquired for me (and, concerningly, somehow fitted for me) a midnight blue tunic with gold-colored trim and fastenings, which I think made me a bit less recognizable as well; in my trips through Everfree, I was noticing more and more ponies turning to look my way at a distance, and the change of attire from my signature black-and-red seemed to have alleviated that. While normally I enjoyed commanding attention, and some part of me was cross that my unusually handsome facial structure wasn't enough to stick in the memories of the general public, for Blizzard's sake, it was a welcome change.

"That's a cute prank," Blizzard observed. "How long did the spell last? A few minutes?"

"With my magic?" I scoffed. "Most of a week."

"Oh my…"

"Better than throwing them through walls, or letting them bash in my teeth. And a lot better than what Wintershimmer always said I should do." When I watched Blizzard's face trace that implication to the obvious conclusion, and sour, I decided to change the subject with a bit of force. "What all did the old kook wind up talking you into picking up?"

The pony in question was the owner of a jeweler's shop Vow had recommended to me in Horntown, and whose doors Blizzard and I had left minutes earlier. I pointedly don't refer to him as a jeweler because, while he did manufacture jewelry, the stallion's main craft was enchantment of minor common curiosities onto his creations (or, I suspected, more likely the creations of some unseen partner—if he didn't just outsource them from an external real jeweler).

But I didn't want to say any of those things out loud to Blizzard; she was so enamored with having her own jewelry for the first time in her life that I wasn't going to risk saying anything to break the spell of her wonder.

"Well, I got the unenchanted necklace you had me show you." In fact, she was wearing the item in question: a teardrop sapphire on a white-gold chain. I had nearly forced the choice down her throat, not because I particularly cared about the color (well, I did, but I would have looked the other way to make Blizzard happy), but because it was the only unenchanted piece in the jeweler's collection that would hold the magic I intended to provide. "And then Claddagh showed me these nice earrings that are supposed to calm my nerves, but I can't put them in until I get somepony to pierce them for me. Do you think Gale could do it?"

"I'm pretty sure she's got a lot on her plate." I chuckled at the thought as it continued alongside our hooffalls down the streets of Horntown. "Also, Gale's bedside manner isn't exactly the best in the world; she doesn't have a lot of sympathy for pain, at least in my experience." I smiled at a stray thought. "I bet I could convince Celestia to do it."

"I…" Blizzard turned very red. "The Goddess? I couldn't possibly—"

"Don't call her that, at least to her face. She doesn't like it. Honestly, I think you'd get along; she's another pony who just wants to be treated like everypony else. And she's got it worse than you."

"Yes, but… if ponies see me with Lady Celestia, they're going to want to know who I am, and then—"

"They won't," I promised. "They won't even notice you."

"Everypony notices you when you're around her," Blizzard countered.

"Well, I am usually the most attractive pony in any room," I pointed out, earning a slight crease of even Blizzard's usually unflappable expression. "But more than that, I'm not wearing an enchanted necklace that makes ponies minds not pay attention to me," I countered, noting toward her neck with a dip of my horn. "That story I told wasn't just because I thought you'd laugh about it."

"You can do that?" Blizzard asked, astonished. "Make ponies not notice me?"

I nodded. "Well, after a fashion. It's not as if I can make you invisible. Nor do I think you'd want me to if I could. If you do something to attract attention to yourself, or if somepony knows you're there and tries to focus on you, they'll see you. But if you're walking down the street, or standing behind Hurricane or me or whoever, you'll sort of just… fade into the background, I guess?" I shrugged. "Since you're always so worried, I thought you might like—"

I was almost bowled over with the force that Blizzard carried when she tackled me with a feathery hug. "Thank you, Morty!"

The hug nearly managed to make me feel guilty. Because, dear reader, much like the metaphorical neo-clothiers of the much fabled but ever unnamed emperor, I was lying through my teeth about the magical properties I intended to bestow on Blizzard's necklace. Not that I couldn't do what I had described, of course, but rather, that I had no intention to. The major difference between the characters of the infamous fable and myself is that, rather than pursuit of wealth for myself or humiliation for the subject of my efforts, I was working benevolently. My plan, you see, was to use what I will now dub The Necklace of Placebos as a form of therapy for Blizzard; if I could get her to go out and enjoy life wearing it for a few weeks or months, then the revelation of it being completely unenchanted would finally get her over her near-constant irrational fear and teach her that the odds of anypony identifying her secret were so improbable as to be not worth discussing, let alone calculating.

Despite that pragmatic logic, however, the heart feels what it will, and so in the next few moments, my mind was locked hard onto the struggle of convincing the more whimsical organ that what I was doing was, in fact, right. Hence, I was not paying attention to the fact that the path I was leading Blizzard down led into a side street that would more accurately be described as a crooked, shadowed alleyway.

The three thugs that I completely failed to see didn't help my obliviousness either.

"Um, Morty… Are you sure this is the right way?"

I nodded. "When Gale and I went to meet Misses Rain, their house was…"

The clearing of a voice cut off my explanation of my directions. "'Ey there, lovebirds," said a pegasus with an accent distinctly reminding me of Gale's other pegasus suitor, Caporegime. "Funny you should find yourselves down this particyalar alley on this particyalar fine day, isn't it?"

"Is it?" I asked.

The stallion—really, I should say, the colt; he was probably younger than me—nodded, and casually flipped some kind of flip-out-blade knife in the leading feathers of his wing. "Yeah, I thinks so, yanno? On account of, we've got a little tax—"

"Oh! You're trying to threaten us." I laughed, which put a worried look on Blizzard's face, and a very irritated one on the lead would-be mugger. "You must not know who I am."

"Oh yeah? Youse some kinda bigshot?"

I nodded. "Mortal Coil, apprentice of Celestia, at your service."

One of the other thugs, a unicorn, stepped up beside the knife-wielding pegasus, and spoke with a distinctly earth pony accent reminding me heavily of Lubuck. "Student of Celestia? You think we were born yesterday?'

"No, just uniquely stupid."

Blizzard gasped. "Morty!"

"What?" I turned fully away from the thugs to show how little concern I offered them, as well as to give Blizzard my full attention. "You don't think we're honestly in any kind of danger, do you?"

My companion nervously swallowed and refused to answer. Though she stayed quiet, two things happened over her shoulder to answer my question. The first is that another two ponies stepped into the alley behind us, blocking our path of egress (not that I couldn't just teleport out if I desired). The second, unique to my eyes, was that a translucent figure faded into being beside Blizzard.

"If you intend to wield my spell against them, you're in very serious danger, even if she isn't, Coil. Your lifespan is worth more than these pathetic infants," my hallucination of Wintershimmer observed.

I sighed, turned back to the lead trio of muggers, and nodded—thinking quickly, and asking two questions at once. "Alright. So what do you propose?"

The lead pegasus answered first. "Little miss pretty over there, your marefriend, she's got quite the nice jewelry on. Whaddya say we… liquidate that fors ya, to clear our toll fee for yusin our little stretch o' road here?"

Wintershimmer's 'ghost' walked up from behind Blizzard to stand by my side, shoulder-to-shoulder. I could feel his old robes beside me, even though they did not disturb the rubbish on the alley bricks, nor did his hooves click on the bricks themselves. "I tried to teach you this lesson more times than either of us can count. But perhaps, I wonder, now that the application of my mentorship is in the interest of the moral good, if you will finally see my wisdom?"

I couldn't think of a way to address both parties this time, so I settled on a different tact; one from my story to Blizzard a few moments before. I set my eyes to look over the lead stallion's shoulder, just far enough offset from matching his gaze for it to be uncomfortable. And then I spoke directly to Wintershimmer. "Which lesson is that, again?"

"What youse talkin' about?"

"Morty, we can just give them the necklace; I don't want anypony to get hurt—"

Even as Blizzard moved her wings to undo the clasp of her new necklace, I held out a hoof (straight through ghostly Wintershimmer's chest—not that anypony could appreciate the strangeness of that positioning besides myself) to halt her motion.

"You can best these fools with three casts of my spell, shorten your life substantially, and pass out in an alleyway desperately hoping some other scum of the underbelly of society doesn't find you before a benevolent passerby does. Or you can best these idiots without a single spell. You've grown quite dramatic, Coil; do you remember why I taught you that in the first place?"

"Nopony has to get hurt," I assured Blizzard, realizing Wintershimmer's point. "Can I ask, gentlestallions, which one of you five is the best fighter?"

"Me," muttered the foremost pegasus, continuing to flip his knife. "Why? Youse think we're gonna play nice an' fight equuo a equuo?"

I glanced to Blizzard, who begrudgingly translated "Pony-to-pony."

"Ah." I shook my head. "No, no. Not me, anyway. I wanted to know which one of your minds it would be the most efficient to take over. Since you're the best fighter, it stands to reason I should turn you on your friends. Since there's an even number behind us, it doesn't matter who I pick, but I want the odds to be as fair as possible for your trio here."

"Unicorn magic doesn't work that way—"

"You're confident in that? You're an expert on unicorn magic?" When the question gave an obvious hint of pause, I took a step forward. "Because here's what you're gambling. If you're right, you get that necklace—it's worth, what, a couple hundred bits, Blizzard?" Although she opened her mouth to answer, I didn't let her—I knew I'd paid not-quite two thousand for it, but understating the value was part of the speech, and judging by the fact I hadn't been interrupted (to say nothing of the expression on the muggers' faces) it was working.

"If you're wrong, though, out of you and your four friends in this alleyway, only one of you walks away. Four of you bleed to death on the bricks from one anothers' knives or whatever toys your friends have hidden away, and I let the unlucky winner—let's say its you, since you are, by your own admission, the best fighter—you get to sit quietly watching them bleed out until the guardsponies arrive to clean up."

A few of the muggers looked between one another in doubt, but the leader puffed up his wings in bravado. "Even if you could make us fight, I'd tell them guards what you'd cast—"

"You think you can convince them? When they find you with your fancy knife, that obviously matches their wounds, still in your mouth, covered in your friends' blood, and no sign of Blizzard or I having ever been here? You think they'll believe some 'evil wizard' took over your mind? When by your own claim, that kind of magic doesn't exist? No, they'll slap you in manacles faster than you can blink—and you'll let them; that's the best part of the magic. Then, when they drag you off to the dungeons, you get to spend the rest of your miserable, worthless life knowing that you killed the only friends you'd ever have, and every night you'd get to remember the coppery taste of their blood on your tongue and the look of betrayal on their faces burnt into your eyes forever."

The unicorn behind our curiously accented representative took a flustered step back. "Celestia… you… you're serious, aren't you?"

"Nah, he's bluffing—"

"Discount, look in his eyes! This guy is crazy."

I chuckled. "Oh, no, you'll find this is me at my most calm and rational." Then I glanced back over my shoulder to the other two would-be accomplices. "Have any of you heard about the duel on Her Majesty's birthday?" One pony nodded, and rather than explain further, I merely placed a hoof on my breast and grinned just a touch maniacally.

"You're… but I heard he was sleeping with the Queen. And you—" His words fumbling, the mugger gestured wildly at Blizzard, putting quite the blush on her face.

"He's… we're not… um—"

"We're just friends," I explained more calmly. "And lest you get any more ideas, while the Queen and I have a special kind of friendship, one… what did she call it? One 'hornjob' in open court does not a romance make."

"Discount, it's true; I heard about that!" the unicorn in front of our original path insisted. "He's the one from the fight that broke the top of the college!"

"Eh, so that's a real pony; how do we know he didn't hear the same thing you heard? I dunno that I buy this…"

"You're welcome to roll the dice, Discount." I nodded. "But for the rest of you: if you leave now, I'll leave you out of what happens next. But this is your only chance."

A moment of hesitation filled the alleyway, thick like the summer air. Street urchins and thugs glanced into one another's eyes in unspoken communication. Their fear was, if you'll forgive me for sounding just a bit evil, delectable.

And then the movement came all at once. In three seconds, Discount, Blizzard and I were alone in the alley.

I took a step toward him, every ounce as predatory as I could make my stride. "And then there was one."

"You're not so tough; look at you. You're all scrawny."

"Well, I'm not going to punch you. Look at my horn." I flicked my eyes upward to gesture. "See how tight the grooves are? More grooves, more magic. So even if you don't believe I can take over your mind, the real question now is: are you sure I can't just pick you up and slam you into the wall a few times? I know pegasi have hollow bones for flying; how does that hold up to skull trauma, I wonder?"

"Mobius, fine! You win, ya freak!" Stowing his knife, Discount held up his open wings and slowly walked backwards away from me. "But youse better be careful; you mess with the wrong bull, ya get the horns, capiche?"

I rolled my eyes as he turned and walked away, as quickly as I'm sure he thought he could without losing face.

Wintershimmer's voice, echoing from his still present figment, rose as he took a few strides forward to match my own progressed position. "Your hypotheticals and verbose diatribes give too much time for somepony to try and build up the courage to challenge you. But I cannot deny the efficacy of this particular attempt. Do you see now the value in what I was trying to teach you? How your reputation is itself a weapon that spares you the need for real violence?"

I sighed heavily, because (as seemed so common in those days) I had to admit he was right; even if ponies lacked the magical education (or the political awareness of who Wintershimmer was) to understand the magnitude of my achievement, the fact that I had made such brazen moves in the politics (and the gossip mills) of young Equestria had spared me at least a year of age to my horn.

But the display was not without cost.

Wintershimmer faded when my gaze moved to Blizzard, and even as empathetically illiterate as I could sometimes be, I read some pain in the way she refused to meet my eyes.

"Can you really do that?" she asked.

I hung my head and took a deep breath. "I know how. But I would never actually use my magic that way. I would have just teleported us away."

"Then why did you say what you said?"

"Because this way, I didn't have to cast a spell."

Blizzard didn't say anything in response to that, and by her look, I knew she understood my motives, but it still left me uneasy noting the way her gaze fell on me as we continued our journey to the House of Rains.

8-2

VIII - II

Dinner with the Rains

I felt like I was going to die when Iron Rain embraced me on her doorstep, and I suspect Blizzard got it all the worse for being whatever kind of honorary family she was—I had, of course, gathered some details, but there were limits to my understanding of the complex web of imperial pegasus dynasties, and even if I had received the full information, it had been shuffled back out of the forefront of my mind by more pressing and potentially life-ending matters. All I knew was that Rain hugged Blizzard so tight that, even had her coat not naturally been white, I suspect the poor mare might have been bleached out of any color anyway, and that when she was finally released, Iron Rain told her "You're twenty years late for dinner with us, Blizzard, but it's damn good to finally have you."

"Yeah…" Blizzard, truth be told, was almost Rain's height. But the difference in posture, between mighty, weathered, one-eyed Rain and wilted, shy, nervous-to-the-point of paranoia was such that in front of the old soldier, instead of twenty-something, Blizzard might as well have just turned five. "It's good to be here, Miss Rain…"

I've seen more confidence in wet noodles—not al dente, either; I mean properly overcooked—but somehow, that nuance escaped the senior hulk of an ex-soldier in front of us.

"You can call me 'Aunt' if you want," Rain suggested (clearly more enamored with the idea than Blizzard was). "Your Mom and I were like sisters growing up."

"Y-you did mention that at Gale's birthday party."

"Oh, right." With a certain whimsy not befitting the battle-scarred, one-eyed, well-past-middle-age bulk of a retired career soldier, Iron Rain spun on a hind hoof, then beckoned us into her home. "Well, come on in, both of you, we'll get some food in you—Finder's in the kitchen working his magic, but it'll be a bit yet. At least he's making a feast; Ofnir knows you both could use it."

"Ofnir?" I asked as I stepped over the threshold into Rain's opulent villa.

"He's the Cirran god of war," Blizzard explained for me. "So the god who cares the most about being big and strong."

"And—with good reason—the patron of Nimbus," Rain added. "That makes him the popular choice for mares like us, eh Blizzard? Not that I buy into all the old gods now that I've spoken to Celestia and Luna, but they're handy for swearing when you need something specific."

"Yeah, I… I don't know. Father, um… well, we don't really have the old shrines in River Rock." Blizzard took a step toward my side, and I briefly shared a glance her way, but the look of my eyes—still fresh from the confrontation in the alleyway—sent her a step back away.

As the brief conversation trailed off into awkward silence, Rain's heavy hooffalls led us into the villa's main family room, where some time prior Gale and I had enjoyed a bit of her 'grandma candy' as we waited to deliver a birthday invitation to Rain's son, Gray. This time, both my companion and I were somewhat less interested in spooning on the couch, and we instead settled side by side with a modest gap between our flanks on the area Rain had idly pointed to with a wing. The opposite side of the coffee table, also containing a couch, demonstrated its sturdiness when Rain flopped her muscular mass onto it in what I will call the most violent possible interpretation of a relaxing motion. "Ahh," she let out, before craning her neck toward an archway that led into an adjoining room, into which she shouted rather gruffly "Blizzard and Morty are here, Finder; let us know when food's done."

Pathfinder's gentler voice rang out "Will do, love of my life. Just toiling away here while you have all the fun hosting."

"Ah, you're so sweet," said Rain with a decided hint of sarcasm mixed in with the obvious affection in her tone, before finally turning back to us. "So. Blizzard. Tell me all about you. I feel like I've already missed so much."

"Um…" Blizzard, already not especially good at talking about herself, took that blank check and promptly cashed it into the Bank of Social Awkwardness, dramatically raising the balance of her Staring into the Void of Space account. Despite her nervousness at the fact that I had, only minutes earlier, threatened to take over another pony's mind and force him to stab his friends to death, she shuffled slightly closer to me on the couch. "What… what do you want me to say?"

I buried my face in a hoof, deciding that, while a savior of a very different kind, it nevertheless once again fell on my shoulders to save the day. "Maybe start with your family? You've got lots of brothers and sisters, right?"

Immediately as I saw Blizzard's reaction to those words, shriveling up like the horn of a proper wizard exposed to poison joke, I winced. But the damage had been done.

"I… well, you know my dad."

"Better than you think," Rain admitted with a sigh of her own—though hers was more wistful and jaded than any subtle air that had slipped past Blizzard's lips. "Hurricane had me teach the colt how to fight while he was too busy kissing unicorn ass to keep us fed. That—" and she indicated above the hearth, where a truly obscene sword two-handed sword (and I say 'two-handed' because, though I didn't know it at the time, Rain had taken it off a griffon in her youth) was mounted over the fireplace. "—is the reason his fancy cloud-sword is so stupidly long. Had to show up 'old Rain'... But he's a… hard topic. How about siblings?" Immediately after the words left her lips, Rain winced. "I mean… I'm sorry; obviously you couldn't—"

"Actually, I do have a few," Blizzard interrupted, brightening just a little bit. "A couple of half-brothers and sisters. And a whole bunch of adopted siblings."

"So many…" I cut in. "How do you keep them straight?"

"I'm more like a mom to most of them," was Blizzard's reply, and a hint of amusement slipped onto her face. "The only ones even close to my age are Maelstrom and Sirocco—did you get to meet either of them, Morty?"

I shook my head. "Not that I remember, anyway; not if they were anything close to our age. All the ones I saw were closer to Graargh."

"Graargh?" Rain asked, once again exhibiting her curious habit of raising the eyebrow above her patched eye to indicate her curiosity. "What kind of a name is that?"

I chuckled. "That's a long story. The short version is he's a bear cub I found abandoned outside Union City; he's basically my little brother…"

Blizzard acted with more swiftness in the moment than I would often otherwise see from her, springing on an opportunity. "Actually, Morty, do you have any siblings in the Crystal Union?"

I scoffed. "Two half-sisters. Lash and Scourge; they're all I know about. Probably more, but it's a coin-flip if any of them lived to 'grow up'."

The names piqued Rain's curiosity. "Lash and Scourge? And you wound up with 'Morty'? What were your parents smoking? And can I have some?"

"My real name is 'Mortal Coil'," I explained, at least managing to find some humor in it at that moment. "Which probably explains a lot. How do I explain this…? Before Queen Jade killed Warlord Halite, the crystals—"

"Kid, I'm gonna cut you off right there," Rain told me, extending a hoof. "I was Praetorian Prefect during all the fighting with the crystals; what do the kids call that these days? The Crystal Campaigns? The Weather Wars?"

I—having never heard either of those titles—couldn't help but chuckle. "In the Union, it's 'The Storm War'. Or sometimes 'the Butcher's War', since that's what everypony calls Hurricane there."

I couldn't help but notice a surprisingly violent twitch in Iron Rain's eyelid (the one still attached to a functioning eye). "So you've heard of me, then?"

"No; should I?"

"Should you? Should you have heard of the pony who actually led half those battles?" Rain let out a frustrated groan. "Whatever. It's fine. The point is, I know a few things about how the crystals used to work, Morty. Your dad's a crystal, I take it?"

I shook my head. "I don't actually know who my dad is, beyond that he was a unicorn and probably a knight or a soldier from the Diamond Guard, since mom thought he was…" Here, I hesitated for want of words that would cushion the unpleasant nature of the topic. "...he was enough of a 'catch' to be worth dragging back to the north alive, instead of just killing."

Blizzard hung her head. "I'm sorry I brought it up."

"Don't be; it doesn't bother me." I extended a hoof to pat on Blizzard's shoulder, but she recoiled from the offer, so I tentatively lowered. "Um, the point is, you'll get over a bad parent once you've had some time on your own. Though it might take you longer than me; Dad only took care of me when I was a tiny foal; I never even learned what his real name was. He begged Wintershimmer to take me when he couldn't care for me anymore, and when I passed the old stallion's test, that was the last I ever saw of him. If I knew his name, I could check on that, Blizzard, but…" I finished the thought with a shrug. "Jade's laws mean mom couldn't just kill him when he embarrassed her by giving her me, but that didn't mean she had to support him, and with his horn split in half…"

"Huh…" Rain nodded. "I heard about that… 'prize-taking'. But I thought crystals always had crystal foals."

"Not exactly… crystal foals are just the only ones that get to… 'make it'." I sighed. "Having a 'softcoat' foal is a sign of weakness; it means the crystal parent is weaker than their partner. And it's enormously embarrassing for somepony who was supposed to be a barbarian leader; Mom's probably lucky Halite ate it at Onyx Ridge, or he'd have stripped her of her command over having me."

"That's horrible!" Blizzard gasped out.

I nodded. "Queen Jade outlawed it after she took over the Union at Onyx Ridge—but between also outlawing the whole foalnapping part too, and the fact that a whole lot of the ponies awful enough to do that kind of thing in the first place dying with Halite, there still aren't many non-crystals in the Union. But my dear mother was—let's be honest, is—still quite devoted to that abomination of a culture; the only reason she wasn't at Halite's side to die at Onyx Ridge is that she took a sword to the back a few months prior."

"Wait—is your mother Castigate?" Rain asked, leaning forward.

"You know her?"

"I think I've only said three words to her—'Die, crystal bitch', or something like that. But it was that sword." After gesturing again toward her gigantic griffon sword, Rain turned toward the archway of the home that led into the kitchen and shouted. "Finder, did you hear that? Gale's fucking Castigate's kid!"

After a noted pause, Pathfinder's green, scarred-up face leaned in through the archway into the kitchen. "Rain, are you suggesting 'Cane slept with one of Halite's commanders and then got Platinum to pass the kid off as hers?" Then, shaking his head, he added "Wait, not only is that stupid, it's impossible. Castigate is an earth pony; how could they have Gale?"

"They—" After a moment with her head cocked, Iron Rain broke into a hearty laugh. "No, no, that's not what I meant!" Pointing a wing at me, she explained. "He's Castigate's kid. My point was, Gale—"

"Oh." Pathfinder looked at me, and this his eyes rose. "Oh!" The laughter that followed between the older couple seemed to cut through some of the tension in the room, with even Blizzard and I joining in at least with some amusement at the peculiar grammatical ambiguity. Though, it should be noted, I did take a bit of offense when, before returning to his cooking, Pathfinder noted "Well, you must take after your dad. I guess there's no accounting for taste."

Rain laughed at that, looking me up and down. "He's right; I guess I can see the color, sort of, but you're not exactly crystal barbarian material."

"A wizard doesn't resort to petty hooficuffs," I retorted, before glancing to Blizzard and catching a slight nod from her—a subtle signal that, despite the tension between us, she had appreciated my diversion. "How about you, Miss Rain? You have any siblings?"

Rain shot me a very small, good-natured glare as she answered. "I had an older brother, back in Nimbus. When I was Kataigismós Sidero, princess of the greatest city on Dioda, and upstart little shits didn't call me 'Miss' to my face—"

"Dinner's ready!" Pathfinder called, cutting off whatever further chastisement the old soldier had prepared.

As we moved into the Rains' kitchen and took seats on cushions around a stout but unadorned wooden table, Blizzard quirked her head. "You were a princess?"

"Eh, not like Gale. I don't know how much Cirran history you know, but 'Cirra' proper used to be a whole bunch of separate city-states; Stratopolis slowly conquered them. Nimbus was the last to fall in line, even if that was hundreds of years ago."

Pathfinder, who was stepping away from the kitchen's formidable oven at a gentle hover with a pot between his mittened hooves, nodded. "Nimbus wasn't like anywhere else in the empire; all the cities had their own little bits of culture, but most everywhere was trying to be like Stratopolis. But not Nimbus. They had their own rulers, their own language—"

"Nopony actually spoke Nimban day-to-day," Rain interrupted. "It was all for ceremonies and reading old books and naming foals. And Dad still ruled at the mercy of the Emperor."

"Naming foals?" I asked. "Like how the crime lords at the baths called Gale… what was it?"

"Gladioprocellarum Aura?" Pathfinder offered. "It's just 'Gale Stormblade' in old Cirran. But yeah, that's the idea. Cirran patricians—uh, nobleponies, you'd say—named their foals in old Cirran instead of common Equiish, even if everypony except bigshots like the emperor and the senators used the Equiish translations day-to-day."

The distinct waft of cooked meat hit my nostrils when Pathfinder set down his pot, but I resolved to settle my stomach and relegate myself to something more acceptable to my palate without making a scene of it.

Rain picked up from her husband as he set about ferrying more dishes to the table. "Almost all the Cirran cities used old Cirran, but since Nimbus had its own ancient language… Well, like I said before, I'm Sidero Kataigismós—it just means 'Iron Rain. Blizzard, your mom was Kalokaíri Éxochos, 'High Summer'. Though most of the time, we gave her a hard time and used her Cirran name, because her dad was the senior Nimban senator, so he spent most of his time in Stratopolis. So we called her by the Cirran version, Aestas Celsus. I could teach you some if you want, Blizzard."

"I, um… actually already know most of that," Blizzard noted. "Father's commanders taught me a lot. I just didn't want to interrupt you, because Morty probably doesn't know. But you knew my grandfather?" Blizzard asked. "What was he like?"

"He was a great pony," Pathfinder picked up. "Not a famous soldier or anything like that, but he was one of the wisest ponies I ever got to meet. And your other grandfather's best shoulder to lean on when he was figuring out how he was supposed to be any kind of emperor."

"Hmm?" I asked, not quite following.

"Discentus… oh, Mobius, this is a tangled mess for a unicorn." Rain took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and recentered herself. "Summer's dad was 'Higher Learning', but because he was a senator, like Finder said, he went by the old Cirran version of his name: Discentus Celsus. When Emperor Augustus ate it at Feathertop, and Hurricane got handed the Imperial laurels, he had no clue what the Hell he was doing, since he'd grown up on a farm."

"How did he become emperor if he was just a farmer?" Blizzard asked.

I didn't think it was a particularly piercing question, but Rain and Pathfinder shared a nervous glance before the former nodded and the latter—lowering the last tray down to the table—spoke up.

"Look, I didn't tell you this," Pathfinder began. "But even though Hurricane grew up as some farmer in the middle of nowhere, he wasn't actually a nopony. His dad—your great-grandpa Thunder Gale—was Emperor Augustus' right hoof in the last big war with the griffons before the Red Cloud War." As he spoke, Pathfinder took a plate, loaded it up with salad, some sort of colorful wild rice, a healthy glob of some kind of white cream sauce with herbs in it, and at least three different kinds of meat, all before handing it over to Blizzard.

"He was the Commander at that particular siege of Nimbus. Which was a debacle," Rain added.

Pathfinder glanced pointedly at Rain's missing eye, and said "Knowing what we know now, I'd say he probably did a pretty good job."

"Huh? Oh…" Rain hung her head. "Yeah, I guess so."

Pathfinder swallowed heavily, and continued his thought. "So I don't beat around the bush too much: Emperor Magnus attacked Nimbus, and slaughtered almost everypony defending it. He crippled your great-grandfather."

"Magnus is the griffon's god?" I asked for the reminder. "Giant like Celestia?"

"Bigger," Rain corrected tersely—but the fact that she stated that claim with authority was not lost on me.

Pathfinder began to dish up a plate for me, and when he got to the meat, I delicately raised a hoof. "Ah, sorry, kiddo; I'm used to serving pegasi. No meat, right?"

"No," I agreed with a nod. "But give me some extra bacon to make up for it, if you don't mind."

"I beg your pardon?" Pathfinder asked. "You know bacon is meat, right?"

"No; pigs can't talk." I replied.

This earned me a raised brow from all three other ponies at the table.

I sighed and sat back. "Put a pin in that story about Magnus; now I'm really curious. But, as a necromancer—scratch that, as the foremost necromancer in Equestria, with the noted exception of Luna's unfair millenia head-start—"

I interrupt that already very complicated sentence because it is very important that you understand this: when I made the observation about Luna and necromancy, a flash of recognition passed on the faces of both our hosts. Pathfinder, it seemed, was better at concealing his emotions and thoughts than Rain, but neither was subtle enough to repress an obvious show of some kind of understanding when blindsided by my claim.

I chose not to comment on this, and charged boldly forth on the subject of what is and is not 'meat'. "—when I decide whether or not something is 'meat', what matters is whether or not the animal it came from had a soul. That's why I would never eat part of a cow; even though they're fairly unintelligent creatures, the fact that they're capable of speech means they have a soul, and therefore are 'people'. But pigs… well, lets just say I've met more intelligent trees. And, for that matter, I've made more conversational rocks."

"You make rocks?" Pathfinder asked.

"No, I just dug up the rock. The hard part was teaching it to talk. Dead ponies are a lot easier." As I concluded with that note, I took the offered plate and grinned down at the pork alongside its accompaniments. "Thank you, Pathfinder."

Pathfinder's bacon, like all good bacon, was only slightly crispy on the edges, and quite flaccid when held aloft by one end (not that I could easily test that the usual way without using my horn; I resorted to eating with my face, and trying my best to ignore the strange looks I got from the rest of the table).

"R-right," Rain noted, deciding to pick up for her husband on the explanation of Hurricane's past. "Well, like Finder pointed out to me, Magnus was clever. I don't know if he used his weird magic to hide himself, or if he just killed everypony that saw him besides Thunder Gale. But however it happened, when Gale limped back to Stratopolis, nopony believed that he'd been attacked by a giant, magical griffon. The nicer senators, like Discentus, assumed he'd lost his mind from the stress of war—which isn't at all unheard of. The crueler ones accused him of making it up to excuse his humiliating defeat, since without taking Magnus into account, Cirra should have easily held the griffons at bay at Nimbus." Rain shrugged. "So Thunder Gale was quietly discharged, and he left the capital to live on some nowhere farm where nopony would give him trouble for his embarrassing past and bother his foals about it."

I cocked my brow, and after swallowing a mouthful of rice, spoke up. "So rather than some farmer from nowhere, whoever chose the replacement for the emperor picked the son of a disgraced, failed general?"

"Hurricane happened to be at Feathertop when it blew up," Rain answered me, and then sensing my confusion, explained "Mt. Feathertop. It was a volcano. Hurricane was hoof-picked before Augustus died, and he wound up stumbling around like an idiot trying to figure out how to apply the command skills he'd picked up from his field promotion to Centurion into running the entire damn empire. Discentus took pity on him—which is good, because if he hadn't, and Hurricane hadn't been rutting my cousin, I swear I would've cut his head off the day I met him."

"Wait, hold on." I held up a hoof. "Your dad was the ruler of Nimbus, and your cousin was Hurricane's first wife, and then your best friend wound up sleeping with Hurricane's kid—"

"Don't try to keep track of it," Pathfinder interrupted me. "Just trust me that, since there's no incest involved, the Stormblades and the Rains are the least intertangled family mess from old Cirra."

"Noted."

As I indulged my bacon, Blizzard looked between Pathfinder and Iron Rain before, at least, she asked a question that only I had been present to hear Gale warn as an item of strict taboo. "Um… I don't know if this is bad to ask, but Mr. Pathfinder, I saw you look at Misses Rain's eye when you talked about 'what you know now' about Magnus; is that—"

Pathfinder winced, but Rain's face remained surprisingly neutral. After finishing her current bite, she simply nodded. "Yes, Blizzard."

"Wait, you… you fought a god and survived? How? When I was in a fight with Celestia, she was on my side, and she still nearly killed me!"

Pathfinder and Blizzard both shot me concerned looks, but Rain merely shook her head. "I won't answer that question. I won't give the bastard the satisfaction."

"Perhaps we should talk about something else," suggested Pathfinder, who I noticed had grown ever so slightly pale, and who pushed his plate away from his edge of the table.

"Ah, sorry," I offered. "Um… what do you want to talk about, Rain?"

"It's just dinner with friends, Morty. Blizzard, how are you finding Everfree?"

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

Pathfinder had much more emotional awareness than his wife, in addition to his considerably better cooking skills, so while Rain occasionally pressed onto further curiosities about Blizzard's past in River Rock, Blizzard did not find herself pressed on any further especially unpleasant questions toward dinner. The last, and the farthest, that Rain's unending curiosity got was asking about our departure from River Rock—a story which Blizzard acquiesced to, but which she quickly left to me to tell.

"...and then Cyclone claimed Hurricane wouldn't accept Blizzard here in Everfree—and I have to say, it's a little bit hilarious how wrong he was about that, Blizzard."

Blizzard chuckled at that bit of humor, just one highlight in my retelling of her confrontation with her father—a conscious choice on my part, since a more direct telling as I recorded in my prior novel would no doubt be filled with unwelcome emotion.

"And then, when Blizzard reasonably pointed out that she'd never done anything wrong to anypony, Cyclone tried to claim Summer would have been able to explain things if she were still alive."

Pathfinder and Rain shared a small chuckle and a glance of their own; when Blizzard cocked her head and I raised a brow, it was the smaller, scarred face of Pathfinder that met our gazes to answer. "Cyclone would have been right, but only because Summer would've been wrong too. Summer hated Hurricane. She…" With a sigh, the gray-green stallion settled his focus fully on Blizzard. "The Red Cloud War broke something in your mother. She always thought we should have stayed on Dioda, or gone back. She thought Hurricane was a coward for leaving. And when he had to make hard choices to keep Cirra together in those early days living with the unicorns, selling us off as mercenaries against the crystals, she blamed him for every drop of blood spilled."

Gone went all the joy from Blizzard's face; her eyes ran away from Pathfinder's gaze. "She sounds… a lot like Father."

"Hmm? No, no!" Rain shook her head fiercely, only to find herself given pause when Finder placed a hoof on her foreleg.

"You knew her when you were foals, dear," Pathfinder noted. "But… looking back, I think she's more like Cyclone than we want to admit. Er, rather, was."

But that was the second stroke. So I leaned forward across the table, steepled my hooves, and continued my story. Hopefully, I thought, my sudden cut-in would appear to be saving Blizzard's already troubled emotions. "Well, I decided that would be a good time to offer my unique services, so I called Cyclone's bluff."

I let those words hang over the table of well-finished dishes (Pathfinder's meal had been exceptional) until finally the chef himself rose to my bait. "Wait, how could you 'call his bluff'? Summer's dead."

"Indeed she is," I agreed. "And I'm the world's foremost expert on necromantic seances, so in a way, that's more convenient for me than if she were alive. I can ring up anypony—well, almost anypony—for a quick chat."

"That's possible?" Rain asked. "I thought only Celestia and Luna could touch the Great Skies."

"'The Summer Lands' is the proper name. But yes. That's what my talent marks are for. It's a simple spell, though there's some finesse to doing it safely and stably. But when I tried on—"

Rain cut off my dramatic reveal by urgently leaning forward over the table toward me. "Does it hurt them? The pony who died? Is it safe?"

"I…" I had to lean back from my own dramatic position with how forcefully Iron Rain had seized the momentum at the table. "Uh, no; I've been told it's a little disorienting, like a sudden lurch, or the weightless feeling when you jump off a cliff, but that only lasts a second or two. Seances are perfectly safe for the soul in question as long as the caster takes reasonable precautions. And, like I said, I'm the best."

"What does it cost?" Rain pressed.

"Oh. Um… I'll be completely honest, that was something I've been thinking about, but I haven't settled on an answer yet. It probably depends on what you can afford; I want to be available to anypony, but I could use the money. It will also depend on the pony in question, and how long you want to talk to them. I can't do foals who died very young… we'll say a minimum of eight years old. I'll charge extra if whoever you're asking for was damned to Tartarus. Ponies who died more than two or three hundred years ago are usually impossible, unless they were particularly important to Celestia or Luna or a still-living but very old earth pony—but I doubt you'd be asking me so urgently about somepony you never knew. Um… Oh, I have to charge a lot extra for non-ponies, since I have to figure out how their afterlives work. So if you want to summon up some griffon to taunt them, that's gonna be expensive."

Rain shook her head. "Our eldest daughter, Sky. She died just before Cyclone's rebellion. She was almost thirteen."

"I'm sorry," I replied. "And certainly, I can let you talk to her. Not tonight; it takes a little bit of preparation. But I'll make arrangements to host you both at my home, and I'll set up a room with the necessary runes and glyphs—no charge, at least the first time. Can I ask what happened? If her passing was… especially traumatic in certain ways, it can be useful to be prepared to comfort the soul."

That question, dear reader, was one of kinder bits of clever misdirection I had learned from Wintershimmer; what I was actually asking was 'How likely is this soul to blame one of you for her death?'—because between the claim about preparing the spell, and the fact that said pony is already dead, you'd be surprised how often ponies are willing to be honest even in cases where it reveals them to be absolutely terrible ponies.

"The feather flu," Pathfinder explained, and then sighed. "You might be too young to know this. At the beginning of the Long Winter, the flu broke out in Cloudsdale. It wasn't new to us; Cirra had been through dozens of outbreaks. But with food short from the winter lasting too long into spring—we didn't know it was magic at the time, we just thought it was freak weather, and the unicorns and earth ponies were blaming us for it—that flu hit hard. Harder than any plague anypony could remember from Dioda."

Pathfinder paused, stood up from the table abruptly mid-tale, and walked over to his cabinets. He brought back a small keg tucked under his wing and a few tankards, which he slapped down on the table; he didn't actually speak to offer us any, but with the count of tankards it wasn't hard to imagine the intention. What he did do, however, was fill his own mug nearly past its lip, and then drain it completely in the span of perhaps a dozen seconds. Rain looked disapprovingly at the display, though on her face I mostly read sadness and concern, rather than anger.

Only with his thirst sated—or more likely, his hard memories suppressed—did Pathfinder continue to speak. "The short version is, other ponies had the medicine we needed, in addition to food, but they wouldn't give it to us unless we fixed the weather, since they were starving under the snow. We couldn't. Obviously; you know about the windigos. But… Well, we tried talking, and Hurricane got us what pay he could for fighting the crystals, but it was like milking a brick. And what he did get…" Another drink—this time, at least, just a gulp and not the whole tankard—disappeared into Pathfinder's maw.

Rain picked up for her husband. "Hurricane had to make sure Cirra would survive. And back then we were surviving because of the Legion. The Legion was how we traded with the other breeds. The Legion was how we defended ourselves. The Legion was most of the labor behind building Cloudsdale. So when he didn't have enough medicine for all the sick ponies… he ordered legionaries to get treated first." Then the old mare scrunched up her remaining eye and, much like Blizzard, she averted her face.

"I'm sorry. I… I can see why you might not like Hurricane, after that."

Rain leaned back in her seat and—with a notable stiffness in her neck that I could only imagine stemmed from the weight of all the battles she'd seen with a griffon sword clenched in her teeth—stared up at the ceiling. "No. I don't blame him. I want to sometimes, but… When you lead like we have, sooner or later, you have to make a horrible, cruel decision. And if I were in his position, I don't know that I would have made it differently." Rain's nostrils flared in with a breath, and then rattled as she exhaled some weight from her powerful shoulders. "Morty, Blizzard, I joke about Hurricane a lot—and I was genuinely mad that he didn't let us adopt you—but I don't want you to think I hate your grandfather. He's one of my—of our—" and there, she flicked a wing toward Pathfinder, who nodded eagerly "—closest friends. I certainly admire the stallion; when I was your age, I was mad this nopony was made emperor. But with the wisdom of getting old and gray, every damn day I thank the gods I don't believe in anymore that I never had to wear the black armor." Then, with a snort of some bitter humor, she added "There's so few of us who even remember Dioda left."

Rain's thoughts left the room in silence, save a gentle settling into the couch from Blizzard, and Pathfinder pouring another of his mournful drinks (far slower, at least, this time). At last, I pulled myself forward. "Well, if she was old enough to understand that she was denying medicine, I'd expect some bitterness, but I wouldn't expect it to be toward you."

"We did get her medicine, eventually," Pathfinder noted. "Summer stole it for us."

"Mom stole medicine?" Blizzard asked.

"She was a medicus," Pathfinder explained, and then for my benefit, added "A Legion field medic."

"A damn good one too," Rain added. "So she had access to the medicine Hurricane was able to get. Set aside a little bit for Sky. And eventually, she and the Dawn stole a bunch more from the earth ponies." With that, Rain made a very tired gesture with her wing, not toward anypony or anything in particular. "I don't know what she felt about it. Will she… will she blame us?"

"Hmm? Oh, almost certainly not, no." I leaned forward with my most genuine smile, leaning into my role. A good necromancer deals just as much in catharsis as in souls. "Death provides a certain perspective. In life, most ponies fear it because they don't have a strong understanding of what the other side is like. But, speaking from experience, the dying is by far the worst part. Compared to that, being dead is calming; some might even say soothing. I promise you, she hasn't been suffering—emotionally or physically. She'll likely be very happy to see you though. I can explain more when the time comes to perform the seance. But for now—"

My attempt at driving the conversation back to a lighter topic was interrupted by a rather urgent rapping on the Rains' front door, reverberating through the house.

"Who's that?!" Blizzard gasped out with sudden urgency, even leaning slightly toward me for support. "I thought it was just us coming tonight."

Rain, however, seemed unperturbed, and started to rise from her seat. Deciding in the moment to test a hypothesis, I placed a forehoof on Blizzard's shoulder, both to comfort her momentarily, and to brace myself to stand up. "Please, let me get it; I wouldn't want a mare of your age having to do more walking than necessary."

"I will break your jaw, kid. And I should get this one."

"So you were expecting her." I chuckled to myself at Rain's flash of worried surprise, as I lowered myself back to the couch.

"Her?" Blizzard asked.

I nodded to my friend. "Your Mom's come to visit. And more importantly, our hosts knew." The words stopped Rain fully in her tracks toward the door. "You both slipped up referring to her in the present-tense, and as inept as I might be at 'reading faces' or whatever Gale called it, I'd take my odds at cards with Rain. But that leads to an interesting point: neither of you are necromancers, which means you couldn't have figured it out the way I did. So good odds say you're both going behind Luna's back."

Rain's focus on me hardened considerably, and while Pathfinder's expression was much more neutral (and if we're being honest, less focused from how much alcohol he'd imbibed), he did set down his drink and lower his gaze ever so slightly to my… throat, I'm guessing?

"…which is honestly fine by me; I have no love lost for Luna, and I have no doubt she'd say the same thing about me. But will you humor me one observation before you go to the door, Rain?"

The one-eyed mare nodded slowly, her scarred brow raised in reflection of her curiosity—or perhaps concern.

"Many more sophisticated undead have their senses enhanced with magic beyond what their original body possessed in life. And given their uniquely predatory, bat-like forms, and the fact that Luna has had literal millenia to practice her craft, I would be surprised if that weren't true of her… what did she call them?"

"The Night Guard," Pathfinder offered.

"I wonder if that's the organization or the name of the category of undead… Anyway, if my hypothesis is correct, then frankly, I think the creature in question is probably wasting all our time waiting for somepony to answer the door and ought to just come in already."

Sometimes, the sound of a door not swinging open can be surprisingly satisfying.

After a solid three seconds, I nodded to Rain. "Don't actually go to the door, but can you tell her she has permission to come in?"

Rain nodded and called out "Well, come in."

And then, the sound of the door opening was even more satisfying.

8-3

VIII - III
When I Told Gale This Story, She Just Said 'Hot' And Never Clarified What Part She Meant

…But I Do Have A Compelling Guess

Summer Celsus, the Second Sister of Luna's Night Guard, had probably been quite a beautiful mare in life, before Luna swapped out her feathered wings for a leathery bat-like pair, and more importantly, filled her mouth with a set of voracious fangs. (I suppose she still was after, if you're into that sort of thing…) Her mane and tail were what I can only fairly call 'blood-colored'—though I should clarify I mean rich red, freshly shed blood, not the crusty brown dried variety. In between those streaks of color, she was the pale, almost-white pink to my pale, almost-white blue.

While I'm not sure if this little piece of information will ever be useful to anypony, I nevertheless feel it may be useful in the aftermath of our recent Night Guard-filled war with Nightmare Moon to explain anyway: because most former ponies in the Night Guard wind up on the darker side of the color spectrum, many ponies are surprised by this description of Summer. The uniform dark coats aren't actually a quality of the necromancy that raises her victims, however, but instead a show of illusion. As Luna began to display her undead more and more openly in the days since my youth in Everfree, she took to enchanting their armor to provide them a uniform appearance—yet another layer of deflection to keep anypony who knew them in life from recognizing them, as well as, no doubt, for the aesthetic. Which, if we're being honest, one has to respect—one of the only respectable things to come out of Luna in regard to the Night Guard, really.

Beyond her coloration, and perhaps more importantly, Summer looked young; perhaps twenty or so, though judging effective age can get tricky when one has to look past the bat wings and the jagged maw. The resemblance to Blizzard was unmistakable even through the monstrous bits, though, and I have to admit, she'd be a decent catch, if being nibbled on is your 'thing'.

It certainly wasn't mine, and time and the experience of having not-at-all trivial parts of my body bitten off have only hardened my position, though. So, instead of paying attention to a mare at least apparently my age, beyond the satisfaction of my theory about her permission to enter the Rains' home, my mind went to all of Wintershimmer's lessons about the undead.

"You must think you're real smart with that stupid stunt, colt," Summer announced as she walked in to greet us. "Rain. Runt. Damn, you two got old."

"Too bad you didn't," Rain answered with more coldness to her tone than I had expected. Pathfinder shot his wife a questioning glare, but it faded when Summer laughed at the jab.

"It's good to see you, Summer," Pathfinder offered, much more gently, taking in the figure before him with wearied eyes, tracing every line of her youthful face. "You went back to wearing your mane like you did at Fort Updraft."

Summer cocked her head. "You remember that? That was fifty years ago! I don't even remember that." She rolled her slitted eyes. "I guess your weird memory still works. I take it you got my message. Thanks for letting me use the house."

"Finder can take all the thanks for that," Rain answered coolly.

"Something wrong, Rain? Still not over how it ended?"

Rain's brow furrowed, but she said nothing in reply. Summer just stared, her undeath sparing her the need to blink. After a very, very long moment between the two old soldiers, Summer drew in a deep breath, her slitted red eyes—oh, did I forget to mention those?— finally broke from her old friend and focused her gaze on the purpose of her visit. "Blizzard… Look how you've grown." A slight (and discomforting) smile spread on the dead mare's lips, accentuating her fangs. "It's been so long."

Blizzard was caught up in emotion; she didn't speak quickly, and when she did the words were broken up—not quite with tears, but certainly the better part of the way along that path . "I… I don't even remember you." My friend had to force down a difficult swallow to speak further. "I always wondered what you looked like. I used to draw pictures…"

Summer's smile softened, still full of fangs but gentler. Instead of answering with words, she spread her wings and began to walk forward, offering a pegasus hug.

I had to move quickly to insert myself between them. "Hold on."

"What the hell are you doing?" Rain asked, but I ignored her.

"Pathfinder, can you boil some water? And if you have soap, go grab some." Holding up a hoof to indicate I wanted Summer to pause, I turned away from her to face my friend. "Sorry about the interruption; I would have said something earlier if I'd known. But a couple quick rules about handling dead bodies. Ideally, you wouldn't touch her at all, but I understand she's your mom, so just try and make it a quick hug. Absolutely no kisses, even on the cheek. And stop by my house in three days; I'll need to check for any rashes, infections, parasites—that sort of thing."

"I'm not some bloated corpse, you little shit!" Summer snarled behind me.

I chuckled, finding some amusement in the overlap of the first answer that came to mind, and turned to face her. "Oh, I'd never call you bloated, no; anypony with two eyes can see you're quite shapely… So I guess, Rain, you'll have to take my word for it." Judging by the noise he made from over by the sink (where he was, in fact filling a small cauldron) Pathfinder appreciated the joke. Rain was silent, but I did catch a smirk on her face. Summer was… less amused. "But you are a corpse regardless, which makes the 'shape' discussion sort of immaterial, don't you agree?"

Summer scoffed and paced toward me, rather feline in her movements. She swayed her hips with her stride, flicking her tail like a whip from side to side behind her. "Thanks for noticing." Her eyes slipped up and down my form, lingering heavily on my neck. "Not too many scars, but the neck one's nice." She made a show of licking her lips. "You're not a bad little snack yourself."

I sighed. "I'm neither a masochist nor a necrophiliac."

"Really? You draw the line at me? With all the weird shit you get up to with Hurricane's little slut at night?" Rain winced, Blizzard shrunk back, Pathfinder loudly dropped his cauldron in the sink, splashing water from their expensive cloud plumbing onto the tiled floor, and I grit my teeth in restrained fury. "You were the one who pointed out how good our hearing is. And is it really any surprise we've been watching you? You can't imagine how many interesting things I've gotten to hear."

Solemn Vow immediately jumped to my mind, and without even thinking, a hint of magic crept into my horn. The pain of the mana on the still-sore organ meant it came off more as a threatening flash than a steady glow.

That threat only got a wider smile from Summer. "You think your little death spell works on me? You think you're better than Mistress?"

"She really makes you call her—"

"Believe me, I've heard it before," Summer interrupted. "Instead of repeating that tired joke, let me show you something actually kinky." And before I could reply, she grabbed me by the shoulders with her wings—freakishly strong with necromantic magic—pulled me forward, and kissed me squarely on the lips. As I tried and utterly failed to pull away at the uncomfortable feeling of cold, wet lips and the unmistakable pressure of oversized teeth behind them, Summer let out an (obviously forced) moan of pleasure. Then she pushed forward harder, her inequine strength obviously extending to her jaw as she forced her disturbingly cold tongue into my mouth, seeking out mine.

I pulled back once with my neck, and when that failed, brought a hoof up to press against her chest in an attempt to escape her hold—but even that was no use. Summer, sensing my struggles, decided to get in one final barb before releasing me—well, several, really. When the tips of her fangs dug into my lower lip more than hard enough to draw blood, I let out a short scream that accompanied the stomach-turning wave of coppery taste. Only a moment after the outright bite, Summer released me. I fell fully onto my side on the Rains' floor. At the same time, she threw her head back with a satisfied gasp of air I know was for dramatic effect, given her lack of need for breath. The combined violent parting was enough to send a rather violent splash of blood up into the air of the room as well as across Summer's lips, even though my wounds were not so especially deep.

Summer made a show of licking her lips lasciviously as she loomed over me on the floor. "Hopefully that shuts you up. I've never gotten to speak to my daughter before, and I don't need some smartass chiming in whenever he thinks he's funny. So let me just say this: I know your type, colt. Smooth talking, tripping on power. Keeping a second filly in your back pocket in case the grand prize doesn't work out. So if you break her heart, I'll break yours. In front of you." Stepping literally over me, she added "Better hope that bite doesn't get infected with one of my diseases. It'd be awkward to explain to the Queen why you were making out with a corpse."

Pathfinder rushed over to my side with a clean dishrag and a bottle of some strong spirit—though I was quickly surprised when, rather than using it to clean my wounds, he produced a small glass, filled it, and more or less poured the clear liquid down my throat. "For the pain," he whispered, before getting to the part I had fully expected, even if it stung like hell.

Trying to take my mind off the pain, I focused on the other ponies in the room. Rain said nothing, but I caught her shooting a powerful disapproving glare in Summer's direction. Summer, for her part, rolled her eyes and held up a leathery wing to deflect the criticism, or at least defer it.

Then her focus, at last, returned to Blizzard. "Well, now we can finally talk."

"Can we?" Blizzard asked, glancing my way. There was a slight steel in her voice, one I had only heard before the day we left River Rock. Then Blizzard took a long, deep breath and the glimmer of whatever inner strength the mare kept buried away was once more covered up. "Mother, Morty is my friend; he's not interested in me that way. Please don't hurt him."

"He's your friend? It sounds to me like he spent all night talking over you, but if you say so."

"He's the reason I'm here, and not stuck back in River Rock," Blizzard countered.

Summer turned to shoot me a surprisingly harsh glare, given how her own daughter had just vouched for me. "Is that so?” Her expression softened as she looked to Blizzard again and took a step closer. “What are you doing here, Little One?"

Blizzard tensed at the question—or perhaps more likely, at its surprisingly accusatory nature that seemed to come out of nowhere. "I felt trapped in River Rock; everything was about Father, every day. I had to mother all his adopted foals because he was too busy and I wasn't interested in serving in his legion. And when Morty found out you were alive for us, I wanted to meet you."

Summer smiled a much more genuine grin by wearing it crooked, so her fangs were only showing on one side of her youthful face. She stepped forward, and wrapped her wings around Blizzard's shoulders. "I'm so glad I get to meet you, Blizzard." After a long few moments of just holding the embrace in silence, Summer stepped back and clapped her daughter on the shoulders with her leathery wings. "I know there isn't a ton of food to go around in River Rock, but you need to be eating more. You look like a stick."

"We'll fix that, Summer," Rain noted from the side of the room with a chuckle. "I promise."

"No," Summer answered with a sigh. "She shouldn't be here. Blizzard, you need to go back home."

"What?" Blizzard demanded suddenly, pulling back from Summer's wings—and, given how I had experienced the dead mare's strength, I could be confident she'd willingly let her daughter escape her grip. "Why? Is it because I'm Cyclone's daughter? Morty's going to enchant an amulet to make ponies not notice me, and—"

"You shouldn't need to hide who you are," Summer interrupted. "Your father was a great pony."

"Summer," Rain warned.

"Did I tell you how to raise your foals?! Or does what I did for Sky not mean anything to you anymore?!" Summer snarled, ivory fangs flaring at her old friend. Rain, it seemed, was cowed by that reminder, an unusual retreat for the one-eyed mare. And so, after a moment to rein in the more bestial elements of her form, Summer turned her slit eyes back to her daughter. "If you learn anything from me, Blizzard, it's that you should never run away from your problems. Running away from Dioda destroyed Cirra. And I don't want you staying with that rat-bastard Hurricane."

"What?" Blizzard winced back, but there was sheer pain mixed in with her grief and surprise. "I'm not leaving! Everfree is the first place that ever felt like a real home!"

"It's a lie, Blizzard. Hurricane doesn't love you—"

"That's the lie," Blizzard insisted. "Grandfather is the kindest, gentlest—"

"He's a snake!" Summer interrupted. "He seems like a gentle old stallion, but he's responsible for everything wrong with Cirra. He and Mistress and Celestia—all of them can burn!."

I quietly noted a bit of surprise in the back of my mind at the idea that Luna allowed her creations to speak ill of her.

Blizzard, too, seemed shocked at that announcement of her mother's hatred. I caught a hint of tears gathering in the corner of her eyes, though her voice carried a steel of resolution. "That's wrong. I know that's wrong."

Summer stepped toward her daughter with all the same intensity that she had approached me. "If you knew what they did—"

A steely gray feathered wing spread into the space between Blizzard and Summer. Rain's motion was terrifyingly swift, given her bulk, and when she stopped there was no wavering, no hesitance to her blockade. "I do know," she told Summer. "And it doesn't matter. Blizzard made her choice, and she's a grown mare. Respect it."

"How could you possibly…" Summer's voice trailed off as she met Rain's eye, and then her pearly fangs ground together in the harshest, most bestial baring of hatred she had yet unveiled. "You know and you're still taking his side?" Summer turned her head and spat directly on the floor. "You know what? Forget it. Get the hell out of my way. This isn't about you, Rain. She's my daughter."

"You gave up that right when you died betraying Cirra," Rain countered firmly.

"Better than living in it!" Summer's slitted eyes shot across the room toward me—or rather, I realized after she spoke, to Pathfinder. "I ought to thank you, Runt. Taking your sword to the heart was a lot better than having to live through this nightmare. Too bad I didn't know how bad it would be when Mistress offered me to live on."

Shuddering, Blizzard's eyes shot between Pathfinder and her mother. "You… you killed—"

"I did it to myself," Summer clarified with a rather grim chuckle. "It's not as if Finder could ever take me."

Finder was silent to that jab, but Iron rain grinned. "You'd be surprised, Summer. Did you forget who killed Yngvilde?"

"Oh, I remember," Summer answered, words full of vitriol. "I was the one who patched us all up. Or did you forget that too, when you sold out to Hurricane? I'm the one who still cares about what those half-breed bastards did. Just the same as I care about your eye; or would you rather forget about me and credit that to that old four-eyed griffon—"

Summer's words weren't cut off by another pony speaking—at least, not at first. Instead, there was a distinct crackling as Pathfinder, kneeling in front of me, turned to stone. And, lest you think I am being poetic, I mean that very literally the green, scarred coat and well whitened mane suddenly took on a stony, craggly texture and froze completely. It was so sudden that I let out a gasp, and then had to quiet myself to spare pain from my lip; at the time, I had never so much as heard of such magic coming from a pegasus—and even to this day, eight hundred-odd years later, I have only ever met two who could replicate the feat.

Summer's neck cracked like a whip toward the noise, and then seeing what had happened, apparently brushed it off enough to turn back to Rain…

…only to find Rain's hoof slamming into her cheek, without a wisp of restraint.

Summer may have been unnaturally strong and fast, possessed of numerous magical abilities, but sometimes, hoof-to-hoof combat comes down to simple physics. Even all her undead enchantments and Rain's age could do very little to make up for the fact that Rain was nearly a head taller than Summer, and by my rough guess, half-again her body weight. Rain's blow would have not just broken, but shattered the jaw of a mere mortal (and certainly the mere jaw of a young Mortal). Against Summer, the damage dealt was less permanent, but the blow was still enough to pick the dead mare up by her head and fling her into the stucco walls of the Rains' home hard enough to shake the walls and send spiderweb cracks across the plaster.

"How dare you?" Rain demanded, stalking over. Summer was surprisingly unfazed by the brutal blow, snapping herself back to her hooves and even hopping up to hover aloft so she was at least at Rain's eye level. But still, the inertia was clearly with the living mare. "I'll suffer your old wounds, and your stupid games with Morty; I don't care if you want to argue old politics with me. And if you want to try and give shit advice to your daughter, I can't really stop you. But to bring that up, to hurt Finder just to spite me and win an argument with Blizzard? Get out of our house."

"Rain, I didn't mean—"

"You can come back to apologize. Until then, I don't want to see your face again."

Summer let out a huff, then her eyes settled on the statuesque Pathfinder again. Her gaze softened, and for a moment she almost seemed a different mare.. "Kid… Rain, you know I—"

"Now is not the time. Last warning, before I start asking with my knife."

Summer flicked her tail, that hardened look overtaking her almost as fast as it had left. She turned to leave, only stopping beside me of all ponies with a flare of her nostrils. "One more thing, Coil: you should put down the bug before he replaces a real pony."

I grit my teeth in anticipation of the pain I'd need to force out my answer past my painful lip. "I'd sooner kill Luna than hurt Graargh."

"Your funeral," she muttered. "Again."

And with that, Summer Celsus disappeared into the night.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

I would love to tell you there was more to say to this story, that I comforted Blizzard the way she'd been there for me in our journeys, or that Blizzard came out of the encounter more resolved, more determined.

But the truth is, at least then, I had no idea. With the distraction of Summer gone, Iron Rain rushed over to her literally petrified husband's side, wrapped her wings fully around his head, and lowered her own forehead to his, so that the two existed solely in the dome of her graying feathers. I didn't hear what she whispered to him, but after a good few moments, with an audible cracking, the stone shell of his skin began to break. Then from those cracks, like the thawing of frosted steel or glass, the natural forest green of his coat began to creep back across his body. Pathfinder said nothing; he only picked up the poignant tankard of liquor he had used on my lip, lifted it to his own, and with a pat on the back from one of his wife's wings, walked silently further into the house.

"Morty, are you alright to make it to a doctor on your own?" Rain asked. When I nodded, she wandered over to some cabinet and tossed a small pouch at my hooves, which clinked when it hit the ground. "Sorry about the trouble. I'm gonna take Blizzard back to Hurricane—if that's what you want, Blizzard."

Blizzard only offered a nod.

"I'm sorry to both of you. I should have guessed there'd still be trouble, but…" Rain sighed. "I hope when my generation finally kicks the bucket, all these old wounds from the Red Cloud War go with us."

Rain's wish was a noble one, but it was already doomed to fail even before she voiced those words to us. Of course, neither she nor I had any way of knowing at the time what fresh salt already lurked in River Rock, ready to be rubbed into those old, but still unscarred wounds.

But it would not be much longer until we learned.

9-1 The Battle of the Short Hallway

IX

The Battle of the Short Hallway

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

IX - I

The Explosion Before the Storm

It began with the most mundane of explosions.

One 'summer' night in River Rock, insofar as River Rock (or as we now know it, Stalliongrad) even has a concept of summer, an earth pony merchant with a gravelly gaze and a penchant for the pipe found herself dealing with a bit of stress after she finished dealing with a group of River Rock's 'damn traitor guardsponies'. It was always something with Cyclone's soldiers; some new tax or new regulation, or just an unnecessary inspection to waste her time with their unnecessary (she assumed) bureaucracy. Maybe it was that they wanted to feel like they had power over something, trapped as they were in this eternal frozen nightmare while ponykind moved on past them in new Equestria. Maybe they were just that awful. Wasn't hard to believe. But whatever the reason for their forbidding her from going into town further than the docks, and making such a big deal about keeping quiet about Equestria, she didn't care. She just needed to drop off her flour, pick up her coin, and be off.

So as the porters and her crew unloaded bags and bags of milled flour, she took a moment to relieve her stress with her hooked pipe under the cover of the dockside warehouse that stored what little food the city had access to.

And when one of the porters dropped a bag of flour, and it burst in a puff of dust, that was all it took.

Nopony was killed. Well, nopony died of burns. No, I suppose that isn't true either. I can say nopony died immediately - the worst casualties in the moment were a few singed manes and a single eyebrow. The storehouse, unlike a tightly closed silo, had plenty of windows and a wide-open set of barn doors to let the force and fire of the explosion pass quickly. But when it passed, it took with it several tons of River Rock's already short supplies.

And so it began.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

Maelstrom Stormblade was desperately poring over the city's food records, sitting in a chair sized for his father that the young stallion couldn't possibly fill, with dozens of quills and books and reports sprawled out on a massive desk in front of him when news of the explosion arrived.

When the soldier with the news—twice Maelstrom's age, and by the colt's memory, a member of Legate Wrest's own legion—finished her report, Maelstrom's tan wing gently removed the reading glasses from the bridge of his nose, folded them tightly, and set them down on the desk.

"I understand," the young Praetorian Commander said, trying to keep a straight face (and performing admirably as his mind raced). "Tell Legate Wrest that I need half an hour to make sure my brothers and sisters are all out of the way, and then she can do as she feels she needs to."

The soldier nodded and went on his way.

"Half an hour… right…"

And Maelstrom, possibly like an idiot, but with an admirable heroism to his actions, promptly delegated the search for his siblings to a legionary roughly his own age (and thus less likely to side with Wrest's 'old guard', though it was impossible to be completely sure). After ordering the foals to be taken en masse to a somewhat less exploded warehouse by the docks, he himself made his way to a barred-and-guarded chamber in the upper halls of Castle Burning Hearth as quickly as he could without attracting undue attention from any of the wandering soldiers in the halls—soldiers who, in theory, answered to him as Cyclone's proxy and the highest ranking officer in River Rock, but as with the former young soldier, it was impossible to know how many would follow an inexperienced colt his age over Wrest's seasoned command and respect.

Fortunately, there was one soldier Maelstrom trusted: a young mare almost exactly his own age, and his occasional sparring partner (in a decidedly innuendo-less, literal sense), whom Maelstrom had, with some foresight, assigned to guarding the particular door that was his destination.

The colt's heart pounded like a thunderhead with every legionary he passed, despite their salutes and sudden motions out of his path. Twice, he crossed in front of centurions from Wrest's legion, the Nyxian Second, but mercifully, it seemed that news of the fire had not yet reached their ears.

Or they were as clever about masking what they observed as he was being.

Finally, Maelstrom reached his destination, and he glanced back and forth with trepidation down the hallway before he approached the door in question.

"Commander Maelstrom, Sir!" Grail snapped a stiff salute.

"Not now, Grail," Maelstrom answered with a much more hushed voice. "Give me the key; then you're dismissed."

Grail cocked her head, even as she hoofed over the requested key, taking its leather band off her neck. "Do you mean 'at ease', Maelstrom?"

"I mean go home, Grail," Maelstrom insisted, glancing once more up and back down the hall. "No matter what happens, you're off duty until my father gets back. That's an order."

Grail swallowed. "Is something wrong?"

"Yes. Very. But please, just go." Maelstrom felt a drop of sweat drip down his temple. "And if you can help it, don't tell anypony I was the one who told you to leave here. Just… actually, tell them… do you know any centurions from the Second? Personally?"

"Um, Taciturn is my uncle's friend—"

"Good," Maelstrom interrupted the rest of the explanation. "As a direct order, if anypony asks, tell them Taciturn decided to do you a favor and relieved you of guard duty. Now go, Grail."

Grail took a deep breath, and then nodded. "Okay. Please be careful, Maelstrom."

"I don't think I'm the one in danger," he answered. With Grail most of the way out of earshot, under his breath, he added "Not yet, anyway…"

Before Grail was even fully gone from view, Maelstrom unlocked the door behind her guard posting and pushed his way in—there was no time for the niceties of knocking. "Artorius? Are you awake? Can you walk?"

The griffon tercel who occupied the guarded room sat up in bed, showing no obvious pain or stiffness despite the bandages wrapped around various parts of his body where, Maelstrom assumed, the wounds of fenrir teeth were still healing. "I heal very fast, Commander. If it were up to me, I would have gone to talk to my mother and the others, but I'm sure the apothecary said—"

"That was my order," Maelstrom interrupted, glancing back over his shoulder and out into the hallway. "And I'm sorry for keeping you from your family for so long. But I'm also glad I did."

"Is something the matter?"

Maelstrom nodded. "One of my father's legates wants to kill your mother's griffons. They're all still staying in the dungeons under the castle, and they're unarmed. If Wrest reaches them before we can get them out, it will be a slaughter."

Artorius's eyes widened. "Your own soldiers are not loyal to your orders? Are they not sworn to the Legion's oath?"

The question earned a roll of magenta eyes. "It's not that simple, Artorius. The point is, we need to get your mom and the other griffons out of there. There's an old fortress a good way's west of here, Onyx Ridge; we can hide you there until Father gets back. Can you help?"

"Of course!" Artorius all-but-bellowed, making Maelstrom wince as he folded his ears against his skull. "What kind of knight would I be to let you lead battle against your own kind for the sake of those in need while I stood to the side? We shall crush our way to my mother, and then our flight shall be glorious!"

"No!" Maelstrom hissed. "We're doing this quietly."

"Surely between my strength and the skill of the grandson of Hurricane Haysar himself, we have no need to—"

"Do I look like a good soldier to you?" Maelstrom—stick thin and with a bit of a hunched posture when he wasn't actively maintaining his stance in front of his military peers—snapped at the griffon, before his head swung toward the door at the faintest hint of the sound of armor in the hall. "C'mon. Stay close, head down."

Artorius and Maelstrom barely had time to re-close Artorius' door, and to lock it with the key around Maelstrom's neck, before armored hooves appeared around the corner of the hall. Glancing back and forth hurriedly, Maelstrom's best hope in the split second was to cram Artorius into an alcove behind a unicorn suit of armor—yet another of the relics of the centuries of unicorn rule left over in the frozen halls of Burning Hearth.

It was an awful hiding place, and Artorius wasn't the most… covertly gifted being in the world, though, so as two legionaries on patrol approached, Maelstrom made the quick decision to walk toward them—hoping to intercept them before they got a clearer line of sight to Artorius hiding place.

"Commander!" one of them barked out, saluting. "What are you doing up here?"

Biting back his nervousness, and nearly quaking in his shoes, Maelstrom answered "I'm looking for my brother. Have you seen him?"

"Which one?" the elder of the two guards queried in reply.

The younger, jokingly, replied "Does it matter? I thought they were all ordered to stay in the upper halls—in Platinum's old quarters, sir."

"I know that," Maelstrom growled. "I'm looking for Torrent."

"Who, sir?"

"Torrent," Maelstrom repeated. "The new kid who didn't have a name. The one the griffon saved from the fenrir." To accentuate the point, Maelstrom gestured to the locked—but now suspiciously unguarded—door.

That fact didn't escape the other ponies in the hall. "Wouldn't the guard have seen her?"

"Where is that filly anyway?"

Maelstrom sighed, thinking Sorry, Grail, before aloud he told the guards "There's supposed to be a guard posted here? I ordered the door locked—" and there he gestured to his neck "—but I didn't think we needed to waste somepony standing in front of the door. You, find out who gave that order and send them to me. And you: I need to find Torrent, quickly. I'm worried he's going to get himself into danger; I haven't had time to explain where he is and isn't allowed in the castle."

"But—"

"Do you want to explain to my father why one of his foals got hurt?" Maelstrom insisted. And even the specter of Cyclone's literally flaming wrath was enough to dispel any further curiosity. "Go! I'll take this way; you sweep the west galleries. Commandeer anypony you need to help, on my authority."

"Sir!" both legionaries snapped.

Had his heart not been pounding so heavily with ongoing worry, Maelstrom might have collapsed as soon as the other legionaries were out of sight; one glance inside the unguarded door, a few more steps down the hall, and that would have been it.

Hence, when Artorius walked boldly out of his hiding place and announced "It is unbecoming of a knight to lurk in the shadows and hide behind lies," Maelstrom answered with a glare that carried much of the heat of his fearsome father.

"Stay close," was all Maelstrom actually said, though.

On two more occasions, the young Praetorian Commander lied or distracted his way past patrols, hiding Artorius around corners or behind buttresses and pillars in the dense classical unicorn architecture. Finally, mercifully for Maelstrom's heart, the pair arrived at a pair of stout wooden doors.

"Can you fight?" Maelstrom asked.

Artorius shrugged. "I am not so good with my talons and claws as I am with a weapon, but I will make do. How many do we face? A dozen? More? Ten?"

Maelstrom answered that question by cocking his head nearly sixty degrees to the side. Setting aside Artorius' curious grasp of the basic skill of counting for a moment, he asked "You think you can take ten armed legionaries by yourself?"

"I do not know. I have not tried. But I am very strong. I once bested six dead griffons, and I broke my sword on the first one."

Fully giving up on a sentence that I would have believed but that he understandably chalked up to poor Equiish, Maelstrom raised a wing to placate the soldier. "This is the old armory; it's where I had the weapons that were taken from your companions stored. But our quartermaster is in, and he's an old sort; he might listen to me, or he might not. If he doesn't… I don't think it will be hard, but you can't hesitate. Understand?"

"I do," Artorius nodded. "But do you? I hear you hesitate in your voice."

Maelstrom winced; it was one thing for Wrest to call him on his hesitance to face the reality of a soldier's life, but this griffon who he'd only spoken to twice before? Was he that obvious? That weak?

"If I have it my way, nopony gets hurt. Er, no griffon either—"

"I know what you mean, and it is a noble wish," Artorius agreed. And then, with a sort of jaded wisdom belying his obvious youth, he added "If only, if only. But if someone is to be hurt, better us than innocents, no?"

And with that ominous observation, Artorius stepped forward and flung open the armory doors.

I'd love to tell you the story of more daring wordplay and tense negotiations on Maelstrom's part, but in this case Artorius settled any debate with the quartermaster of Cyclone's legion without even intending to do so. The griffon's strength—utterly understated despite the bravado of his claims—meant that when the heavy wooden doors were flung open inward, the right-hoof one of the pair caught the old quartermaster square on the muzzle with a painful and disgusting mixture of the cracking of stout wood and the suction-cup-y, mucusy slurp of a nasal cavity being mildly collapsed and heavily compressed hard enough to, albeit briefly, form an airtight seal. The senior pegasus was flipped head over hooves in a spray of blood and snot, and blissfully, was unconscious from the blunt force head and neck trauma before his body even hit the stone floor of the storeroom.

"Oh my," said Artorius, rather meekly. "I, um—I didn't mean to—"

"No time to apologize," Maelstrom cut in. "He's still breathing. He'll be fine." The indication of the latter fact was the pony letting off a sort of crinkled snoring noise, like the sound of a clarinet when played after having been sat on by a yak. "How many of your company are combat-ready? There weren't many weapons, but I assume some might have been left behind for the flight from Dioda."

"Um…" Artorius held up a claw and began counting on his talons. "Me, Mom, Tapfer, Dredge, Ysilde, Brumhilde… oh, and Tsume. So seven."

I am genuinely surprised, given the way he reacted, that Maelstrom's mane did not go shock white at that very moment. "I… beg your pardon?"

"Why? You haven't done anything wrong."

"No, I mean I don't believe you. There were almost two hundred griffons in the company that came from Dioda and you're telling me you have seven soldiers?"

"We have seven knights," Artorius corrected, as though it were the most important distinction in the world. "But... yes, all our soldiers are knights. The apothecary tells me that when I was young, there were hundreds of us, knights fighting for griffon freedom… but after Magnus slew my father, we've slowly been bleeding away."

Maelstrom winced. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"Don't be," Artorius answered, surveying the room's armaments. "It was as honorable a death as any griffon could ever hope for—fighting evil against impossible odds, and despite defeat, winning something of great value."

"Hmm?"

"They unsealed Valhalla," Artorius answered. And then, when Maelstrom cocked his head, the bird-brained knight's mind realized just how staggeringly much context such a statement would need to make sense to a pony, and resolved "I will tell you over a horn of ale when my people are safe. You have my word."

"I'll hold you to that; now you've got me curious." Maelstrom scanned the walls. "I know we took those two thicker curved swords from one of you," When he spied them, the young pegasus gestured up to a shelf with a wing before hopping into the air and hovering to grab them in his mouth.

"Tsume's," Artorius answered. "She's told me their names a dozen times, but I can't say words in her language to save my life." After taking what readers who are familiar with the lands of the kirin as a katana and a tanto—and those who aren't will understand as a saber with delusions of grandeur and a dagger with delusions of being a saber respectively—the griffon indicated a few other weapons on the shelves. "The lance there is Tapfer's. Let's see… where's Brumhilde's trident?"

"I don't think we took a trident," Maelstrom noted. "I feel like I would have remembered that."

Artorius shrugged. "Maybe it got lost. Grab a few pilums, and we'll have to hope she doesn't bend all of them."

"Um…" Maelstrom briefly considered explaining that a pilum bending, if not outright breaking, was the point of the weapon (perhaps even the point of its point) but ultimately gave up the note to instead glance around the room for a different offering. A pang of hesitation swept his mind as his eyes fell on a slender, sealed case at the side of the room. The heavy padlock indicated its contents were valuable, and the young Praetorian commander knew the key was surely with his father, though the gods only knew where Cyclone was at that moment. Would it be a betrayal? But he'd already gone this far…

"Can you snap that lock off with a hammer or something?" Maelstrom asked.

"Hmm? Sure." Artorius nodded, wandered over to the lock, and quite casually snapped the dense, almost horn-tip-width steel shackle like it was a dry branch. Maelstrom's eye twitched at the show of brute force, even as Artorius opened the case. "Oh, a spear! And well-balanced too!"

"It was my grandmother's," Maelstrom explained. "Swift Spear. I hope we don't have to use it. Father will kill me if it gets broken."

"It's heavy," Artorius noted, despite obviously not struggling whatsoever with the weight.

"Pure nimbus skysteel," Maelstrom explained.

"Why does the city matter?"

Maelstrom cocked his head before his mind traced the thought fully. "Not Nimbus the city; it's made of thunderheads. I've heard my grandmother could occasionally make lightning arc off of it when she spun it, but nopony has actually used it in my lifetime."

"It will be in good hands with Brumhilde. At least, you can feel safe knowing I'm not using it."

"Why would that matter?"

"I… tend to break weapons," Artorius admitted with some trepidation. "Even very sturdy ones."

"Are all griffons as strong as you? Could the old doctor you had with you break that lock?"

"Oh, certainly no. I am young, and well-fed, and if we are honesting, fairly large." Though he wore a stupid grin in saying so, I should emphasize here that Artorius was not being puerile with that comment; he wasn't nearly smart enough, even in old Cirran or Griffon, let alone Equiish, for that—he really did just mean the size of his overall body. "And I practice throwing rocks." Before Maelstrom could dig further on any of his curiosities, the normally more distractible of the pair, Artorius, tucked Swift Spear's spear under his wing, darted over to a rack of swords and started rifling through them. "Hm… skysteel, skysteel… no… Aha! Mom's sword."

Maelstrom took note that it was, essentially, a Cirran-style gladius, just grown to about half-again the standard Legion size to match a griffon's form. Readers familiar with more modern guard shortswords in the straight-bladed unicorn style should know that, while the word 'gladius' is another word which just means 'sword' in Cirran, the term generally referred to a particular kind of sword for Cirra: a blade with a straight or nearly straight blade that took on more curvature toward the tip, allowing flying pegasi in military formation to slice with momentum of their whole bodies instead of just the strength of their necks.

"Anything else?" Maelstrom asked. "We do need to hurry."

Artorius nodded, glanced around the room, and finally smiled when his eyes alighted on a lacquered red tower shield with a single dominating spike in its center. "There we are. And that just leaves something for me… do you still have that warhammer?"

Maelstrom shook his head. "I put it back on the wall upstairs."

"Then I'll make do with something else…" Glancing around, Artorius seemed not to settle at all; he grabbed no fewer than six weapons—and odd mixture of old unicorn polearms like halberds and bec-de-corbins and other similarly inane nonsense, along with a three-headed flail, a pickaxe, and to Maelstrom's unspoken confusion, the circular stone he ripped out of the center of a pedal-powered grindstone contraption the still-unconscious quartermaster had presumably stored in the corner of the room. Carrying all of that beneath his wings and under one foreleg (arm?), Artorius nodded to Maelstrom. "Lead the way."

9-2

IX - II

Five Knights In Prison

Burning Hearth Castle's dungeons were defensively engineered—perhaps over-engineered—to hold rogue wizards, back in the days when the Diamond Kingdoms hadn't yet been fully unified into an incorrectly pluralized whole. The dungeons consisted of three hallways in a trident-shaped formation. The eastern hall, facing out the sheer-cliffed hill that formed the 'rock' part of the city of River Rock, had long slender chutes that offered fresh air and a view of the sky (barred and treated with void crystal to prevent wizard prisoners from just teleporting away, in the event they somehow got nullifying rings off their horns). The central spur had once been fitted with ornate cells for political prisoners held ransom in the days of high chivalry and feudalism when that sort of thing was regarded as tasteful. The western hall was the most grim, filled with oubliettes and hanging cages for the worst criminals of the common rabble—though in more civilized times, the jagged ironworks had rusted away from disuse; even the ponies Wintershimmer experimented on to learn the art of grafting unicorn horns hadn't been subjected to such devices.

The three hallways met in a large guard chamber which allowed jailers to monitor all three halls at once by sitting at the intersection point of the three hallways 'lines'—a sort of primitive, limited panopticon. Beyond that feature, however, the room was hardly well equipped for a guard's station. Instead, the wall opposite the three dungeon cell blocks featured a pair of massive wrought iron doors that opened on a very short, fairly wide hallway. By design, a formation of four knights in a shield wall could march shoulder-to-shoulder with just enough space to maneuver down the hallway toward the cells. But in addition to walking space, this hallway featured two portcullises which could be dropped down in front of the doors at each end, a set of six murder holes in the ceiling, and three arrow slits on each wall. Though you don't exactly have to be Gray Rain to draw your own conclusions, for the sake of any of Artorius' intellectual equals amongst our readership, I'll tell you outright: even if prisoners did manage to break out of their cells, bind together, and fight out to the guard post, steal the guards weapons and armor, and batter down the iron doors out of that first guard post, it would still take a miracle to make it the ten strides they needed just to touch the final set of doors.

Behind those second set of iron doors was a more comfortable guard posting, the 'outer post' (as opposed to the aforementioned chamber as the 'inner post') where one might expect to find a card table, or scattered tin plates and 'silver'ware, or a dart board or what have you. But beyond the niceties, for the purposes of our story, you only need to know two things about this room: Firstly, it granted access to a set of 'attics' — uncomfortable hallways that ran above the other guard room and the cell block halls, and granted access to more 'murder holes' above each cell—though despite their potentially military uses, historically these had mostly been used to deliver food to the prisoners without having to walk the lengths of the cell block hallways.

Secondly, the single door out of this outer guard post was plain wood, much like any other door in Burning Hearth Castle. If a prisoner somehow got past it, functionally, they had escaped; nothing else they would face on the way out would be any harder to escape than what the castellans of Burning Hearth had, throughout history, referred to as 'the Short Hallway'.

Artorius and Maelstrom made it as far as the outer post before their plan, as the saying goes, stopped surviving. For, idly flinging throwing knives from where she held a brace pinched in her feathers (somehow) into a dartboard sat Legate Wrest, sprawled out on a wooden bench with her back supported by the hard edge of a broad wooden table.

"Prelate Maelstrom? I—oh." The utterly mild expression of surprise on her burnt orange muzzle, more fitting for discovering that one's sandwich was dressed with the wrong kind of mustard than, say, a political betrayal, was her response to seeing Artorius following Maelstrom into the room. Wrest let out a sigh and shook her head. "Did the food run out earlier than you were expecting? Or did you just decide to try and get the drop on me with your treason?"

"Father's orders were clear. And I'm not going to let you reignite the Red Cloud War."

Wrest, to Maelstrom's surprise, cocked a lopsided grin at his retort. "So there is some steel in you after all. Too bad it's on the griffons' side. Or is that what the griffon's really here for? To kill me, so you can keep your wings clean?"

Artorius glared. "Maelstrom would never—"

"She's right, Artorius." Maelstrom interrupted, raising a wing to cut off the griffon's outburst. "Not that I brought you here just to kill her. But I can't fight her; I'm no great fighter like Father or Grandfather. If it comes to that, you're going to have to do the fighting." With a nod, Maelstrom added "But I hope it doesn't have to come to that, Wrest."

Wrest frowned, and pushed herself up so she was fully standing; while Maelstrom missed the thread, Artorius stepped toward the young pegasus protectively when the older Legate's motion brought her wings very near one of the knives resting on the table beside her—but she made no hostile motion. "If I step aside, does this get forgotten?"

"If you step aside, Wrest, you haven't actually done anything to forget," Maelstrom answered. "And words are easy to forget."

"You quote Octavia Haysar well," Wrest noted. "I guess all those books are good for something." And, making a sweeping motion, she stepped fully away from the heavy iron doors—well away from Artorius' considerable reach—as she gestured into the prison hallway with one wing outstretched and the other folded across her chest. "The dungeons are yours, Prelate."

Maelstrom nodded, stepped fully past Legate Wrest, and approached the heavy iron doors that led into the short hallway. After struggling for a moment with their mass, he found Artorius' talons joining side-by-side with his hooves. Even overburdened with weaponry, the griffon made short work of the doors, and the two young leaders stepped into the ominous stone cage that was the short hallway.

Artorius walked forward into the hall two solid steps before realizing that Maelstrom was not beside him; the pegasus had has back turned to the griffon, nervously eyeing Wrest.

"Come, Maelstrom."

"We're walking into a prison, Artorius. What's to stop her from locking the door behind us if one of us doesn't stop her?"

"I like that question. It's simple. Nothing. Now come on."

Maelstrom briefly glanced over his shoulder. "You're not worried?"

"Of course I am," the griffon answered flatly. "But I am a knight, so it cannot matter. I will tell you more when things are settled, if you would like."

Maelstrom looked back to Wrest; the older mare silently raised a single brow, saying absolutely nothing. But ultimately, something about the decisiveness in the voice of the simpler griffon won Cyclone's son over, and with a final glance back, he too turned into the short hallway.

They were almost to the second set of doors, leading to the inner post, when the sound of heavy chains unspooling rang with deafening echoes off the stone walls. Artorius and Maelstrom turned in time to see Wrest standing beside a heavy lever in the outer post, just as a dense wooden portcullis, braced with steel plates, fell down between them. Quickly turning her neck not toward Artorius and Maelstrom, but back into castle, she shouted "Legion! To me!"

Artorius sighed and turned around to face Wrest. "So be it."

"So be it?" Wrest scoffed as she once more turned to face the griffon and her ostensible commander, even as shod hooves rang in the stone halls of the castle behind her. "You think you have any hope?"

Artorius grinned—a response so unexpected that for a moment, Wrest seemed taken aback. "Maelstrom's heart understands, even if his head doesn't yet. But you will never understand."

Wrest rolled her eyes. "You won't get in my mind, griffon. Maelstrom, a word?"

"Now? What makes you think I'd believe anything that comes out of your mouth?"

"Because I know with all your time spent with your muzzle in a book, you're going to listen to your head, and not the griffon's crap about your 'heart'."

Though Maelstrom said nothing, his ears perked at the promise of cold logic. And that was enough for Legate Wrest.

"If you stay in there, I might have to kill you."

"You think I haven't thought of that."

"Since you're in there, I know you haven't thought it through. I don't give a griffon's steaming crap what happens to you, Maelstrom. I don't respect you, and you're not a threat. But I do care about your father on both counts. And I know that if I have to scrape what's left of you off the walls to give to him, he's not going to forgive that. So let me be clear: if you come out of there, I'll lock you up unharmed with the rest of your brothers and sisters. But if you make me kill you, I'm going to have to give him Roamulus' welcome when he gets back."

"What does that mean?" Artorius asked Maelstrom.

"Roamulus was the founder of the Cirran Empire; when he united the tribes, the Cirran tribe elders resented that he no longer had to listen to their counsel, and they stabbed him to death when he came home from war to his own people." Maelstrom actually raised a brow with some humor at the insinuation when he returned his attention to Wrest, though the humor and cockiness were short lived against the sound of still-approaching hooffalls. "You'd be, what, the fifth attempt, Wrest? Gonna try and hold one of the orphans hostage like Crane did with Blizzard?"

"Your father's ground-bound with his bad wing, Maelstrom. Makes it hard to dodge. And nopony—not even mighty Cyclone—walks off a battery of thunderheads. Don't make me do that. Don't make me do that to the orphans."

Maelstrom winced, and doubt flashed across his features. It lingered there for a moment, swirling like a lost cloud in a mountain valley, until at once a fresh wind arrived in the form of griffon talons on his shoulder.

"I will not hold it against you if you yield. For the sake of the little ones. We are strong; we will endure."

"You don't know this castle," Maelstrom answered Artorius. "And you don't know Wrest. You need me." Then he took a deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling, and though he continued his thought, his words turned toward Wrest. "And if the story of Roamulus' death teaches us anything, it's that if she's willing to go against Father, it doesn't matter whether I yield or not."

"Courageous," Wrest noted, tauntingly.

"Practical," Maelstrom answered. "If the Second really is loyal to you over Father, this won't be the last time you clash. Or had you not gotten to that part of Cirran history yet?"

Wrest answered that accusation by hurling a knife, with startling accuracy, through one of the gaps in the portcullis. Her aim was terrifyingly perfect, not only timing the spin of the knife so it wouldn't catch on the wooden boards, but that when it slipped through to the other side, it was on a perfect trajectory for Artorius' throat. But to the awe of both pegasi in the room, Artorius reached up his claw to catch the weapon.

It wasn't a particularly good catch; the blade went straight through his 'palm' (that is, the equivalent of the frog of a hoof for my fellow equines). But the fact that his reflexes were fast enough to intercept the knife at all was quite the achievement.

"Doors!" Maelstrom hissed, and the urgency of the command snapped Artorius from his sagacious interaction (and, one presumes, the agony of his claw—though I rarely knew Artorius to ever exhibit a sign that he actually experienced the sensation of pain). Together, the griffon slammed the shoulder onto one door, as Maelstrom threw his whole body weight onto the other. This time, though, the doors held firm.

"Locked, I'm afraid," Wrest called over the hooffalls of her soldiers beginning to file into the outer post behind her. Two more knives flew through the air, but this time, Artorius blocked them with the shield he had taken from the castle's armory.

Awkwardly hunching his form to fit alongside Maelstrom, mostly hidden by the shield, Artorius started undoing the straps with his beak. Between pecks, the griffon spoke. "Can you hold this? I will need a moment."

"Can you burn it?"

Artorius raised a brow, then shook his head. "I am not given to flames of anger." And then, once Maelstrom had taken hold of his shield, Artorius emphasized his comment by holding up his talon, pulling free the throwing knife still embedded in it, and forming it into a tight fist. "This will not take magic," he added, as if even having use of the limb despite the blood flowing down his arm wasn't already a show of the powerful but understated magic shared by griffons and earth ponies.

"What? It's metal—"

But Artorius wasn't aiming for the doors; Instead he slammed a right hook into the stone wall where the door's hinges were mounted. Stone brick cracked along with the popping of griffon joints; blood and debris splashed from the site of the blow.

"—Mobius have mercy… no wonder we lost the war…" Maelstrom muttered, before his attention was snapped back to the shield he was ostensibly manning when a knife bounced off its edge.

Artorius, at least, showed his mortality when he unfurled his fist and shook out the arm (along with yet more blood and a sizeable bit of dust). "Mercy is not given by the gods; it must be seized. Like opportunity, or the day. Or the bird in the bush."

"What?"

"Is that not how the sayings go?" Artorius shrugged, reformed his fist, and grinned. "And I thought all my practice with Equiish would make me good." Then, with another punch—this time accompanied by a hiss of pain—Artorius unsettled the heavy door. After that, it was as simple a matter as throwing his shoulder into it, and the door fell with a deafening clang, into the inner post. After that, Artorius and Maelstrom slipped into relative safety.

"What was that?!" a hen's voice called from the far side of the room, where the inner post's central door led into the most comfortable and spacious of the three cell blocks, where the griffons were being detained.

"Mother! Maelstrom and I have come to rescue you!"

"Rescue?" Maelstrom quickly put together that the voice asking the question belonged to Aela, the leader of the griffon refugees and Artorius' mother, despite her voice being muffled by the door between them. "From what? We heard stone cracking, but—"

"No time to explain," the pegasus ordered. "Break the door off and get out here; we need to talk."

"Break the… It's a metal-banded door!"

"Only I can do that," Artorius explained in a quiet, almost bashful voice. And then, with decidedly less bashfullness, the griffon stepped forward. "Mother, please step back."

"Please don't hurt yourself," Aela answered, as though the words weren't already a knife to the palm too late. The slight retreat of her voice signaled her compliance, though, and Artorius deftly (and bloodily) beat in yet another fortified door.

Behind it, a mass of feathers and fur reacted to the violent collapse of the door with shock and concern—raising wings, backing away from the prison block's exit, and generally squawking in alarm—but most of the sight was blocked by Aela stepping boldly forward. The seasoned hen eyed up the vast arsenal strapped to her son's body, and without so much as a word, took the heavy shield and the oversized Cirran-style gladius off of him to arm herself. "Tapfer, Tsume; it seems we will be fighting again."

"Yes," echoed with less grimness and an unsettling bit of enthusiasm to his voice. "And Brumhilde, and Ysilde and Dredge! The time has come to face glory!"

Maelstrom afforded a glance back toward the doors into the short hallway, but it seemed that, at least for the moment, Wrest was content to hold her siege instead of risk hoof-to-claw combat.

As two griffons began to push their way through the mass of their kind, Aela's head fell. "Artorius…"

"Is something the matter?"

Maelstrom had to turn back to Artorius in disbelief; was the titanically powerful griffon that dense? But it seemed so, as Aela shook her head and answered the inquiry. "They bought us the time we needed to flee Magnus. Ysilde died wounding the tyrant's wing, and Brumhilde slew two of his Oathbound, but… We four are all the knights that remain." And with that comment, she gestured to two griffons Maelstrom had not yet met, finally emerging from the crowd (alongside the old bespectacled owl-like griffon apothecary).

The elder of the two was, like Aela and Artorius, a 'standard' griffon—bald of head and proud of ass—though his frankly horrifying disfigurements meant that he would never blend in with a crowd of other griffons. Some horrible blunt impact had crushed his beak, shattering the tip entirely so that his tongue could be seen if one looked directly 'up' his face, even with his mouth closed. From that shattered tip, spiderweb cracks extended up nearly to where the beak gave way to feathers on his face. And several of his talons and his paws were missing their sharpened tips and claws, where the digits weren't just missing outright. From the clean cuts of the wounds, it was clear the blows had been inflicted deliberately and carefully, rather than won in battle.

The younger griffon—close to Artorius' age, by Maelstrom's only lightly informed guess— was much different than the other three. Her eyes were ringed in brilliant orange that faded to an almost glowing gold near her white beak. Above her head, a cluster of long black plumes rose up to give her almost a proud equine mane. And her talons were at once more slender than the eagle-like griffons in her company, yet possessed clear and terrifying musculature that tensed heavily when she moved. For those unfamiliar with such a description, hers was the front half of what is called a 'secretary bird'. Her hindquarters likewise diverged from the leonine features of the 'standard' griffon, favoring instead a pale spotted cheetah and promising a terrifying speed—at least, that was true of what could be seen beneath the silk wrapped tunic that she wore, all red and orange and depicting on her back a gradient sunset ringed in what looked like gilded thread. I hesitate to call the garment a 'robe' and associate her with the worse tendencies of Equestria's early mages, but that might put into your mind a right picture; for those familiar with Neighpon, it could be called a kimono, though it was short sleeved on her forelegs and its hem was likewise pulled up from the ground to keep her movements free for the art of bladework.

"It is just us, the four," said the hen in the kimono, bearing an accent not-at-all-oddly similar to that of Archmage Mistmane (assuming you've been paying attention). "I have never fought a pony before; this shall be amusing."

"Five, Tsume," Artorius answered. "Five knights will have to do." When Maelstrom quirked a brow, Artorius looked straight at him and just nodded.

"Me? Oh, no, no; I can help if need be, but I'm no warrior. Certainly not worth a griffon of any kind, much less a knight."

"You misunderstand," Artorius said, pulling a pickaxe off his side, staring at it with amusement as if confused by its presence, and then gently setting the very tip of the haft sideways on Maelstrom's shoulder (so that the long point ran down parallel to his foreleg), before repeating the motion on the other side. "A knight is not a knight because they are the best with a swording."

"Using a sword?" Aela suggested as a correction.

"Or swordplay," Maelstrom added.

Artorius shrugged off the notes on his poorly constructed Equiish, continuing "A knight is one whose heart guides them to aid those who deserve it. And it is the heart that steels the blade; not the other way around. You are saving us even against your own kind. That is what will matter when the time comes. And so you are a knight. One of us."

"Well said, Artorius," said Aela with a smile to her son.

"I don't know how my heart is going to overcome how boxed in we are," Maelstrom muttered. "But I hope you're right." Then, nodding to the two griffons he hadn't yet met, sighed. "Sorry; I'm Maelstrom."

"Tsume," said the secretary-bird hen.

After a moment's silence, the apothecary who had been standing off to the side, gestured with one of his wings to the broken-beaked soldier. "This one we call Tapfer. His beak is not much for speech if he can help it. Too easy to cut his tongue. Do not take it personally."

"Noted," Maelstrom answered. "Alright… Are the four of you the only ones who can fight, or just the only ones who are any good at it?"

Aela grimaced. "I can get you maybe a dozen or two more who aren't so exhausted from the flight and underfed that they can hold a spear and a shield. But they will fight like conscripts. And it does not look like Artorius carried even that many weapons."

"Damn…" Maelstrom muttered. "Though not much good it would do us in the short hallway anyway. And there's no way of knowing how far away Father is…"

"How many are we fighting?" Aela asked. "And why have they turned against us? And against you?"

"Why are we wasting time discussing this?" Tsume jumped in ere Maelstrom could answer. "We were starving before the siege began. Even if there were aid coming, we could not wait for it. There is no other exit from this place; even he cannot punch a hole through the face of a mountain." There, she cocked her plumed head toward Artorius. "We have only one choice: march forward and face them. They motivations will not matter when we open their throats."

Maelstrom found himself stepping back from Tsume's violent intensity, but even as his body showed his fear, his mind caught up to almost agreeing with her. The only problem was the short hallway.

The damn short hallway.

"You're right," Maelstrom agreed. "But we'll have to be smart. This isn't just a straight fight through a chokepoint."

And then, seemingly ever the bearer of bad news, Maelstrom began to describe what I have already shared with you above: an explanation of the almost impossible danger that faced any hoping to fight their way out of the short hallway.

9-3

IX - III

Into the Valley of Death

In the end, the plan—despite Maelstrom's insistence on thought and deliberation—was no plan at all. There were no other ways out of the dungeons. At the colt's questioning, he learned that Tapfer was the best of the 'aeromancers' (as the griffons called those who could use weather magic) amongst the group; none of them were the equal of Cyclone's flames, to say nothing of Hurricane's magic—and it should be noted that it was Aela, not Maelstrom, who brought up the venerable pegasus as the point of comparison.

Aela was likewise the first, given in part her lack of injury, and in part the fact that she alone was equipped with a shield, to take a try at making it to the far end of the hall (it being wide enough for two griffons to walk side by side down it, but lacking the space for two griffons to fight in a pair). Before she left, she gave one of the shorter and yet more memorable pre-battle speeches I have ever had the amusement to hear (albeit secondhoof, much later): "We survived Magnus to get here. We will survive this. We are knights. We will advance."

The first few strides were simple enough, Quarrels from the arrow slits in the wall clattered off her shield and bounced or outright broke against the stone walls. Ahead, behind the portcullis, Legate Wrest called off further attacks with a raised wing, and in terrifying unison, her arbalists ceased their assault—though the quiet groaning of the winches as they reloaded continued..

"Spears, at ready," the pegasus ordered, and two dozen metal points were laid into the gaps between the lattice of the portcullis. She said nothing to Aela, but the brief glance the mare and the hen shared just past the lip of Aela's shield spoke volumes If Aela wanted to lift the portcullis by brute force—if she was even strong enough to—she still couldn't do so without exposing her flanks and back to the crossbows, nor without moving her shield aside far enough that the spears would pierce her chest.

Aela accepted the challenge without visible reaction; her aquiline eyes narrowed not in hatred, but in focus. Meaningfully, almost ominously, she took a single step forward.

One has to remember, on the telling of this story, that there was not a single pony amongst Legate Wrest's forces who had before ever faced—or even seen (save Artorius)—a living griffon. All they had were the stories of their parents and grandparents: stories that even a rank-and-file griffon was twice, if not thrice the strength of even a mighty pegasus (an exaggeration, but not a huge one) and could fly in a straight line twice as swiftly as well (likely an overstatement, though not by much). What they also did not know is that, unlike standard Legion technique for ground-bound, shield-carrying 'heavy' legionaries (who carried their spears in the crooks of their right wings and bound their shields to their left wings), griffons generally preferred to carry both spears and shields, like any other weapon, in a claw or strapped to a forearm—whether on the ground or whilst airborne.

Had one of them recognized this particular trait, perhaps they might have appreciated two further conclusions. The first was that Aela was, despite being a griffon, trained in combat in the Cirran style, and so they might have used that knowledge to their advantage.

The second, and much more immediately relevant fact, was that while her wings were occupied by her spear and shield, Aela's talons were completely free. So when she took a second carefully measured step forward, just reaching the very barest edge of thrusting range from the pegasus spears, a number of things happened in a very short amount of time.

First, several of the pegasi thrust through the holes in the portcullis, only to meet Aela's guard from her shield; standing as carefully positioned as she was, the spears from those pegasi at the fringes of the portcullis couldn't reach her, so none pierced her flesh. Second, Aela countered with a thrust of her own—catching one of the legionaries in the neck due to the advantage of her longer limbs and greater reach. The pony hadn't yet fallen before, in a third motion, Aela reached out and snatched the haft of one of the other thrusting spears, just below its head. And then fourth, she yanked with the fullness of her griffon strength on said spear. Its holder made the mistake of not letting go of the weapon, and he was slammed, face-first, into the opposite side of the portcullis. Only a breath later, Aela slammed her shield into her side of the portcullis, driving its hoof-width-long steel spike into the unfortunate stallion's eye—not deep enough to kill, though the gasp of agony that issued from the legionary might have made someone listening suspect otherwise.

The blow also caused a terrifying creaking in the portcullis separating Aela from the legion soldiers. The spearponies, seeing two of their number killed (or at least partially blinded), hesitated to thrust again, and Aela capitalized on their hesitance by bashing her shield against the portcullis once more. This time, wood could be heard to crack—even if there was no visible damage to the separator just yet.

Urgently, Legate Wrest drew a circle in the air with her wingtip. "Arbalists; take aim! Fire!"

Aela had just enough time to flare her arms to her sides and gather her magic before the bolts came—now aimed at her exposed flanks and back. While hardly a legendary display, the sudden gust of wind that rose in the hallway was enough to bat away most of the bolts, and to impress the pegasi watching from behind their arrow slits and portcullis.

"Can all griffons do that, ma'am?" One of the spearponies asked Wrest over her shoulder, not willing to take eyes off of Aela, lest she strike again through the porous portcullis.

Wrest scoffed and shook her head. "In your own time; stagger fire. We only need one shot through." And only once the order was barked out did she answer her spearpony, though she looked Aela in the eye as she did. "No; though it's not that hard of a trick. They say Hurricane can do it and deflect ballista bolts. Don't fear her; she's a caged animal."

In the heat of battle, Aela's squint at the tense Wrest chose to use in describing Hurricane was effortlessly passed off as disdain for the pegasus leader. As the arbalists reloaded, the griffoness slammed her shield into the wall again—again straining the wood, but failing to crack it meaningfully.

Then the first of the bolts came. Aela conjured another gust of wind to knock the bolt aside and scrambled away and turned her back on the spears and the portcullis so she could bring her shield to bear to her defense. A second quarrel clattered off its lacquered surface, and then a third; the fourth, from her undefended flank, she had to once again bat away with her magic, in a motion that left her off-balance and exposed.

But the biting wound that inevitably ended her defense was borne not by something as impersonal and unfeeling as the string of a crossbow. Rather, the knives that bit into her right flank and her right shoulder were thrown, much like the one that had wounded her son's palm, by the terribly dexterous feathers of Legate Wrest's right wing.

At the far end of the short hallway, where refuge was so close and yet so far away, a number of griffons could be heard to gasp as Aela toppled to her side. Artorius shouted "No!" and moved to rush to her aid, only to be stopped by another griffon's talon across his chest—though the limb lacked the strength to stop him, the delay seemed enough to give him pause.

"You have no shield, and your magic is not her equal," said the cold, reasoning voice of the apothecary. "You'll be cut down."

Even as those cautionary words were uttered, though, another griffon stepped forward. Tapfer, with his broken beak and blunted claws, stepped up to the very edge of the hallway, closed his eyes, and gritted the edges of his beak together. Those who could see his face watched as teardrops ran down his face, and all could see the thick mist that built around his wings and forelimbs. It was a frigid thing, whatever pain powered his magic, rooted in some sadness that had persisted and taken root too deep to be separated from the griffon who carried it. Maelstrom, for one, made a quiet note that the wounded knight, like his aunt Typhoon, surely had a wing memory that granted him such ice. Yet (not that Maelstrom had ever seen Typhoon use her magic in person) Tapfer's ice was unlike Typhoon's, for where the pegasus leader often favored hard, sharp icicles and defensive walls, the griffon's magic lent itself foremost to more ethereal forms.

When Tapfer cast his arms and wings forward, the mist that enveloped them moved like a nest of serpents, slithering with terrifying urgency, but refusing to follow straight lines along the walls, floor, and even ceiling of the short hallway. At their heads, they were almost invisible clouds, though the intricate patterns of frost they left on the stonework were unmistakable signs of their progression. But within moments—alas, moments too late to save Aela's right arm from being skewered by a legion quarrel—the mist had enveloped the hallway in full, thick and snowy enough that one could no more see through it than the contents of a dairy jug. For a moment, there was near silence—the only sounds were the tightening of crossbow strings and the gentle cracking of swiftly freezing stonework.

Wrest, as always, broke the silence. "They're trying to save her; keep firing. You'll catch her." When the firing resumed, however, it lasted only two volleys; the clattering of quarrels on stone made it clear the archers weren't hitting anything, and at last Wrest snapped out "Hold! Make ready, Second Legion; they've bought themselves another move. Spears, be ready."

What the legionaries couldn't hope to see through the fog was that a platform of ice, trapped in the very moment it would naturally sublimate, lifted Aela from the place she lay in the hall and carried her swiftly back to her kind. Barely a moment passed from her return to the griffons before Artorius was over her, and only a moment after that, the apothecary joined him.

"Is she alright?" Maelstrom asked.

"These will leave scars," the old griffon healer muttered. "But griffons have magic that pegasi don't. Her arm might not be as agile as it once was, but she won't lose it." Then, nodding to his patient, the old griffon adjusted his glasses and leaned forward. "But this will hurt."

Aela let out a dry chuckle. "...your bedside manner hasn't gotten any better."

"You have no idea," the griffon countered, with wry amusement, before dropping into deadly seriousness and adding. "You will likely pass out; I do not have anything to dull the pain. Anything you need to say?"

Aela shook her head. "Not much. I trust Artorius to lead. And the rest of you to counsel him." Extending the wing that carried her shield, she offered it to her son. "The wood wasn't built to withstand us. I have no doubt Artorius could break through with a few blows, but we don't have a few blows to stand and try. Tsume." The last name was spoken as a summons, and the most exotic looking of the griffons answered it swiftly.

"My lady," Tsume offered, dropping to one of her elbows and bowing her plumed head.

Aela wasted no time acknowledging the motion. "Look at the wooden grate."

"The portcullis," Maelstrom offered, though the word was obviously lost on the younger hen.

"You see the metal patches? I popped one off with Nimbus—" (That name was not commented on, but it did perk Maelstrom's ear) "—and I saw a nail head underneath. That's where the beams are nailed together. That's their weakness. If you get the plates off, you can dig out the screws. Remove as many as you can, and then Artorius can lead a charge straight through."

"How?" Maelstrom asked. When several griffons glared his way, he offered placative wings and winced. "I don't mean to doubt you, I just—those are hammered on. Unless that scimitar—" (here, he indicated to Tsume's katana) "—is enchanted, you're not going to be able to cut through those. You'd need to pry them off with a crowbar or something, and you're not going to have the time to do that while you're dealing with crossbows and spears."

Tsume scoffed. "Do not be ridiculous, pony. My sword will not cut through blocks of steel."

"You have some other plan?"

"Of course." Tsume nodded, stepping away from the group and toward the threshold of the short hallway. "I am going to use my bare hands."

Maelstrom stared in awe at the audacity—and, if I dare to let myself into his mind for a moment, I presume what he would have called the stupidity—of attempting to rip off with even a griffons talons sheet metal that had been heated, hammered into place, and allowed to contract as it cooled. But, given he didn't have a better plan, there wasn't much for the young stallion to do when Tsume walked forward into the short hallway.

By this point, some of Tapfer's mist and fog had dissipated, so the soldiers of Wrest's second legion could see the silhouette of the hen in the sunset kimono walking toward them on three legs, her right claw slung across her chest so that her talons rested on the hilt of her curved blade. They must have thought that she thought she was hidden—'why else would she walk so boldly out without a shield like the last griffon had used?' they asked themselves not with words, but quiet glances and grins, even as they aimed their crossbows through the arrow slits.

Everything—everything—was quiet, for the first time since Aela began the battle. The crossbows were already reloaded, so there was no creaking of winches and strings. Wrest herself offered no barked orders. Even the breathing of the soldiers had fallen out of hearing.

Forward, Tsume stepped, and her talons made not a sound on the icy stone. Forward, toward the portcullis. Forward, another step, toward freedom. Forward, into the valley of death.

When the inevitable happened, it outraced the thinking minds of its participants. Bowstrings snapped with musical twangs. Tsume's blade hissed from its sheathe, a serpent lunging for the throat. Steel cracked on steel with the sharp percussion of fireworks, echoing off of frigid stone. Sparks from a half-dozen collisions gave light through the mist, casting brief flashes of color onto what was otherwise still only the silhouette of a griffon. And then, horrifyingly, a wet gurgle issued from a pony behind one of the arrow slits.

Three seconds it took for anypony to make out what had happened, much less to react. From the strange transformation in Tsume's silhouette, it was obvious she had drawn her sword, and given that she was balancing her upper body on a wing, with her free left talon outstretched in the direction of the gurgling, it seemed as if she had thrown something; a knife? But then why was she not collapsing, not bleeding from her wounds. Where had the bolts gone?

The answer was as impossible as it was stubbornly the only possible solution. But… nopony could parry even one crossbow bolt at such close range, let alone a half-dozen…

No, there had been seven fired, hadn't there? But there were only six slashes…

And then, suddenly, a glance was given toward the fallen archer—with a bolt sticking out of his throat, doomed beyond medicine already, though he still had yet to drown in the wellspring of blood—and the griffon's outstretched hand likewise made a grim kind of sense.

But how? She hadn't used magic; there were stories that the griffon emperor could turn the wind to stop arrows in flight, but… no, this was different.

In their awe, Tsume continued forward—walking, so utterly unafraid that it seemed she might not have ever heard of the concept.

"Archers, hold," ordered Wrest, given their inefficacy. Then, to the surprise of her own soldiers, she continued "Spears back."

"Legate?"

"Seventh century, stand ready on my mark." Then the mare lifted her wing, and a spark appeared between her two leading feathers. "Your move, hen."

If Tsume understood the words (and she certainly did, given her Equiish amongst the other griffons) she gave no indication to Wrest; she only continued her methodical, borderline ominous approach to the portcullis. There, Wrest waited for her to launch some kind of attack, either on herself or the structure. And she was not disappointed, but she was surprised; rather than wielding her sword, Tsume slowly (and somewhat dramatically) sheathed the blade. Then she pinched her fingers together and held them up at the level of her eye, even as her piercing eyes locked onto the first of the joints in the portcullis grate.

At this point, some readers who are familiar with what a 'secretary bird' is will be quietly chuckling, understanding in some sense what was about to happen. For those who have not encountered this (entirely mundane) avian species in their favorite bestiary, though, I will highlight the following excerpt:

When hunting in the tall grass savannas of east-central Dioda, the secretary bird preys primarily on snakes and other small reptiles. Rather than swooping down and carrying off prey or tearing it apart with razor-like talons, the secretary bird is unique among its near natural neighbors for its habit of hunting on foot. Once the sleek-legged birds have sighted prey with their sharp, pinpoint eyesight, the secretary bird brings down its quarry by pinching together its talons in the air into a collected point, and then stomping down, spreading talons as they go, so that their stomping force is concentrated onto the very pointed edges of those talons. The force of such a bird's legs are terrifying, exerting as much as tenfold their body weight, and the blows arrive with astounding swiftness, making contact for as little a moment as one per-cent of a second. Combine this with their natural pinpoint accuracy and instincts to aim for the head, and the result is that prey and even sometimes would-be predators are defeated with cracked—if not completely collapsed—skulls before they even have time to launch a first attack of their own.

To this, I will only note that Tsume was a full grown griffon who, having trained as a warrior, had considerable muscle density; rather than a true bird weighing something in the vicinity of nine pounds, I would guess she weighed in at two-hundred and eight pounds. Multiply that by a factor of five or so (as a creature gets larger, strength does not scale linearly with growth, for reasons that are more geometric and less magical than I care to elaborate on in this tome), and apply it over the surface area of just the tips of her talons, and you can appreciate: Tsume did not rip the nail out of the portcullis; she drove it out the other end.

This time, Wrest had learned not to let the griffons strike twice. She had also learned, at the cost of the lives of two of her soldiers, not to reach into the griffons 'cage', whether with spears or bolts. But she had a particular advantage in that regard: fire is much harder to grab and throw back.

I don't want to give the impression that wrest had the power of a wing memory like one of the Stormblade siblings; her fire wasn't even really the equal of Tapfer's show of frosty fog moments earlier. But then, it didn't need to be. A small cone, maybe a yard wide at its very edge, cast through a gap in the portcullis, was functionally unavoidable. There was no cover in the short hallway.

I doubt Tsume could have dodged fully out of range even if she had intended to, though she might have only been licked by flame. Instead, she chose to endure, if only for a moment. Wrapping her face in a wing to endure the worst of the direct fire, letting the feathers scorch in an absolutely sickening smell that pervaded the short hallway, she used her other wing on the ground to balance her body yet again so that both her forelegs were free to strike. And with two more blows, she both knocked free two more nails, and hurled herself backwards from the flame by arm strength.

The net effect was that the hen was left to stagger backward, face contorted in agony but stubbornly refusing to even let out a hiss of acknowledgement at the pain of her burns. But with her arms still largely unharmed save a few singe marks, none of the legion sharpshooters were willing to chance another volley, and so she walked back unharmed to her company.

"It is ready, Artorius," she said as she collapsed beside where the apothecary was tending to a now quite unconscious Aela. To him, she said "Do not rush."

"I wasn't going to; I don't have any balm for that. The best you'll get is me wrapping it," the old griffon muttered. "And it won't do us much good if all four of you die. So Artorius, for once in your life: let discretion be the good part of valor, hmm?"

"I make no promises," Artorius answered, hefting the shield that Aela had called Nimbus and making sure it was braced well on his wing. "Well, no; I promise that if I do not come back, I will at least bring some of them with me." Then, draping a three-headed flail over his neck like a scarf, the bulk of the young griffon strode up to the end of the short hallway.

I could give great drama to describing this charge, pacing out Artorius' movements stride by stride. But I think that really does injustice to the sheer momentum of the griffon's movement. Artorius wasn't clever or deliberate like his mother. He wasn't magical like Tapfer. He certainly wasn't graceful, nor preternaturally swift, like Tsume. And he absolutely wasn't educated and calculating like Maelstrom. No, Artorius was, in a word, inevitable. In that regard, the best simile would be not one of the other knights at all, but instead a natural disaster; perhaps an avalanche.

Artorius held Nimbus in front of his torso, and broke into a sprint, and about four strides into the hallway, it was already obvious he was going through the portcullis, inches of solid wood be damned; I would have given him even odds of with that much momentum of bursting through a wall of solid stone bricks.

The real question to ask was not whether he would get through, but whether he would survive the moments after, alone on the far side of the hallway with Wrest's soldiers surrounding him. Wrest, to her continued modicum of credit, saw the inevitable as well and called out in the three words she could fit into that moment "Spears to flanks!"

And then the world erupted into splinters and broken beams. Artorius reached up to his neck, grabbed the handle of his flail, and brought its three spiked heads down on the helm and pauldrons of the first pony who tried to thrust a spear into his side. The momentum of this, perhaps the iconic griffon, cannot be understated; the blow killed the stallion despite his armor, and it also carried his corpse into the next pony over, toppling his attack, and unbalancing (if not completely canceling) a third pony in the legion formation. On his other side, the great shield's mere existence and sheer bulk were enough to protect Artorius' torso and head, even if a few spears landed shallow cuts and pokes into his leg; none were deep enough to impede his movement before he had time reorient his upper body and bring the flail to bear. The act of turning and the force of his arm were so great that, with an almost deafening twang, the resistance on the head of the flail still embedded in the partially collapsed helmet and skull of the knight's first victim proved stronger than the chain holding the flail together, so that by the time Artorius struck another killing blow, he had only two heads left attached to the handle of his weapon.

Hoping to save her forces, Wrest flicked out two more throwing knives in hopes of catching the griffon's more exposed hind limbs and limiting his mobility; alas, though something of a lumbering brute, Artorius' lack of grace was made up for by just how large his shield was, and he managed to knock away the two knives with ease. The same fate met her next burst of flame, shed off the red lacquered surface of the metal shield, and she only barely managed to avoid being impaled by the spike at its center when he thrust it her direction as a counterattack.

It seemed inconceivable; the stories from the Red Cloud War were that a griffon was worth just two pegasi for their advantages in strength and size. But here, Artorius was besting twelve (or, as he had so aptly put it, "even more; ten!" given in the moments that Wrest was dealing with the shield, Artorius' flail felled two more).

But, alas for our hero, even with her forces humiliated against odds they should have taken freely, Legate Wrest still had a plan.

"Seventh Century! Forward and ready!" she bellowed.

There was a very literal rumble in the guardroom at the pegasus end of the short hallway, and it was not the rumble of drums, nor of taut griffon bellies. It stemmed from thick, black, roiling cotton, occasionally illuminated by flashes of light. And it smelled of a sharp, clean death, promising to thrust deeper than any spear, and to fell a griffon with equal ease to a pony, with no regard for the thickness of a chest that needed to be pierced.

"First cloud, fire!"

The bolt of lightning that followed left sparks in the eyes of everypony remotely looking in Artorius direction, and the force of his own limbs flying out violently threw him backwards into the short hallway, where he lay twitching and smoking until all motion stopped.

The crack echoed on the stone walls for what seemed like minutes, overriding any thought in any mind in the dungeons. The stone walls, brittle from the chill of Tapfer's magic, cracked at not the lightning, but the thunder,and little shards of stone fell

"Artorius!" Maelstrom shouted.

Tsume let out no exclamation; she just started to move into the hallway after her fallen comrade, and was only stopped when Tapfer grabbed onto the collar of her kimono and yanked her back from the threshold of the short hallway. Barely a half-second later, a bolt of lightning flew through the place her vibrantly feathered face had occupied. Again, all thought stopped for the crack, and then the ringing in the ears of the survivors in the hall.

"Scheiße!" muttered the apothecary, pushing himself up from where he was attending to Aela on weary limbs. "Is he dead?"

"Nopony walks off an artillery thunderhead bolt," Maelstrom mournfully observed, his voice trailing for a moment. "We did better than we had any right to, getting past the portcullis. But Wrest outplayed us."

Tapfer closed his eyes, and his chest rose and fell with a single breath.

The apothecary sagely stroked his beard, and then looked over to the pile of weapons Artorius had left behind for his charge, the results of their haul from the castle's armory when they had all the hope in the world. Slowly, the aged griffon lifted a shaking talon to his eyeglasses and removed them to highlight the beady, weary, wrinkled eyes they normally magnified. "If you are saying truth… As a healer, I am often the cause of pain. But I detest pain that has no purpose."

Maelstrom glanced over at the same pile of weapons, and his eyes swept across his the strange grindstone Artorius had brought, Maelstrom's grandmother's spear, and a pickaxe, before finally falling on a griffon-sized Cirran-style gladius.

"If I had medicines, I might make us all a poison. But… This will have to do." With a decidedly dry chuckle, he added "Da kannst du Gift drauf nehmen."

"Hmm?" asked Maelstrom.

"A griffon saying. It means 'you can rely on it'. But the words say 'you can take poison on it,' so…" With its explanation, the humor in the gallows comedy of the old tercel was suddenly found wanting, and the three conscious griffons and their one equine companion drifted into silence.

Finally, Maelstrom took a step toward the blade. "I feel like this is my fault, and—"

"You disgust me!" Tsume declared abruptly, cutting the pegasus off mid-confession. "Both of you," she added, snapping at the apothecary. "Give a blade to the helpless ones if it soothes your consciences, but we haven't lost yet! Not while we can still hold blades. Not while we still stand."

In the hall, the griffons and the pegasus heard Wrest call "Vanguard, advance. Artillery, behind. March."

Maelstrom sighed, and tiredly extended a wing toward the threshold of death. "If you want to die in the hallway, be my guest. Assuming Wrest is using the battery I told her to ready against the fenrir that Artorius killed, her weather century has ten bolts left. That's three for each of us—and nopony survives one. The best you can do—"

The timing was like fate, if you believe in that sort of thing (and for the sake of explaining, if you do, but you didn't set it up yourself, you're an idiot.) Even as Maelstrom gave his tired rant in the face of death, his mind shutting out the inevitability of his doom by reverting to treating Tsume's militant dreams of glory and death the way he would have addressed his sister Sirocco, there came from the hallway a piercing avian gasp. The three 'knights' and the apothecary huddled over to the doorframe at the edge of the short hallway, careful to angle their view so they could see into the hall without taking a bolt of lightning to the eye.

Artorius had been stepped over and lay behind the front line of the Cirran vanguard, who had (like Maelstrom) assumed that no living creature could walk off an artillery lightning bolt and so elected not to finish him off as they progressed. When the griffon brute sat bolt upright, the cramped quarters of the short hallway meant that those elite armored soldiers, carrying Cirran gladii and shields, struggled to turn in place, bumping into one another at the shoulders as they struggled not to cut one another with the weapons they held in their mouths and the bladed scales they wore on their un-shielded wings.

The chaos gave Artorius time to come to his senses, throw himself to his paws, and kill one of the soldiers with a bare talon—crushing the poor bastard's windpipe and piercing his throat in several places on his talon tips in the same violent motion. He then used the same horrifying grip to throw the now quite dead stallion by his spine into the thunderclouds being pushed down the hall behind him by the slowly advancing second wave of Cirran forces, in the form of the weather century. There, the corpse's armor caused another deafening and violent flash and crack, which Artorius—unfamiliar with the art of weather cultivation—assumed meant that he was safe.

As Tapfer watched this from the safety of the edge of the hall and Tsume rushed forward to help her companion, Maelstrom retreated to the pile of abandoned weapons, and there snatched up his grandmother's spear. Like almost all weapons beyond a standard-issue gladius, it was weighty and unwieldy in his grip, but it would have to do if he wanted to save Artorius—and possibly all their lives.

As Artorius and Tsume took up their advantage of flanking the surviving (now organized) members of the Cirran vanguard, the weather century artillery line were readying to deliver a battery of quite fatal bucks into their thick black cumulonimbus clouds. Just as the first of the soldiers raised her hind legs from the ground to end the battle of the short hallway, Maelstrom came rushing into the back of the hallway, holding Swift Spear's nimbus spear in his wing like legionaries were taught to hold a pilum. The comparatively solid and massively heavier weapon left his grip, and Maelstrom instantly knew the throw would have earned him a scolding from a legion armsmaster. It flew past Tsume, easily missed the surviving members of the vanguard (even if its distraction let Tsume strike one in the eye with her frighteningly powerful talons), narrowly missed impaling Artorius, and struck the cracked and broken floor of the short hallway—two strides short of the battery of thunderheads. There, it jutted up awkwardly like the arm of a sundial, a final testament to his military failure.

"Pathetic," Legate Wrest observed, revealing herself to be in line with her artillery. "Fire."

Four lightning bolts flew from the clouds. And, to the amazement of every griffon and every pony in the room save Malestrom, all four bolts forked from their initial paths and struck the haft of Swift Spear's spear.

When the wincing and dazed confusion of the thunder faded, Maelstrom watched as Artorius rounded on the artillery and reached for the abandoned spear.

"No!" Maelstrom shouted, giving the griffon pause. "Thunderclouds! Nothing else matters!"

Artorius and Tsume made it back to the inner guard post not only with two thunderclouds (both in Artorius' grip), but with two of Legate Wrest's throwing knives as well—both lodged rather deeply into Artorius' hindquarters.

"How did you do that?" Artorius asked, ignoring the pain of his own limp. "That was incredible! Do you have lightning magic like Emperor Hurricane?"

"Nopony can buck lightning like grandfather; that's why everypony is afraid of him. That wasn't magic, that was just weather knowledge. My grandmother's spear is made of thunder-capable clouds, but it has no internal charge of its own. She could drag it through a thunderhead and use it to store a charge, but most of the time, it's… it's like a pit for lightning. The lightning wants to go to it, even more than anything else."

"Well, now we have two clouds," Tsume agreed. "And it seems you know how to use them. We can beat them."

"No," Maelstrom answered, earning shocked looks from most of the griffons, and outright spite from Tsume.

"Then why did you not let Artorius and I—"

"We can't out-fight her numbers. But now, I think, we can escape. I just need… Um, it's Tapper, right?"

"Tapfer," Artorius corrected, even as the older griffon indicated his apathy by nodding.

"One of the banks of cells has long window shafts; can you freeze the stone in one of them with your mist?"

Tapfer shrugged. "Solid stone is hard. But… I will try."

"Good," Maelstrom pointed the way to the westernmost cell block. "Go, pick a window, and get it as cold as you can. If you can get the mist into any cracks, do it. I'll be there shortly." As Tapfer left, the young stallion turned to Artorius. "I'll take the thunderheads; I need you and Tsume to hold the line as long as you can. Even if this works, it won't be a big opening, and there are a lot of you."

"We will hold," Tsume agreed, showing a slight grin instead of outright hatred of the colt.

Artorius nodded, and then turned to wander over to the pile of weapons.

"And, uh, apothecary, I'll need a hoof… or a claw, I guess, with—"

The old griffon showed a bit more strength than Maelstrom had expected from him when—albeit with considerable pain and stiffness—he pulled Aela up so that the unconscious hen was draped across his back. Then, with long and narrow claws, he grabbed hold of one of the thunderheads Artorius had rescued. "I will bring it. Do, if you please, elaborate on this plan of yours."

Maelstrom indulged the venerable griffon if only for the chance to sound out the plan beyond his own mind. "Well, years and years ago, when we first came to the Compact Lands and met the earth ponies and the pegasi, they wanted to know a lot about our weather magic. Grandfather lent a couple of junior weather centuries to the earth ponies to see if they could help with various work in exchange for food; one poor architectus named Echo Echo got asked to shoot lightning in a mine to see if they could break up some dense stone for easier mining. The only earth pony survivor they managed to dig out said the lightning didn't do anything to the wall, but the thunder collapsed a bunch of weak points in the mineshafts."

"Hmm? But then why did the hallway behind us not collapse? Or this room we are in now?"

Maelstrom gestured around the windowed dungeon with a wing. "Because this is worked stone. A mine is full of lots of strata—layers, you might say—and veins of different types of stone and dirt and ores and whatever. The different, broken up pieces come apart easier than the put-together, balanced stuff we have here. But we saw in the hallway that between the cold from Tapfer's magic and the thunder, parts of the walls did crack, and expose the raw stone behind them."

"But I think not enough to break through the wall, no?" asked the apothecary.

"Not with lots of open air around it," Maelstrom agreed. "But the window shafts here aren't much bigger than my head, so if we stretch out the artillery cloud and stuff it into the hole so there's no gap for it to echo out and lose any of its sound…"

The apothecary chuckled. "Emperor Magnus would have killed for an enemy like you."

That comment made Maelstrom cock his head, even as he stepped into an empty cell with a windowshaft, where Tapfer had already begun his magic. "Why? Because I'm good at weather and bad at actually fighting?"

"Hm? Oh, no, no; I do not insult you. Magnus was happy when Cirra was led by cunning leaders; he thought a pony's short life gave you better minds in shorter time."

"You knew him personally?"

Tapfer didn't exactly speak, but he made a kind of clicking noise deep in his beak, and the apothecary winced behind his spectacles. "Yes, once. But I have said too much. Now, we shall test if your genius will live on, hmm?"

After stuffing the cloud fully into the now frozen shaft (its chill aided by the eternal winter outside—how Maelstrom longed to be out in the windigo's deathly cold now), the colt urged the two older griffons out of the cell. They watched around the open door as Maelstrom plugged his ears with his lead feathers and folded them down against his scalp, before raising a single forehoof.

And with a blinding flash and the crack of ten thousand whips, his forces outnumbered a hundred to one, Maelstrom Stormblade achieved the impossible, fighting his way out of the dungeons of Burning Hearth Castle and surviving the short hallway for the first time in equine history.

If only that had been the end of it.

9-4

IX - IV

The Unbridled Wrath of Tsar Cyclone Stormblade

Perhaps the most crushing feeling in the world is working every ounce of wit and cunning and luck in your repertoire, gambling everything on a miracle, having it succeed, and then not having that success be enough.

Maelstrom's plans had only really extended to escaping the Burning Hearth dungeons; there hadn't been much point investing his mind in the question of 'what then' when that first issue was already so impossible, so unwinnable. He only had the vague thought of occupying the abandoned crystal barbarian fortress at Onyx Ridge and holding out for his father (or hoping Wrest would not pursue, and just let them starve) to fall back on.

Briefly, his mind toyed with the idea of abandoning secrecy and taking them across the narrow seas to Equestria, but he tossed it aside as the first chill of a fresh snowflake touched his mane on the snowy cliffs at the western base of the castle. That was a true last gasp. And besides, Onyx Ridge was on the way to Equestria, to the west. Even if the griffons did have to fly further, they would at least have already gone in the right direction.

But how to feed them? As he watched the griffon civilians crawl out of the shattered hole in the castle walls, offering their visibly malnourished bodies quake with the climb out of the dungeons, leaning on what should have been a far weaker pony body for support with the last big step up into the cold air, and then shivering like wet cats—they wouldn't survive waiting a week for Cyclone. It was the same question, the same damnable inevitability of logistics, that had started the whole problem in the first place. And the answer, although Maelstrom hated it, did seem obvious. River Rock's ponies were fed; not well, but enough to survive strict rations for a few days. If he got the griffons out of the way, he could get food en masse from Equestria without giving its existence away (though actually getting Equestria to give food to the traitors they thought of River Rock as was another problem he couldn't confront yet). He just had to hope the wait didn't start a rebellion.

The real value of Onyx Ridge wasn't its defensibility—even with the tables turned, and the defenses on the griffon side, Wrest could win by attrition eventually, or just siege the griffons until they started starving and were forced out; it wouldn't be a long siege. The fortress' value to Maelstrom was getting the griffons away from River Rock long enough that they wouldn't ask unfortunate questions about ships laden with fresh produce. But to keep them alive long enough for any of this to be worth it, he had to get them food to last the wait. Which meant stealing.

It seemed like a stupid word, when the 'infiltration force' consisted of several hundred creatures each half-again larger than the average pony. But there wasn't time to think further; Tsume and Artorius may have been impossibly good soldiers by most Legion standards (maybe, Artorius wondered, the like of his father), but they could only hold so long.

"Tapfer!" Maelstrom called. The injured griffon turned his attention from helping the last stragglers of the civilian griffons out of the makeshift escape tunnel and nodded to Maelstrom, once again refraining from speech. The colt stepped to his side and gestured with a wing at the skyline of River Rock down the slope of 'mountain' (really, a rocky hill—especially if your point of comparison is Canterlot) upon which Burning Hearth sat. Though the falling snow left a sort of white fog on the distant buildings, the eternal storm was calm enough that the general layout of the city was at least comprehensible. "There on the river; you see those bigger buildings? Those are warehouses. You're going to find food there; flour and dried meat and whatever else will keep in the cold. I want you to anypony, or any griffon, still strong enough to carry a weight while they fly, and go down there. Take anythingyou can eat. The castle larders have enough food for the rest of the population until we can negotiate something with the dragons." At that comment (blatantly a lie, but apparently Tapfer didn't know the details of the incompatibility of draconic and equine diets) Tapfer raised a brow, but the broken-beaked griffon then gave another short nod and began sorting through the crowd. As he left, Maelstrom concluded "There may be guards, but they won't be Wrest's elite legionaries; try not to hurt them if you can."

After watching Tapfer walk off completely, the colt then turned to the other conscious griffon he recognized. "Apothecary?"

"Hmm?" said the old griffon, groaning as he transferred Aela's weight onto a much younger griffon hen's back. "You want something, little commander?"

Maelstrom rolled his eyes at the apothecary's granted title. "I'm going to need you to lead this group to shelter. If you head due west from here—"

"Hold on, hold on! You're not coming with us?"

"I'll follow afterward. But I need to save my siblings from Legate Wrest. And somepony needs to lead Tsume on hoof, with her wing burnt. I'll send Artorius by wing, and—"

The apothecary fiercely shook his head. "No, no, no; if you send Artorius with directions, and there are more than perhaps three steps, I promise you will never see him again. He is inspiring in battle, yes, and he has his father's instinct for honor, but he…" Tapping his temple with a single talon, the apothecary concluded in his native tongue "... dumm wie Bohnenstroh."

Maelstrom did not need a translation for that phrase, and so offered a nod. "I won't mind having him with me for this."

"I'm sure he will tell you that he owes you," the apothecary agreed. "But I should give you a warning: if you do not bring him back, I encourage you to die as well. Elsewise, Aela may kill you."

"Noted," Maelstrom then looked due west, across the river. "If you fly west of here, you'll come to a fir forest; stay over the trees and keep flying west. We like to fly between the trees; they cut the wind, and if you're out when the snow is too thick, you'll freeze and fall out of the sky. The forest will curl south, following a small river, as the trees get thinner. Eventually, you'll be able to see a huge black stone in a clearing next to the river; it's pointed at the top, like a flint speartip. When you get there, give up following the trees and point due west. Even if the snow is thick, you should be able to see some sign of the sun through the clouds. You should see Onyx Ridge within the hour, and the name should make it obvious, but to be clear: it's a fortress carved out of a rock formation. And if for any reason you hit the western sea for some reason, stop; our scouts have never found any land on the other side, so you'd be flying to your deaths."

The apothecary's eyes once again focused in narrowly on Maelstrom for a pregnant breath of time itself—and then his aged joviality (as tested as it was by circumstance) returned. "Thank you, Maelstrom."

"Thank me when my father returns," Maelstrom answered. "Then we'll know we've actually made it out of this."

The apothecary gave a rather pragmatic nod, and then turned his attention to the bulk of the griffons Tapfer had left behind. Maelstrom, likewise, took a deep breath, and then headed back into Burning Hearth's dungeons to fetch Tsume and Artorius.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

To spare you listening to Maelstrom repeating the same plans I outlined above, it is sufficient I think to jump ahead to a solid ten minutes later; Artorius and Tsume barricaded the inner guardhouse doors (being forced to just prop up the one Artorius had beaten off its hinges) in order to give the appearance they were still present, long enough to slip out of the dungeons. They took only the shield Nimbus (still strapped to Artorius), Aela's griffon-sized Legion gladius, and Tsume's blades (which I understand are collectively called a 'daisho'); Maelstrom was unarmed, feeling uncomfortable with the odd assortment of weapons remaining, and realizing that compared to the two griffon knights, he had nothing meaningful to add in a battle anyway.

Together, the odd trio climbed up the walls of Burning Hearth, occasionally leaping with brief wing-bursts between rocky ledges or bits of the castle's battlements. It was a decisive reminder that the castle dated to an era before the Diamond Kingdoms had any concept of defending against an army of winged foes, and another reminder of one of the major reasons Cyclone had so effortlessly been able to take the castle from King Lapis IV a quarter-century earlier. The process involved more stealth than either Artorius or Tsume were comfortable with, but both yielded to the 'dishonor' of sneaking as knights when Maelstrom reminded them that his siblings' lives were likely on the line. And so, ultimately, they managed to sneak their way into castle's dining hall by way of one of its gargantuan hinged windows (a feature far less useful since the advent of the windigos), and from there through the throne room and into the former royal family's wing, where Cyclone and his foals now resided.

But as Maelstrom frantically rushed from room to room, he found them all empty. Each and every door yielded another disappointment, along with a growing terror. Had Wrest already killed them? There wasn't any blood in these rooms, but maybe she had rounded them up before putting them to the sword, so none might escape if they heard their siblings screaming or got some kind of warning. Another door slammed open at his hoof, and then another, with the two griffons struggling to keep up in his rushed desperation. Finally, when his conscious mind caught up to the idea that his actions were no longer valuable in the search, and just a sign of his denial, his lingering hope, he collapsed onto the carpet spread down the middle of the hallway.

"Where else might they have gone?" Artorius asked.

"Or where would the mare commander have taken them?"

"I don't know!" Maelstrom beat a hoof onto the floor. "This castle is huge, and that's assuming Wrest even kept them here."

"You must have a guess?" Artorius pressed. "Or perhaps we can ask one of your ponies; surely you must have some still loyal?"

Maelstrom swallowed and nodded. "Yes. Yes, there's some ponies I can ask. Let's go."

And so the two griffons flanked Maelstrom as he walked back out of the royal wing through the doors behind the throne. But upon setting hoof and claw into the throne room, everything changed. Opposite the throne, standing in front of the warped metal doors through which guests would enter into the crown's presence, molten and mangled by Cyclone's fire, Legate Wrest stood, sword sheathed under her wing and clad in full banded armor, flanked by six of her heavy infantry armed with swords and shields.

"Maelstrom," she uttered, tired. "Are you here for the foals?"

"Are they still alive? What did you do with them?!"

The veteran legionary sighed and shook her head. "I was never going to hurt them, Maelstrom. And I don't have a dream of usurping your father; I don't want to try and rule this disaster of an empire. I just wanted to get you away from the griffons. You've always lived in cold logic, always so distant from the actual work of the Legion—the blood and blades and discipline. I thought I could spare your life and make talking your father down easier. I admit, I was surprised you held your ground. If it weren't siding with the enemy, I might even admire it." She spat on the floor of the throne room. "But instead, seventeen good legionaries are dead, and you've let griffons free across River Rock. So now, I'm going to take my chances that when Cyclone does get back, he takes my side. You brought this on yourself."

The battle that followed was far different from the one in the short hallway; there wasn't time for Maelstrom to form a grand plan; there was only time to fit in thought in the time it took to draw blades from their sheathes, and then it was chaos.

Wrest's legionaries, it seemed, had been chosen to accompany her because they were trained in magic. 'Feather-memory'-backed like her own though it was, when combined between trained legionaries, it still proved quite effective; Artorius and Tsume had time to draw their blades, but they had no time to lung forward and actually draw blood before the two pegasi on Wrest's right extended their bladed wings, along with Wrest's own. From the leader came the fire our trio of heroes had already seen in the siege of the hallway many stories below. It melded with an icy mist not unlike Tapfer's (though less potent, less pervasive) to create an acrid, billowing smoke that was then dispersed into the eyes of the oncoming griffons with a billowing gale from the feathers of the third legionary.

The griffons tried desperately to push away the smoke, or eventually to wave it away with their own wings; yet it seemed to Maelstrom that neither Artorius nor Tsume were trained in the use of empatha. Artorius' efforts were marginally successful at best, and with only one useable wing, thanks to her burns, Tsume's work was utterly devoid of value. Both griffons began to cough and choke on the unbreathable air, staggering apart in search of a fresh breath, until the distance between them obscured them altogether, and Maelstrom was left alone.

In the dark, head aching and whirling, Maelstrom jumped at the sound of steel hissing through the air, and his stomach turned at the splash of something wet on the throne room floor. Somewhere to his right, a flash of fire briefly lit up silhouettes in the smoke, though it faded before he had any sense of orientation of the battle. Stumbling, he gasped when another flash of orange flame revealed one of Wrest's soldiers at leg's reach to his left, staring straight into his eyes. Maelstrom dropped to the floor just in time to avoid catching a wingblade in the throat, and then awkwardly rolled while pumping his wings to slide out of range of a following swing from a legion gladius. The sparks it cast scraping on the floor, and the clang and scrape of steel on stone, were the last he saw of the other legionary before another roll reoriented the room and left his head spinning anew, lost in the smoke.

Backing away from where he assumed the enemy to be, his hoof pressed against a frigid pillar, and before he had time to shift his weight, the icicle snapped beneath him. It was lost in the mad sounds of the chaos, but it marked the presence of yet more magic that, lost in the dark, he feared Artorius and Tsume had no answer to—if they were even still alive.

That grim thought carried him backwards, to his surprise, out of the cloud of smoke. Coughing and clearing his lungs, he found he had stepped to the side of the main path between the throne and the only path out through the twisted iron doors. Wrest had deployed her forces up to the edge of the smoke, but she herself still waited, guarding the doors. And her eyes immediately met Maelstrom's.

There wasn't another speech, another offer of peace or surrender. Maelstrom moved to duck back into the smoke, and a searing, slicing pain in his shoulder, accompanied by the sickening sweet smell of burning flesh and the rank odor of burnt fur, snuck its way into his nostrils. By the time his mind put together what had happened, he had fallen to the stone floor on his chin, and an attempt to push himself up failed completely with another surge of pain from the red-hot throwing knife embedded up to its guard in his right shoulder. When he tried to use his wings to push himself up, he felt another magically heated blade go clean through his right crest. A cry of agony slipped out of his lips.

Then Wrest hefted a third knife, heating it on flames along her wing; letting Maelstrom take in what was sure to be his death.

When one confronts imminent, seemingly inevitable death (at least, the first few times), there comes a moment of strange clarity, like the eye of a great storm. In that moment, one finds all manner of concerns are pushed aside, and purpose is clear and singular.

Castle Burning Hearth's throne room was not possessed of windows; instead, the major feature of its walls was what gave the castle its name: a series of massive fireplaces that kept the room warm even in the chilliest of (pre-windigo) winters. There were dozens of notable features about these fireplaces, made suitable for the surroundings of the unicorn royal court, but those facts were all pushed clear of Maelstrom's mind, save for one singular quality: their flues. His mind remembered a record written by the unicorns of the castle, which he often loved to read, not of centuries past, but of the days of his father's foalhood:

During one of their many negotiations, in an early winter after the pegasi arrived, well before the windigos, Hurricane had endured a complaint from King Lapis about the state of the smoke coming from the throne room's fireplaces. Hurricane, seeing an opportunity to strengthen the welcome of the pegasi, installed a series of cloud 'pumps' into the flues of the throne room hearth, designed to suck up smoke without removing the heat of the fires from the chamber. It had been a perfect gift for the desperate pegasi, cheap to produce but indescribably valuable to the unicorns without their cloud magic, and it formed an early step toward a long friendship between the then-young pegasus leader and his unicorn counterpart.

Enduring the worst pain he had ever, or would ever face, Maelstrom pushed up with both his injured and whole wings, kicked with his hooves, and jumped at the nearest fireplace. Wrest's knife took flight. Maelstrom's tan hoof only barely caught the handle of the damper that would open the flue, and his weight was just barely enough to shift it. But it was enough.

Enough, at least, to give him a brief glimmer of satisfaction, before Wrest's perfectly aimed knife found his neck.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

Tsar Cyclone Stormblade walked through the streets of River Rock three days later, accompanied by his old friend Thunder Hawk, and the unearthly quiet of the city formed a knot in the titanic stallion's stomach that he could not shake.

His guards at the doors of Burning Hearth failed to meet his gaze as he approached, but one gave some warning about griffons in the throne room—and trembling, failed to offer anything more intelligible. With a scowl, Cyclone loosened the sheath around his greatsword, Hellfire, and proceeded into his own throne room.

There, he found easily recognized Artorius alongside a griffon hen he did not recognize, alongside Legate Wrest, fully missing a wing and with an obviously broken foreleg, in their custody. An ornate coffin, pony-sized, lay in the center of the room in front of what had become his throne.

"My Emperor, I—" Wrest's words stopped instantly when Cyclone lifted his own good wing in a gesture of silence. There was a calm to the stallion as his mind seemed to process the information before him, and with slow but heavy steps, he approached the coffin. It took only a momentary glance beneath the lid to answer the first of his questions.

"My son is dead," Cyclone said, apparently to Thunder Hawk, in a tone drained of emotion, as if it had been sucked out of him like the smoke through the fireplace flue. "Artorius, I take it this is not the only griffon with you?"

"No, Emperor Cyclone. Magnus attacked our resistance. They arrived not long after you left."

"Where are they?"

"Maelstrom said a place called Onyx Ridge. We would have joined them, but without him we did not know the way," Artorius answered.

Cyclone nodded at that too, then turned to Wrest. "Tell me what happened."

And Wrest did; her account was truthful and, largely, fair to Maelstrom, if one accounts for her own perspective on the griffons as unilateral enemies rather than refugees. It concluded with the battle in the throne room, only noting that when Maelstrom's last gambit cleared Tsume and Artorius' vision, they made short work of the now out-of-formation legionaries she had brought, as well as besting her personally. She was only alive because Artorius had offered her surrender, and she had accepted rather than throw away more pony lives against the griffon knights' uncanny skill at arms.

Cyclone glanced briefly to Artorius and asked only "Is this true?"

"It is," Artorius offered. "Maelstrom died saving our lives."

Cyclone nodded again. He drew in a slow breath, and let it out equally slowly. And then his cold eyes turned on Wrest. "Twenty-five years ago, I should have been executed when I committed treason against my father's rule. He pleaded for mercy for me, and for all of us, because of my mother's dying wish. She did not want to see our family torn apart, even as she lay dying."

Thunder Hawk, the stallion personally responsible for Swift Spear's death, swallowed nervously behind Cyclone. The room grew thick and heavy. Even unflappable Tsume wilted from the titanic red stallion, the only mortal pony she would ever have to physically look up to.

"I did it because I, too, believed griffons would always be the enemy. Because I put my idea of Cirra ahead of respect for mercy, and peace. Because I was self-righteous enough to ignore my superiors and my orders." Cyclone drew in another breath, and his nostrils flared as he released it. "My father forgave all those mistakes in me. He spared my life."

A slight breath, one Wrest had not even realized she had been holding, escaped her lips in relief.

"My father was a better pony than I will ever be," Cyclone concluded, and when his wing gestured toward Wrest, what emerged was not orange fire like her own, nor even the blue heat like he had threatened me with in that room not so long before; no, what he cast forth was pure white. The flame of his fury was so hot that it burned the eyes to even look at it. The air around the fire rippled and swam, folding like a mirage as it was sucked in by hungry fire.

When the fire passed, perhaps two seconds later, Legate Wrest's shadow was all that remained of her, burnt into the stone of Burning Hearth Castle's walls in the gap between two of the fireplaces. Her silhouette remains there to this day, if one knows behind which tapestry to peer; a testament to the agony of the first Tsar of Stalliongrad at the death of his beloved son.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

A few miles north of Stalliongrad, on an icy bluff that looks out over a bend in the Volgallop, if one knows where to look, one can find a small cluster of stone markers at a place called Headstone Point. All writing on the stones has long since been eroded away by snowfall and wind and the cracking of ice. But I knew what was once written there, so long ago.

Two more days after Cyclone's return, he finally buried his son. He might have done it that very day, but Artorius asked for a stay so that some of the other griffons could be present. And so, when they were retrieved from Onyx Ridge, Cyclone found himself burying his son in the unlikeliest of company: five griffons, in addition to a few of Maelstrom's friends and his siblings who were still in River Rock.

In those days, Headstone Point had only one marker. It read thus (translate from old Cirran, and with traditional abbreviations expanded):

Into the wings of the Garuda

Swift Spear

Beloved Wife, Mother, Hero

The Great Skies are better for you

In all the days of his long life that I knew him, I learned that Cyclone was not good at crying. On that day, in the icy chill of eternal winter writ across summer, carrying his son's last remains on a shoulder shared with Artorius, the red stallion blinked furiously into the wind, and if any drop did fall from his eyes, it would have been lost in the snowfall. Together with the griffon, he lowered Maelstrom's remains into the ground, arranged in the old ways of the Legion, and fought blow after hard fought shovel blow into the icy ground, to bury him.

When it was done, the red stallion stood back and turned to the assembled mass. "When Maelstrom was born, I thought he was a curse. He had my sister's face, her mane… my regrets. Now I see the curse is saying goodbye to those sights on this hill again. Maelstrom was so unlike me, in so many ways. I struggled to relate to him, but as he grew, I admired what he accomplished with his mind and his books. I wish I could say I was always proud of him. He deserved that. And I want to say I'm proud of him now, but… I just want him back."

That was all Cyclone could say, and so he stepped aside. After the griffons shared a glance amongst themselves, Aela gave a nod to Artorius, and he stepped forward.

"When we fought in the dungeons, I told Maelstrom that, even if he did not have our strength or our skill at arms, or our magic, he was still a knight. Because what mattered was that he saw we were in need, and he fought to help us. The pegasi have every reason to hate us. Instead, Maelstrom gave his life for us." Nodding his head solemnly, the griffon concluded "So long as one of us draws breath, free griffons will never forget the name of Maelstrom."

Cyclone nodded his thanks, and then gathered himself and stepped forward once more for words that were more practiced, and older—albeit changed subtly, for reasons he shared only with his father, which we will discuss in this story in time.

"Maelstrom, you go to the grave not with the curse of a sellsword, or the hollow death of a thief or a rogue, but with the highest honor that one can give: the honor of death on the battlefield, fighting to defend…" The Cirran words would have been one's home, one's family, one's nation, but it seemed to Cyclone a disservice, and so he continued instead "...a peace at the end of a conflict that has bled and burdened generations of your family before. In the service of the Legion, and all the pegasi of Cirra, we pray your soul may find its way to the east, to the rising sun, and the Great Skies from which the new light is born again every day. Your honor has been unyielding, and as best you could, you have adhered to the tenets of honor and justice with all the effort a only could muster. You are beckoned to the Skies to live in peace. Go now, and leave the pain of the world behind. Let your wings guide you to the Skies above, and may your wake leave a trail for those who loved you, and still love you, to follow you into the dawn, when the dusk of their time comes."

Then Cyclone retrieved from a pouch at his side a single tan feather—Maelstrom's leading flight feather, and he beheld it mournfully before turning to Artorius.

"Sir?" the griffon asked.

"In Cirran tradition, you fly up to the sky and give their best feather to the wind. But…" Gesturing back to his crippled wing, Cyclone concluded "Would you honor him for me?"

Artorius did not hesitate, but when he offered Maelstrom's feather to the wind, despite the old Cirran words about the afterlife, the feather seemed to prefer to fly west, toward Equestria.

When the assembled left Maelstrom at the hill, he lay beneath an alabaster marker.

Maelstrom

Son, Brother, Knight

Let the clouds be red no longer

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

On the way back from the burial, Aela gently paced to spare her injuries and still fall into place beside her apothecary.

"My lady," he offered in griffon. "Those were good words. Artorius speaks well."

"His Equiish has gotten quite reliable, most of the time," she agreed. "But I didn't come to talk to you about that."

"Oh? Then what is on your mind?"

"Your thoughts on what Maelstrom told us about Hurricane. When we first arrived."

"Hurricane?" The apothecary raised a brow. "That is a very interesting thing to ask. I did have a suspicion he was trying not-very-well to hide something from us when we spoke. But I also do not think he was lying. That monstrous venom Hurricane suffered from when he came to us in Stratopolis, it wreaked havoc on his heart. He would have had to live a very quiet life, and be extremely lucky to still be alive today. And given we are talking about Emperor Hurricane, I very much doubt that would ever have been possible. So I would expect there was some controversy around Hurricane before his death. Can I ask why you are curious?"

"When Theod and Hurricane and Celestia and I were searching for… well, you know…" Even speaking in whispered griffon, Aela still scanned the surrounding crowd. "…Hurricane mentioned to Celestia that if he died, he wanted to be buried with his wife."

"And?" the apothecary asked.

"That headstone said Swift Spear." When the apothecary raised a brow, she explained further "Hurricane's wife's name."

"I… now I am very confused, I must admit. Maelstrom spoke of Hurricane in the present tense, and so did the legion mare… Wrest, was it? I had thought it was just a mistake, or perhaps it is Equiish getting the best of my own skill." His always present accent grew thicker in that last thought, if only for effect. "But if Hurricane is not dead, and everypony knows it, then what?"

"I don't know," Aela answered. "It means there is a secret, but until we know what all we can do is dig. I think we need to know if we're going to survive here; they've already turned on us once. And since I can't trust most of the knights to be discrete, I'd like the digging kept between us."

"Do you want me to…"

The apothecary's offer was not interrupted, it trailed off and lingered in silence for a moment before Aela's eyes narrowed and she hissed "No! Ask discretely whenever Cyclone isn't there to watch. I might try to pry it out of his foals; they seem very interested in us. You're welcome to do the same, or see if there are any books or records you can get your talons on. But that is as far as we will go."

"But of course," the apothecary lied.

Interlude VII - Blood Runs Cold

Blood Runs Cold

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

The sudden disappearance of the howling of the wind was almost as horrifying as the dying of the light—both went not with the slow decline of a sunset, but in a single violent snap (for there was no time for Sunset Shimmer to build up the safety walls of a mere 'pop' as she took the only blind hope she could for survival.

"Sunset?! Somna—whatever? Stalliongrad? Where in Tartarus are we?" Tempest Shadow's voice echoing off the walls answered some of that question without the need for speech; still, a moment later she got a much quieter answer.

"Quiet!" Sunset insisted, and her horn flared in the darkness; magic drew two circles, illuminating by about a hoof-radius glow at a time the roughly circular walls. As the sparks moved from the floor up the shiny black walls, along similar stone ceilings, and back down to the floors, it became clear that the Equestrians were in a black stone tunnel that stretched off into darkness in both directions without visible forks or turns—not that the darkness was all that far away. "We're under Onyx Ridge, somewhere." As she spoke, Sunset's magic again illuminated the black walls of a subterranean tunnel, and after a moment, the magical aura built up at the tip of her horn in the form of an orb, which shortly disconnected from her horn altogether and began to float near her shoulder. "That spell should keep our noise from echoing up the tunnels. If anypony… or anything gets close enough to see the light, I can't do much about it. But I think we're more in danger in the dark than we are carrying a light."

In addition to the two speakers, Sunset's light revealed a somewhat less shivering Somnambula—the glowpaz she always wore around her neck smothered under her layers of winter jackets—and a completely still Red Ink who had collapsed onto his side on the stone where Sunset's spell had dropped him.

"Mr. Ink!" Somnambula rushed to the stallion's side. "Is he okay?"

"He's breathing," Tempest noted, watching the stallion's chest, even as she placed a hoof near his muzzle to confirm that claim. Then, with the same gentle hoof, she peeled back one of his eyelids, and continued "And his eyes dilate with the light, so he's not braindead."

"He's dead," Sunset interrupted the other mare's makeshift diagnostic session.

"What? Didn't you just hear what I—"

"No, listen," Sunset interrupted. "Did you hear what he said right before he collapsed? He asked if it got colder? And then he mentioned the collar of his jacket?"

"...and?" Tempest asked.

"I thought Celestia had you read Morty's last book, at least?"

"I… I'm not a big book pony, ok? I skimmed it. Nopony mentioned I'd die if I didn't write a book report." When Sunset's brow furrowed, the taller, mercenary mare rolled her eyes. "Like I said, the guy seemed—seems—like an asshole."

"You might be right," Sunset answered under her breath, before explaining herself. "A cold feeling on the back of your neck is the hallmark sign of Wintershimmer's Razor. The spell to rip out a pony's soul."

"What?" Somnambula hunched up her wings in a classic sign of pegasus stress. "No; you can't be saying—do you think somepony else learned the spell?"

"Princess Celestia told me she'd gone out of the way to make sure nopony else learned it… but maybe?"

"You're humoring her?!" Tempest snapped. "If what you're saying is right, Stalliongrad is dead, we just fought an army of damn zombies, and you wanna worry about trying not to hurt her feelings?!"

Sunset grimaced, and Somnambula recoiled from the substantially larger mare's shouting—ears folding back as it echoed through the tunnels. "Look… I really don't know if it was him. But I did see somepony who looked a lot like a unicorn in a light jacket on the walls."

"Then we need to go talk to him!" Somnambula insisted, and though there was hurt in her expression, Sunset was sure she also saw steel in the ancient pegasus mare's eyes. "Morty knows me! He'll listen to me! Maybe—maybe he just didn't recognize me! It was snowy and cold, and—"

"He made a bunch of zombies that attacked us unprovoked!" Tempest cut in. "And for all we know, since they weren't covered in bite marks or stab holes, he probably killed them too! If we're gonna stand any kind of chance, it'll be an ambush. One good shot to the chest, kill him before he even knows we're here."

Sunset shook her head. "No. Both of you, no. Tempest, he's immortal. You heard what Princess Celestia said; he's died so many times it's his special talent. Even if you did catch him off guard, do you expect he'd stay dead? And Somnambula—I understand you want to talk to him and try to figure out what's going on. But it's been almost two thousand years since you knew him. Who knows how he might have changed? And do you know he'd even remember you? Or give you a chance to even say a word before he ripped your soul out too? Right now, before anything else, we need to get out of here alive and warn the Princesses. If Morty's… gone evil or whatever, they, and Twilight—"

"And Star Swirl," Somnambula offered grudgingly.

"—and Archmage Star Swirl, have the best chance of actually doing anything. But if we want to do that, we need to get out of here alive."

Tempest gave a firm nod. "Well, you're right; that's a better plan than I had. Damn, I knew this was a suicide mission. Stupid princess tricking me with her fancy airship…"

"I think you're right too," Somnambula muttered, though there was more than a bit of hesitance in her words. "I still think this is a misunderstanding, somehow. But for now, how do we get out of here? Is there another exit?"

"I have no idea. Well, no… I have a really bad idea. Maybe two or three. But for any of them, I need somewhere to sit down and do some magic and read without getting distracted. Or killed."

Tempest's nostrils flared in a sharp exhale. "You're joking."

"I just finished a part in Tales about how Cyclone's son sent a bunch of griffons here to protect them, so there might be something in the book we can use to navigate these caves. But that's a stretch. A better hope is that I get to the part where Morty explains how Wintershimmer's Razor actually works, and I can figure out how to protect us. But most importantly, I'm gonna try and bring Ink back to life, because he actually knows his way around in here. So either we find a dead-end and hide while I read and figure it out, or we get out of the tunnels and I see what I can do when we get back to some kind of civilization."

"You can't just cast the spell now?" Tempest asked.

Sunset briefly found her brow creased in frustration. "It's not that simple." Then she sighed. "Morty makes the things he does sound really easy, but necromancy with real souls is hard. Like, up there with time-travel magic and dimensional portal magic hard. And if I screw up, I could damage Ink's soul. Permanently. It's extremely illegal to do necromancy without a license, and even if you have one, they don't teach you how to connect a soul to a real body. Outside of this very specific situation, that kind of magic is only good for making… well, zombies, as you put it. So… Tempest, can you lift him?"

"Yeah, probably. I… oh shit, this guy is dense." Tempest slung Red Ink over her barrel, glad for his short stature that his dangling legs and wings didn't drag on the ground. "Do you at least know which way we need to go?"

Sunset nodded. "I don't know how deep we got; the spell just found the first open space in the direction I pointed my horn. But I do know the front of the fortress is roughly that way…" An amber hoof pointed in a direction vaguely matching one of the paths of the tunnel. "And I don't think it's hard to say we don't want to go back the way we came. So…"

"Deeper it is…" Somnambula frowned. "At least we're out of the cold and it's a little warmer, but of course it has to be into a cave."

"Not a fan of the dark?" Tempest asked.

"Most pegasi don't like closed spaces," the pharaonic pegasus replied, eyes tightened to lines and muzzle wrinkled as she squinted into the darkness. "I wish I had my blindfold."

"Your what?" Tempest snapped. "Seriously? I'm carrying a dead guy and—"

"It's not like that," Sunset interrupted, even as Somnambula hid chuckles beneath a wing. "She had to do a challenge to get rid of a sphinx, right?"

"Yeah," Somnambula agreed, still trying not to laugh. "Sorry. The, heh, the point is, it reminds me that even in the dark, there's hope…" And then, after trailing off, Somnambula suddenly stopped walking. "Wait."

"Hmm?" asked Sunset. "Something wrong?"

"No. I had an idea." Somnambula stepped briefly in front of Sunset and raised a wing. Then, closing her eyes, she drew in a breath over what seemed like a minute—and which was long enough, at least, for Tempest to shoot Sunset a skeptical glance that the leader of the group answered with an amused shrug. "Huh… Okay."

"You gonna let the rest of us in on it, or just keep making noises?" Tempest asked.

"Oh; sorry. So, there's this one weird trick I learned from Hurricane—"

"Did you actually just say 'one weird trick'?" Sunset interrupted.

"Yeah, why? Does that mean something?"

"...nevermind. It's from the other side of the mirror."

Somnambula shrugged. "Anyway, I learned, uh, a weird piece of magic from Hurricane. See, pegasus magic connects feelings to the elements, and the elemental magic is way more famous. But it turns out pegasus magic can also directly interact with feelings. Now, I'm not super good at it like Hurricane or apparently Mr. Ink…" a brief flash of a frown split Somnambula's usually smiley expression. "...anyway, I do know a few things. One is how to sense emotions. I feel them in my feathers."

"You can read minds with your wings?" Tempest asked.

Somnambula shook her head. "No. I get a read on other ponies feelings like they're different kinds of wind. Anger is hot and thick and humid like a swamp, joy is fast and fresh; that sort of thing. I'm not very good at it. But luckily, you don't need to be very good to feel that a windigo hates your guts. And because I can feel that like wind, I think there has to be a way out this way."

"You think?" Tempest asked.

Somnambula rolled her eyes. "You have a better plan?" When the note of rare sarcasm hit deep, the pegasus softened the words with a slight smile. "Have a little hope, Tempest."

Though it was obviously given grudgingly, Tempest Shadow obliged the pegasus in her company.

Something that many ponies who read stories like mine fail to realize is that in between events of note and moments of valor and heroism, there are long stretches of boredom. Often, walking above ground in relatively safe places, these can be enjoyable times—at least, for those who haven't grown too soft by the pleasures of urban comforts. Other times, it isn't travel but hard work that occupies the time of heroes; whether it be digging a well or researching hitherto unpracticed magic, though the effect may save someone's life, the actual work is tedium. But by far the worst, the most unpleasant experience that often gets glossed over in stories like these is what I've come to call the tedium of horror. It is when one walks knowing a monster stalks nearby, or when one is moving as swiftly as they can to the rescue knowing that the focus of their aid might already have been wounded or destroyed before they ever arrive. And that, at least for me, is one of the ultimate sufferings of the equine condition: the combination of the unknown, a measure of impotency, and a thick serving of tedium. Were I a better pony, I would tell you that I would not inflict it on my worst enemy… but I know what dwells in the deepest circles of Tartarus.

Some of it, I put there.

For the better part of two hours, the trio of mares carried the still-breathing corpse of their fourth companion—the only one of their number who had ever seen those dark halls before—in near total silence (for Sunset's magical zone of silence was not up-to-snuff to move with them) and near total darkness (though her dim magical light at least did accompany them)—past dozens of forks and twists and down at least one ragged jog where the tunnel's floor dropped a good two shoulder-heights, and the trio had to stop with bated breath as a loose rock tumbled off the edge and the sound echoed down the halls…

…and then was answered, horrifyingly, by a wet, heavy breath somewhere in the distance.

Whatever beast had made that horrible noise, though, never appeared. Instead, the trio were left with three minutes with Sunset's light dimmed, holding their breath and pressing tight together, ready to attack in desperation at the slightest noise.

Ultimately, though, Somnambula's wing brought them to a tunnel that ended in a glimmer of light. And, not much further along, the sliding of hooves, as ice began to completely coat the stone walls and floor. There, the source of the wind was obvious not only to Somnambula, but the unicorns as well; one could hardly miss the whistling of wind on cold rock and sharp ice.

"What's going on?" Tempest whispered. "We haven't gone that far up from where we started, have we?"

"Hard to tell," Sunset agreed. "Maybe there's a canyon or a cliff on the back of the fortress, so ground level is lower? Somnambula, what do you think?"

The pegasus shuddered—not in chill but in something like fear—and nodded. "It's outside. That's the real wind here; I can feel the windigo hate on it. If you want to know about the ground, we'll have to get Rockhoof. But I think the first step is g-going that way anyway."

"Great, she's shivering again…" Tempest sighed, and nodded to Sunset. "Well, let's get out of here."

Progress forward was surprisingly difficult; the tunnel sloped up mildly, which made any loss of traction on the frosted floor cause the trio to slip back. Worse, as they progressed, the biting wind grew harder and harder, channeled into a windtunnel by the hard walls beyond any force that they had felt on the surface. Ultimately, Tempest took the lead, pressing her shod hooves into the ice to make grooves that the other two could track to follow—a veritable equal of 'Good Queen Wince-Loss', if you're a fan of Hearth's Warming carols.

As they progressed, they witnessed one other change: the light at the end of the tunnel grew brighter and brighter, until it was not just like daylight, but the kind of eye-searing snow blind white that comes on sunny days in the windy mountains.

And then, all at once, the white gave way to visibility—only just in time for the trio not to plummet to their deaths.

The tunnels of Onyx Ridge, and indeed the earth into which it was built, had been sundered by a gargantuan chasm, deep enough that only darkness could be seen at its nadir. Sunset's magic only narrowly caught Tempest, who—unbalanced with another pony's weight on her back—began to slip forward when they stepped onto the narrow ledge that hung over the edge of the chasm.

It took our heroes some time to take in their surroundings, once they had regained steady hoofing, confusing as the sight was. Rather than work through what they saw, I think you, dear reader, will understand the scene better if I explain how it came to be this way.

One thousand, eight hundred, and neither you nor I give a proper care about the other two digits years ago, a young knight-errant buried her mentor beneath a lonely cairn of stones a ways northwest of the sheer cliff that held the face of the fortress of Onyx Ridge. Into the stones, with painstaking effort, she carved a lonely epitaph for a mare with whom I often quarreled, but for whom I have the greatest of respect. But, more importantly, beside the stones, she thrust the fallen mare's blade into the icy ground. And, had it been any other mare and any other blade, that might have been the end of it. Corpses don't decay in Stalliongrad's snow; it might have lingered beneath those stones. But buried beneath the long accumulation of snow and ice and permafrost, sword and body alike would no doubt have been forgotten.

But this was no common mare, and no common sword, and the latter drew the attention of the snow itself. The cursed blade—because despite whatever the dead mare might have said in life, that blade was cursed—the cursed blade's accumulated hate, its unyielding sorrow, its bottomless pit of cold so deep that there can be no snow, no wind, no breath—was answered by the Last Windigo. And it came to dwell on the cairn, to rest on the upturned pommel of the sword. Through the blade, the chill of Stalliongrad's suffering seeped into the earth. And the earth cracked.

At first, it was a small crevice, the sort of thing that might spell a broken leg for somepony unfortunate enough to make a misstep. Then the side of the gap that held the cairn broke free and fell in. Over a thousand years, tendrils of ice from the windigo formed into a nest that pushed and shoved against frozen stone, and the stone gave way. Soon, the deep tunnels of the vargr that moved into Onyx Ridge to escape the surface cold were exposed, hewn in twain and sometimes connected by the spires of ice that jutted threateningly from the walls.

And then, by the day of our adventure, the ice had formed into a rigid, transparent spider web over a blackness that seemed to stretch down to Tartarus itself.

At its center, hanging perilously and precipitously over empty air and certain death, our heroes beheld the true horror of the Last Windigo, resting in its nest atop the hilt of a skysteel sword. The ethereal flesh of its gaunt, stretched-out, corpselike face slapped in the wind of its own magic, grown massive on enough civil wars and invasions and starvations and the predation of enough lesser evils that even in its sleep, it could wrap the miles wide compact lands in bitter winter and yet still haunted by an unnatural hunger for more. Mercifully, sleep it did, for its eyes were covered in empty, fleshy lids, and its body rocked in the same unseen wind that teased its parody of flesh.

Scattered around the blade of the sword, half submerged into the ice of its nest, were countless treasures and trinkets—like a dragon's hoard, save that they were almost certainly enchanted items because they certainly weren't valuable for their beauty or appearance (or edibility to a dragon)—amongst the clutter, Sunset noted about a half-dozen assorted weapons, a length of silver chain, and a sizeable black bell.

But most notable, and quickly stealing focus from the assorted treasures of the nest was a figure standing just in front of the apparently sleeping Windigo's face. Frozen to the ground with a crust of frost up past her knees and nearly to her shoulders perhaps three strides away from the cairn was a gold-coated pegasus mare wearing a brown leather jacket with a fur collar—what Sunset might have called a 'bomber jacket' from her strange other world—and an olive pith helmet.

Interlude VIII - The Nest of the Windigo

Interlude VIII

The Nest of the Windigo

"This is gonna sound stupid, but I'm completely serious," said Tempest Shadow, turning to Sunset Shimmer on the precipice of the ravine that was the nest of the last windigo. "If we hold hooves and sing The Heart Carol, will that actually make it go away, or—"

Sunset shook her head dejectedly. "Even if we were good enough friends, or had a sudden connection or whatever, I think at best we'd just stun it or drive it off. The other two actually died because Commander Hurricane stabbed them after the song with his magic sword." Then, after a pause, she added "Did you read Beginner's Guide at all? "

The question was quite actively ignored. "And I don't suppose we're lucky enough that that sword is his?" Tempest nodded to the blade on which the Windigo napped.

This time, it was Somnambula who shook her head. "N-no; Procellarum had a slot in the m-middle of the blade."

"I should know I'm not that lucky. Now, one last question: we don't actually need Daring Do, right? We just wanted her to tell us where some other guy was?"

"We are not l-l-leaving a pony to freeze to death," Somnmabula snapped, then spread her wings. "Sunset, I have an-n idea. If I give you a signal, c-can you teleport me away?"

"Probably," Sunset admitted. "Teleporting is a lot harder when there's a ton of magic around. I can't promise anything… Do you have a plan? The way you're shivering, can you even fly?"

"I'm-m fine. And I've g-g-got an idea. Half of one, at least. I grab Cyclone's feather, fly in, m-melt Miss Do free, and then we both fly back here and you t-t-teleport all of us away somewhere so the windigo loses our trail."

"It's a crap half a plan," Tempest muttered. "But it's probably the best we're gonna get. Better than trying to fight the thing. Did Morty say anything in the book about whether they're smart?"

"Windigos?" Sunset gave a kind of half-committal shake of her head. "There was a lot of debate about that, but if he ever got a definitive answer, I don't remember him writing it down. But probably not; it seems like they behave like animals, just following wherever there's a lot of hatred to feed on, and hiding when they get hurt or scared off. Why?"

"Because if it isn't smart, I can get the half plan up to a full plan. When you're fighting an animal or a monster, you can pretty much always trust they'll prioritize a threat over prey. And I probably can't actually fight that thing… but I'm pretty good at making fireworks. If it wakes up, I can at least distract it enough to get its attention off your back." With a nod, the broken-horned unicorn offered Somnabula a small smile. "For what it's worth, good luck."

"Thanks."

With that, Somnambula fished around in Red Ink's jacket until she retrieved the little cleaned-out breath mint tin into which he had placed the last earthly remnants of the late Tsar Cyclone. And then, taking to wing with a visible shiver to her feathers, Somnambula left the comfort of her companions behind.

The desert mare had thought the ambient air of Stalliongrad was frigid, but standing in front of the breath of an incarnation of winter itself, she found it hard to even draw in breath. Hoping to keep her mind off the cold, she focused on trying to rouse up a little bit of fire in her wings. Tragically, it was a somewhat fruitless mental search for the perpetually chipper mare; there were certainly annoyances that came to mind, but (normally to her credit, if not in this rather unusual circumstance) she was not by her nature given to the kind of deep seated hatred that lends itself to flames.

When she finally landed, though she tried to do so as quietly as possible, terror slipped through her when her shivering, frost-laden wings dropped her with less than her usual flying grace, and the sound of her weight and her solid hooves made a mixture of a percussive tap and the spreading cracking noise of layered ice. Immediately, her eyes shot to the windigo; it was so much bigger up close. Whenever she'd heard the story from Clover, they were always described as alike to the Saddle Arabian ponies—'horses' if one didn't mind the homophonous slur—that lived near to her ancestral home. But this thing… despite its gaunt face and hollow cheeks, given it could easily have snatched her up whole in its mouth (were such a thing truly solid), it was certainly not wanting for food.

When the beast let out another snore that forced Somnambula's eyes closed, and she experienced the brief but pervasive horror of struggling to open them again before the layer of frost connecting the lids cracked, her heart at least was warmed with the confidence that she hadn't woken the beast—at least, not yet.

Another crack of thin ice issued from her side, and a scratchy voice spoke up in a not especially quiet tone. "Who… wait, you're Somnambula, right? What are you doing out here?" Daring Do offered a warm, if slightly skeptical, smile.

The explorer looked almost like she had somehow been buried into the ice at the top of the nest; it rose up to her nearly to touching the bottom of her barrel, covering at least half of all four of her legs, and though she had better control of her jaw than Somnambula, the rest of her body was undoubtedly the worse off of the two pegasi. Her wings may not have been frozen to the ground, but frost had clearly (if only thinly) begun to accumulate between her feathers, such that they'd be little good for flight. Tinges of blue could be seen on the tips of her ears, and her lips were cracked to the point that, had the weather been warmer, they might have been bleeding. But at least she didn't look starving; that, and the fact she hadn't died from the cold suggested at least that she hadn't been there long, though what 'long' meant was not in Somnambula's wheelhouse to guess.

"I am. I'm-m-m here t-t-to rescue y-y-you."

"I'll ask why later. Do you have a knife or something to cut me free? My hooves are pretty frozen."

"N-n-no. I brought-t-t fire."

"No!" Daring hissed, and when Somanmbula's ears pinned against her head and her eyes shot to the windigo, the explorer sighed and shook her head. "It's ok; don't shout, but its hearing isn't very good. Its senses are better at emotions and elements. So whatever you do, please try not to get mad at me. And no fire."

"B-b-but how d-do I get you out-t-t?"

Daring shrugged, and then visibly tried to lift a hoof before remembering their uselessness, and gestured with her nose to the sword jutting out of the ice, only barely in front of them. "It seems like the windigo likes that sword. I don't know why, but it… its like a mother bird with eggs or something. It doesn't care as much about the other treasures. I thought I could just toss the sword in the chasm to distract it… but you don't want to touch that sword."

"W-w-why not? D-d-did that wake it-t up?"

With a hint of a shiver, Daring shook her head. "I think that's Hiems Osculum. One of the legendary Stormblades." Somanmbula winced. "You know it?"

"Only s-s-second-hoof. Gale said it was c-c-cursed, and only T-T-Typhoon could even t-touch it-t."

"Who's 'Gale'?"

Somanmbula ignored the question, as her mind was already on to distracting the windigo by other means. She glanced back to the cliff where Tempest and Sunset were still standing, and drew an arc with a wing that she very much regretted having to move away from her body heat again, even for the few seconds of the motion. Tempest nodded and sparks gathered on her horn. And then, with a distinct whistle, a rather small ball of red light flew up into the snowflake filled sky.

One can hardly fault Sunset Shimmer for not having a better understanding of spirit lore, given the abysmal state of practical wizardry in that era of Equestrian history. What Sunset had not known, and so could not have warned Tempest and Somnambula of, is that spirits are intelligent—or at least capable of becoming intelligent—always. The circumstances that cause such a transformation are myriad and worthy of their own elaborate dissertation, but the one on which Sunset had most arguably failed to hinge her argument was the passage of time. The windigos of Hearth's Warming were born from the hatred of the three pony races (hence their equine forms), which thus could not have been much older than the Cirran exodus from Dioda; in other words, when our six national heroes banded together and (Hurricane) defeated the spirits of hatred, they were at best sixteen or so—and more likely a decade younger, given the harsh winter was still relatively recent at the time of their vanquishing. By contrast, the lone survivor of their number was—very slightly the elder of yours truly—almost two millennia old at the time that Celestia's chosen 'knights-errant' stumbled upon it.

Thus, when the last windigo was awoken by the crack and subsequent crackle of—credit where credit is due—an especially well constructed magical simulacrum of a paper-and-powder firework, it did not see it as unknowable sky threat the way that a small-brained sub-sapient animal might. Instead, its eyes shot open, recognized that the sound was farther away than the two half-frozen pegasi in front of it, traced roughly the path of the sparkles in the air where Tempest's projectile had passed, and only moments later, spied the two unicorn mares on the cliff.

Sunset's horn never stood a chance against the speed of its icy breath. In the space of a half-second, both unicorns were frozen solid; alive (if only momentarily) but completely unable to offer any aid to Somnambula.

What followed, as many acts of heroism do, happened in the span of perhaps twenty seconds. I remind you of this, reader, because it will likely take you longer than three seconds to read these words—and also because you should keep in mind that the thoughts and choices Somnambula made were not slow, carefully reasoned stratagems; they were instead desperate, fight-or-flight instinctual choices.

Since she was still keeping the box with Cyclone's feather in it at her chest, Somnambula tossed the box at Daring Do.

"What?!" the mare asked—that one syllable, at least fitting into the rapid pace of events, But the question fell on preoccupied ears.

As the last windigo had leaned forward to unleash its frigid breath, Somnambula threw herself forward underneath the beast's ethereal belly—and toward the sword that Daring Do had identified (correctly, not that Somnambula had seen Typhoon's sword often enough to recognize it—lacking as it was in a meaningfully non-standard shape) as yet another relic of our shared particular era of the Equestrian past. Gale's off-hoof warning—delivered only a few months earlier from the pharaonic mare's perspective (and somewhat in the future of this particular tome)—not to touch Heims Osculum would have to be broken, if only momentarily; if she could touch the sword, and if Daring was right that the monster was protecting it, then maybe she could get a leg underneath its crossguard and punch up (literally, though arguably also in the colloquial social sense) to free the blade from its icy prison and then give it one more swift kick to send it careening off into the depths of the crevice.

And, for once, at least the acrobatics of the maneuver worked. The windigo recognized the threat of motion from a mare it had thought was frozen to the ground, but beneath its belly, there was no swift way for it to turn and face her again.

The ground was icy enough that it was trivial to slide over to the blade, and in fact she had to reach up and grab its hilt to keep herself from sliding straight past it. But when her hoof touched the hilt of Typhoon's sword, for her at least, the world ended.

In the darkness that overcame the cold world, something spoke.

You are nothing.

Freeze and become still.

You hold them back: Star Swirl, Mistmane, all of them.

Stygian would never have fallen to darkness if you hadn't ignored him first.

Give up.

Give in.

Freeze and die.

Those words weren't true; given their target, they weren't even really valid accusations in that "from a certain point of view" way; but the sword didn't care, and undefended as she was, those words struck true. When the world faded back into light, Somnambula found herself on her back beside the blade with tears frozen to her cheeks and her wings wrapped into ice that bonded her to the windigo's nest. The last windigo had rounded on her, hovering overhead. And overcome with dread, she did not so much as struggle to move when it drew in an icy breath.

But the windigo's breath never came; it was stolen by a burst of flame behind the fallen mare.

"Get up!" shouted Daring Do. "Whatever you heard, it's lying to you!" Craning her neck, Somnambula could just see the explorer clutching Cyclone's feather in her teeth like it was a particularly militant cigar as she was engulfed in a nimbus of orange flame—only for that fire to be casually dismissed by the windigo's exhale.

Now, I should hope that any reader of these more modern segments would know already that Somnambula was considered a pillar of Equestrian virtue for representing the virtue of hope—so though a casual touch of the blade Heims Osculum would leave most ponies broken (or at least shaken) for minutes or even hours, it should come as no surprise that darkness wilted off her shoulders with just those words of encouragement. Alas, the damage was done; Somnambula was frozen to the ground, her hooves sticking awkwardly upward so that she could no more push off the ground to break her wings free than she could grow a horn and teleport herself free.

Thus, when the windigo settled its focus on Daring Do and turned back to the young (or arguably ancient) pegasus, she was still exactly where it had left her. This time, when it drew in its breath, there was no distraction, no tug of attention away. Somnambula fumbled in her jacket's pockets, and her forelegs were still wrapped in front of her when the ice came.

And then, once more, all was still in the nest of the last windigo.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

Somnambula was not sure whether consciousness or breath was a bigger surprise. She couldn't move; at least, not more than the squirming her flesh would allow inside her icy tomb, but she was alive. And she was frigid, and she was sad.

But it wasn't her sadness. Perhaps, if she'd been more reflective, she might have admitted there was a touch of it there: a worry that she'd failed her new friends, or that she wouldn't get to see her much older friends again. But no, the sadness she felt flowed through her right forehoof, which had just managed to settle on a tan feather she'd tucked into the breast pocket of her jacket. Typhoon's feather was not a pleasant thing to touch, but then, somehow she was still alive.

Then the only question was 'what next?'. Trying to push her wings, to move the ice gently the way her more natural magic would move the wind, did nothing. The ice was unyielding. But she could feel it in a way she couldn't without touching the feather. It may have been rigid, but that made it brittle, and she was sure if she could just understand it—the thought, at least in her mind, was to understand its pain, then perhaps…

And the ice in front of her wing cracked.

So that's the trick with ice.

As she focused around her body, more and more of the ice gave way to cracks and fissures. And then, with a violent motion that sprayed flecks of ice and chunks of frost all around, the frozen mare sat up, crying as she did with feelings that were not her own. And then, she realized something.

The ice was hers… or rather, long-dead Typhoons? The line felt blurred in her mind, holding the feather as she was… but she knew, at least, that the ice beneath the cursed blade was not the windigo's ice.

Not that windigo's ice?

Above her, the windigo glared—confusion mixed into the perfect hatred that defined its existence.

"I can't move that sword," Somnambula announced. "But I can move your nest."

With her wings touching the ice, deafening cracks echoed through the chasm as the long, spindly, spider-web icicles that suspended the nest in the air in the center of the chasm began to crack. The monstrous creature's breath hung in its nostrils as it whipped its head around to turn and glare aside… but by then, it was already too late. And when the world lurched, and the nest began to fall, the last windigo dove after it.

Somnambula was left hovering as the mass of pure spiteful winter descended into darkness, clanking and scraping off the icy spires and the frozen stone walls on its way down. And then, still sobbing from memories that weren't her own, the pegasus rushed over to her friends and the subject of their search, touching the ice over each in turn and freeing them from where they had been frozen. Though it seemed like a lifetime, the battle had only taken a minute or so—most of it spent frozen in place under the ice as she figured out how to free herself—and though they were now all shivering and miserable (except Somnambula, who had gained something of an immunity to the cold from touching Typhoon's feather), nopony was permanently worse for the wear. Thus, our heroes gathered together with Daring Do, who pinched Cyclone's feather in her mouth once again not to do battle with it, but to warm them up and stave off what would otherwise have been a certain slow death to hypothermia.

I'll spare you reciting the extensive congratulations Somnambula received for her heroism, if only for the sake of not trying to stuff yet more paper into this already fairly full book (I may be among the world's foremost mages, but even I can only bend space so far), and instead skip us forward to a few moments later, when our heroes were no longer shivering and had instead huddled out of the winter wind a few strides back into the tunnel from which they had first emerged.

"Okay," said Daring Do. "I don't want to sound ungrateful; you saved my life. But I wasn't exactly expecting back-up. Especially not Somnambula, Tempest Shadow… and I'm sorry but your face isn't ringing any bells."

"You recognize me?" Somnambula and Tempest said in rough unison.

"I read the newspaper," she said to Tempest, before offering Somnambula "and you have no idea how much your face is carved on the sides of pyramids. Honestly, I'd been planning to come meet you since I heard that Princess Sparkle brought you back; just hadn't gotten around to it. And is the unconscious guy over there who I think he is?"

"He's dead," Sunset corrected, earning a wince from Daring. "But yes. And I'm Sunset Shimmer. We're all here because Princess Celestia sent us."

Daring cocked her head. "Princess Celestia sent all four of you? This Grogar thing must be more of a big deal than I thought."

"Grogar?" Sunset asked.

"Oh, I know this one!" Somnambula grinned. "He was an old story even when I'm from. But legends say there was this old ram who ruled Equestria—I guess it wasn't Equestria back then, but the land—anyway, Grogar ruled over all ponies as a tyrant in a kingdom called Tambelon. But a pony named Gusty the Great defeated him and freed ponykind."

Daring Do nodded. "That's the basic idea. The only other thing you need to know is that Grogar was—is—a lich."

"What's that?" Tempest asked.

Sunset leapt into a rather academic definition. "A unicorn… or I guess in this case, a ram, who puts their soul in a magical container and 'drives' their body from a distance. It's sort of like the inverse of what Wintershimmer did in… right, you skimmed the book."

"I didn't think there was going to be a test," Tempest muttered. "Okay, so let me guess: Grogar is coming back too?"

"Too?" Daring questioned, before glancing to Somnambula and letting the thought die. "We don't know that for certain, but that's certainly what it looks like. In addition to being a lich, Grogar was a master of music-magic, and he made a set of magical bells to strengthen his power. We don't know where all of them are, but I kept hearing stories from some of the places where we think Gusty hid the bells about weird magic and the dead rising. And I'd heard one was at Onyx Ridge, so I came here. Of course, I didn't know the Vault of the Windigo was here, or I would have been better prepared." With a glance into the tunnel, she grudgingly added "Then again, I wasn't expecting my whole expedition team to suddenly turn into zombies either. And then you showed up, right on time… If you aren't here for Grogar, what are you here for?"

Tempest and Somnmabula both offered glances to Sunset, who sighed before she spoke. "We're looking for an amulet that we think was stolen from Dr. Caballeron. We don't know who stole it, but we're hoping if we can find him, that might give us a lead on who took it from him. And Rainbow Dash said you were here. We weren't expecting the zombies, or… whoever killed Lt. Ink, either."

Daring cast a glance at the red dead stallion once more flung over Tempest's back. "Ink? You know that's not—"

"We know," Sunset interrupted. "You have history?"

"Stalliongrad doesn't look as kindly on my kind of… 'treasure hunting'... as a lot of the other domains. But mostly, I know him by reputation; he almost killed one of my ghost-writers." With absolutely no pretense of elegance, the 'archeologist' flopped herself back against the tunnel wall and folded her wings across her chest. "Is this amulet some kind of artifact? I might be able to tell you something about it."

"If it's got a fancy name, we don't know it," Sunset answered. "It's got Gale—er, Queen Platinum the Third's cutie mark on the front."

"Gale?" Daring asked with a raised brow, turning to Somnambula. "I'm guessing you knew her… but why does she use that name? The Warrior-Queen isn't back too, is she?"

The question, though in jest, put a frown on Somnambula's face. "No… Celestia says she died… Morty must be heartbroken."

"Morty?" Daring leaned forward at that. "As in—" but then abruptly, she cut herself off and craned her neck to stare downward at her own chest. "I… Really? You haven't spoken in ten years and that's… Yes, it's Somnambula. Were you asleep?"

"Uh, Miss Do, are you… ok?" Sunset asked.

"Hmm?" Daring looked up, now wearing something of a scowl. "What do you know about Mortal Coil?"

"Well, we're actually looking for him," Sunset explained. "Princess Celestia wants to talk to him, and… why are you taking off your jacket?"

While the mere mention of my name has had that effect on mares a non-zero number of times throughout history, in this particular case, the actual answer to Sunset's question was that Daring proceeded to remove the tan safari shirt she wore beneath her 'bomber jacket', and then turn it inside out. Our heroes saw a particularly colorful patch of fabric on the inside of said garment, which she proceeded to bite into, yanking the stitches out with her teeth, until a small circular medallion, about the size of a bit, dropped into her waiting wing, followed by a fine steel chain. "Apparently this is for you," she muttered, thrusting it in Sunset's direction.

"What… is it?"

"It's called the Mentor Medallion," Daring explained, flicking the object in question rather violently toward Sunset with her wing until the mare finally grabbed it in her magical aura. "It's been passed down through the Sparrows for like a thousand years… but I guess I've learned enough from it."

Sunset quirked her brow. "What's a Sparrow?"

"A secret order of…" Daring rolled her eyes midway through her explanation. "Just put it on. Then it can explain."

Sunset wore a look of confusion and concern even as she donned the medallion in question, but no sooner had the metal touched the fluff of her chest than she heard a voice—skipping her ears, and instead speaking directly into her mind.

That unusually suave, elegant voice, bearing just a hint of an accent suggesting a far older form of Equiish than Sunset was used to, spoke thusly: "Hello. I'm the Mentor Medallion. You said your name was Sunset Shimmer, correct?"

"Uh… do I speak aloud to you, or…?"

"If you focus on me, I can hear your thoughts, but I'm not so intrusive as to read your mind constantly. Most of my students prefer to just speak aloud to me, as long as they're in private."

Sunset nodded, before realizing there wasn't actually somepony there to nod to. "Well, then, yes. I'm Sunset Shimmer. Nice to meet you, uh, Medallion."

"She's talking to the necklace?" Somnambula asked, earning a nod from Daring Do.

"Well, let me cut to the chase. I doubt Celestia realized what a task she'd given you, but this is no minor quest you've embarked on. Morty cut himself into pieces and scattered them across Equestria; you're going to have to track them down if you want to get him to stand in front of Celestia again."

"What, like, his legs and his torso are just laying around?" That question, lacking the preceding explanation as context, put very worried expressions onto the faces of the other ponies present; Somnambula moved to protectively stand between Sunset and Red Ink.

"No, no. Nothing so grotesque. I mean his… we'll say 'soul', but that isn't strictly correct."

"How do you know all this?"

"Because in addition to being a fetching piece of neckwear, I also happen to be the most intelligent accessory in the world."

Sunset quirked her brow at that, and then a small smile broke across her muzzle. "Are… are you Morty?"

"Ah, good, you're smarter than you look." That comment put a sour expression on Sunset, and saw her ears fold back. "I'm something like an eighth, or maybe more like a twelfth, of the pony you're looking for. Specifically, I'm a big chunk of his early formative memories and learnings about heroism."

"Does the long silence mean 'yes'?" asked Somnambula. Sunset gave her a small nod, still listening as she was to 'me' in her head.

"Who in Tartarus is 'Morty'?" Daring grumbled. "I'm pretty sure Mentor was never a donkey."

"To expound a little more, I was created because I… that is to say, all of Morty… you know what, let's just pretend he's a different pony than me; that will make this a lot easier. I was split off from Morty about a thousand years ago, as a way to provide mentorship to young heroes without overshadowing them completely; a lot of the most fundamental lessons of world-saving heroism are kind of 'get it right the first time or you're dead', so having somepony who fell into the mistake of the latter can be very helpful in extending the lifespans of well-meaning would-be world-savers, like Daring here. Though if we're being honest, she took to the craft more quickly than most, and she hasn't meaningfully needed my advice in years. To that end, I suspect you'll be needing my assistance. I have a little magic and a great deal of experience in life-threatening situations, but if Celestia is looking for me—that is, Morty—for any practical magical purpose, I'm afraid we'll have to look elsewhere."

"Okay…" Sunset looked up to her friends. "So, this has part of Morty's soul in it."

"Morty!" Somnambula rushed forward. "I knew he wasn't trying to kill us!" And then, rather violently invading Sunset's personal space, she put a hoof into the medallion. "Do I just touch it, or—?"

"Hello, Somnambula. Long time, no see? Or, I suppose it probably hasn't been nearly so long for you. I'm afraid this bit of me isn't going to be as fun for you as I used to—"

"Ew, no! " Sunset shouted, pulling away from Somnambula's hoof. "No flirting like that! You can wear the medallion, but I don't want to hear it!"

"My apologies." After a pause, Mentor-me added "I wouldn't think that brief comment would produce such a vivid reaction. Or are you already aware by other means of our escapades in the pyramids?"

"You had a threesome in a pyramid?!" Sunset shrieked—and if her prior comment had produced concerned looks on the other ponies then that one caused the others (less Somnambula) to be outright disturbed.

Somnambula, who was really one of Gale's best friends in the world, donned a wide grin and indulged herself to mutter "Everypony knows a tomb is the best place to find a bone."

"Oh Celestia…" muttered Daring Do. Tempest merely rolled her eyes.

And Sunset, extremely red in the face, turned her attention back to some of me. "I know more than I want to, believe me. Princess Celestia gave me Tales, and she warned me—"

"She gave you Tales? This must be serious. What was that Somnambula said about other-me trying to kill you?"

"When we got here to Onyx Ridge, we were attacked by the, uh, zombies of the excavation team. And we fought them off, but then Ink—that one back there—said something about his neck being cold, and then he dropped dead. Well, his body's still alive, but… it sounds a lot like Wintershimmer's Razor. And I'm pretty sure I saw a unicorn in a coat, though he was far away. I teleported us before he could cast the Razor at anypony else. I did hear a bell, too…"

"Hmm… Well, the bell suggests a relationship with Grogar; unsurprising given what brought Daring and I here in the first place. But obviously, Grogar was a ram; he certainly wouldn't match such a slimming, elegant physique, even in silhouette."

"Celestia, you actually do talk about yourself like that."

"Like what?" After a moment's silence, the voice in Sunset's head continued "Grogar is older than I am, so it's unlikely he'd know the razor either, and there are very few ponies who do. So it is very likely you saw 'Morty Prime'—my real body… well, insofar as you can call it 'real' with all the changes I've made. My best bet would be the timing of your arrival was supremely inconvenient, and he assumed you were in league with whoever created the… ugh… 'zombies'."

"You don't think you… er, he, made the zombies?"

"A craftspony is only as good as their tools, and a zombie is about as useful as a rusty hoofsaw with every other tooth missing, a grip lined with spikes to poke your hoof while you're using it, and cupholder on top. And the job you're trying to do is write a novel. Even when I do make undead, which is already a supremely rare occurrence—at least, I assume Morty's opinions haven't changed since we went our separate ways—I create them with enough finesse that it isn't obvious they're even dead. Daring's working theory (which I wholeheartedly endorse, given that Somnambula just sent the Besmirching Bell, one of Grogar's famed 'Knells of Hell' bells, to the depths of this chasm) is that Grogar is returning and some side effect of that process issuing from his bells is creating these infantile acts of undirected necromancy." (I should note here that those parentheticals were 'audible', so that sentence was not as evil in Sunset's mind as it would be if you tried to say it aloud; alas, that is not a skill I can easily teach in writing.) "Which is a long way of saying 'no'. That being said, until we know more about why he decided to cast first and ask questions later, I encourage keeping a healthy distance."

"Yeah, that was our plan. That just leaves us with the problem of how to get out." Sunset glanced up the tunnel toward the windigo's chasm. "Even if we teleport up to the surface, I don't want to risk going back to our airship if he might still be there. And we'll freeze if we try to walk to Stalliongrad from here."

"Ah. That I can help with."

"Oh?"

"I can get you a ride. It does come with a difficult condition, though: you can never tell Luna about it."

"Uh… deal?"

"We'll work on your skepticism. Do you mind if I drive?"

"Drive what?"

Sunset's head received a somewhat fraught sigh. "Your body."

"You can do that?"

"Only with your consent. Or… well, if we're being honest, that's 'I only will with your consent'. I just need to cast a spell."

"Oh, um… sure—but!"

"Yes?"

"While you're at it, can you bring Lt. Ink back?"

"You can't? Wait, did Celestia really send an inept necromancer… I'm sorry; that's rude of me. I'm not mad at you, I'm mad at her. Yes; even without most of my talent mark or my brain, I can do something that trivial. Shall I?"

"Um… go ahead," said Sunset. And then, in the very same voice, but with a very different affectation, she gave a rather prolonged foreleg stretch and said "Goodness, it's been a long time since I drove, hasn't it, Daring?"

"Mentor?" Daring asked.

When Sunset's head nodded, Daring stepped forward, and then abruptly threw a hard right hook at the unicorn's face. With martial arts skill that Sunset definitely did not possess, her own forehoof flew up, parrying the blow with ease. "Now Daring; it's not my face; that wouldn't be fair."

"You were just going to leave with like two words?" Daring Do asked, hurt in her voice. "You've been there since I was a filly."

Sunset chuckled and shook her head. "You've outgrown The Young Daring Do Adventures. And let's be honest, those books were schlock compared to what you've been turning out recently. You don't need me anymore. I have to go back to who I used to be, before I was a medallion. But assuming these idiots don't get me killed or broken, I'll come find you when I'm back to being me."

Even as 'she' spoke, Sunset's horn glowed with golden magic that swiftly enveloped Red Ink's body. After a moment, the stallion let out a groan and began to massage his neck—a pain which was not helped when Tempest, realizing that she now had a very conscious adult stallion straddling her back, forcibly threw him onto the tunnel floor. I won't bother transcribing the words that flowed out of his mouth in a stream of Stalliongradi here.

Shortly thereafter, a bolt from Sunset's horn flew up the tunnel and into the sky above the chasm, where instead of exploding like a firework, it began to thrum and pulse for a few long seconds before finally flickering out.

"Alright, Sunset; back to you." With a full body shiver, Sunset's body language got less refined and more befitting the body it was lingual of. "That was kind of unpleasant. Also, ow, Daring. My forehoof hurts."

"Sorry. I… forgot it wasn't him." Sheepishly, Daring scratched the back of her neck with a wing.

"I don't know how long it will take her to get here," said a voice in Sunset's head. "So you would be smart to find a way to kill some time. I can tell you where the other parts of me are, but that might be better delivered after we get somewhere safe. Ideally, somewhere with a chalkboard."

"It can wait. I'll get some reading done," said Sunset, conjuring Tales from her extra-dimensional storage pocket.

"Ah; a wise decision. Would you mind passing me to the others so we can talk?"

And so, as a great deal of discoveries began to be shared between the group, Sunset once more buried her muzzle in this tome.

10 - Procellarum

X

Procellarum

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

Blizzard was quite proud of what she'd put together for the family dinner. Wearing the pendant I had 'enchanted' for her, she had purchased all the ingredients herself, in addition to taking the lead on the preparation alongside the unlikeliest of companions, at least in her eyes: Queen Platinum I. Truly, that had been an unexpected triumph from the young mare; even if she didn't admit it to herself, she had been fearing that her step-grandmother's (quite justifiable) distaste for her father would rub off on the mare herself.

But Platinum, having no reason to see Blizzard as a political threat (unlike yours truly), had nothing but the highest kindness to share. Blizzard slipped into that oh-so-comfortable mentorly role, despite being by far the younger pony, as she quickly realized that a lifetime of rule had taught Platinum next to nothing about the craft of cooking (though, at least, she was not once more thrust into a motherly role with the older mare). As they worked, the pair bantered, shared a bottle of unicorn wine, and worked on a vast selection of little dumplings to go in a stew for the family's dinner.

When Hurricane, Typhoon, and Gale returned from a quiet trip to some undisclosed venue (if I know Hurricane, almost certainly a fishing trip on a nearby lake) to discuss the particulars of the soon-to-be-formed Royal Guard and its division of responsibilities with the Legion, they entered to the smell of rich vegetables, succulent beef (I… dislike that adjective, but memories pulled from the long dead sometimes have poor taste that must be tolerated), hearty bread, and a sweet dark red wine decanting on the table. The smell was so good, Gale almost bowled over Tempest (who had likewise returned from his patrols of the city) to get to a seat at the table. Hurricane and Typhoon were likewise slower, fulfilling the timeless tradition of placing Procellarum and Hiems Osculum respectively in the sword rack by the door before they entered to sit.

For Blizzard, it would certainly have been a perfect meal, if it were not for the knock on the door that came two bites in, just as she had finally seated herself beside her newfound friend in Queen Platinum.

"Are you expecting Morty?" Hurricane asked, glancing between Blizzard and Gale.

Both shook their heads; the latter added "I'm guessing since you're asking, it's not Pansy either?"

"Pan Sea; he's very…" Hurricane let his complaint trail off at Gale's grin. "I see you already know."

"I do," agreed Gale. "And I'll get it." Then, rather than standing up from her chair, she lit up her horn and popped over to the entryway.

Or at least, rather close. Gale's spell actually teleported her slightly above the stairs that forked the villa's entry hall, and with the expectation that she would be landing on flat ground, she immediately tumbled down three steps to land on her chin.

"Ow! Fuck!" As the room announced their concern (or in Tempest's case, filling in the role of honorary big brother, offered "Slick, Your Majesty"), Gale waved off their concerns. "I'm fine, I promise. I can take worse hits than that." And then, just as she was standing up, the door was hammered on again—three percussive strikes in what sounded to Gale like a shod hoof. After rising up fully, she opened the door.

The mare standing on the doorstep was clad in an outdated style of Legion armor, its trim painted white, and the skysteel helmet she had taken off to stow under her right wing was crested with a red plume; the symbols of the office of a Cirran Imperator—the right hoof of the Legion. Which stood at stark odds with the fact that Gale knew Typhoon's second-in-command, Imperator Phalanx, who was both a stallion and something like forty-five.

Gale frowned in vague recognition. "Uh… You're one of Cyclone's kids, right? Uh, fuck… The one with the weird name—Siro-something?"

"My name is Imperator Sirocco, Princess," Sirocco retorted with not especially concealed detest at the slight, if not for the mare herself. The comment was also quite loud enough the rest of the dining room heard, even if they could not see the speaker around the corner. "I'm here with a message from my Emperor, for Grandfather only. Is he here?"

Gale glanced around the corner, knowing she didn't need to repeat the question. Hurricane raised a brow in concern, and glanced briefly to his wife for approval as he nodded to one of the empty seats at the long dinner table. Platinum gave a small, hesitant nod, and only then did Hurricane speak. "Come on in, Sirocco; we're just sitting down to dinner. Blizzard actually made it for us."

Sirocco, being the pettiest of all possible petty bitches, pushed past Gale with a wing (still wearing wingblades, and so coming dangerously close to cutting the seated Queen of Equestria in the face) just so that she could make eye-contact with her elder half-sister before she answered the offer. "I won't eat anything that traitor's hooves have touched, Grandfather. But thank you for the offer." As the table winced, the burnt orange mare with her blue-fire mane continued before they had a chance to object aloud. "I have a message from Cyclone Haysar, and then I am to carry your reply back, and I do not have time to waste."

Hurricane sighed, and extended his one wing. When Sirocco handed him the wrapped letter Cyclone had written, though, he did not open it. Instead, it was set calmly on the table next to his stew. "You flew here from River Rock?" he asked. "Did you stop at all?"

"My orders were that the message was urgent," Sirocco answered. "And because I know what it says, I know it is the most urgent a message can be." Glancing around the room, she mysteriously added "It concerns Equestria's safety."

At that, Typhoon leaned forward and cocked a brow. "If it's a military matter, why did Cyclone send it to you, Dad? He knows you're retired, right?"

"He does. If I had to guess, it isn't a military matter, and it's between myself and Celestia."

Typhoon frowned. "You know, Dad, you said I was supposed to be responsible for this kind of thing. Twenty years ago. I don't really like you going behind my back, keeping secrets."

At that, Gale seized the momentum of the conversation by teleporting back to the side of the dining table that held her seat (this time, devoid of an awkward blunder, though she did wind up about a stride away from where she had intended), and added "Oh, now that I'm Queen, do I get to call him on this kind of vague secret bullshit too?"

Hurricane let out a scoff. "You're welcome to 'call me' all you want, Gale, but it isn't something you need to know." Glancing to Typhoon, he added "Either of you." And then, to Sirocco, he said "Sit down."

"I need to return—"

"You won't be serving your father if you die on the way back and my answer gets buried in a snowdrift somewhere," Hurricane interrupted forcefully. "And you're going to apologize to your sister for what you just said by eating the meal she's prepared. Take a seat."

"You're not my Commander."

"I'm your grandfather." Hurricane answered. Still, the granddaughter refused. And then, in a display of forcefulness he rarely used, the stallion's brow furrowed and his eyes locked with Siroccos. For the young mare, light seemed to drain from the room. The distance across the table from her seat to Hurricane's compressed with the subtle power of his magic, but he was strong enough that even the others at the dinner table felt it, weighing on their chests, gently tugging at breath. "Sit. Down."

Immediately, Sirocco fell into the open seat beside Gale. It took a second of blinking and a wing on her chest to catch her breath before she was finally able to refocus herself. "What—what kind of magic was that?"

Hurricane bluntly ignored the question, instead finally taking up Cyclone's letter and unfurling it. It read thusly:

Father,

I write to you so urgently because there is a griffon in River Rock.

He calls himself Artorius, son of Theod, and he claims you knew his father from your trip to Dioda with Celestia. He has come to me asking for refuge for his companions, who intend to flee Magnus like Cirra did.

I have concealed Equestria from the griffon, and told him you are dead and that River Rock and the Compact Lands are all that is left of Cirra; this way, if he is a spy for Magnus, or if Magnus does come, he will not be tempted to strike your shores. I do not want to reignite the Red Cloud War; if nothing else, I learned that from my mistakes.

I need three things from you; two are simply knowledge; the third will be harder.

Firstly, did you meet a griffon named Theod in your search for Luna? Was he truly a rebel against Magnus, as Artorius claims? And if so, is it wise for me to offer this band shelter, or is their presence likely to draw Magnus across the sea?

Second, if I must defend River Rock against griffons, how do you suggest I do so? I will consult with Thunder Hawk, since he is old enough to remember the Red Cloud War, but such old tactics seem unwise now that we have access to so many more soldiers with training in empatha—to say nothing of unicorns, if I am able to persuade Clover to join our cause in such a battle. I know I am not the most beloved of old soldiers to ask for training, but perhaps the desperation of this cause could convince my old teacher, Iron Rain, or some other of your veterans to come to River Rock discreetly and help me train what forces I retain.

Finally—and here, I know I ask a lot, but know that I am asking it ultimately to help Equestria and not myself—concealing Equestria from this griffon means that I have had to stop Equestrian ships from traveling up the Volgallop to River Rock's docks; I can't let merchants and travelers (ha - but then, consider Gale) give away your existence with an idle few words. However, I also can't hide the griffon locked up in the castle; that might give him reason to think I have something to hide. So now, and especially if I allow more griffons to come, we will need more food. Clover's negotiations are yielding some results, but we can't wait that long. I need you to somehow convince Equestria to send us more supplies.

It hurts me that I now cannot even ask you to come and see me, but know that I miss you and Typhoon every day. It was a joy to meet Gale; send her my best.

And give Blizzard my love; I fear she will not get it from Sirocco. I hope she is happy with you. And I have to ask you to protect her from what Luna has turned her mother into, now that she is beyond my reach.

- Cyclone

Hurricane set down the letter with a steel in his expression that his wife had quite literally never seen since before they were married. "Dear? Cane, what's wrong?"

"It's…" Glancing to Gale and Typhoon, the weathered old stallion sighed. "Gale, do you think you can pull off another miracle with the Stable?"

"Uh…" Immediately, Gale's near-constant confidence faded. "Depends?"

"River Rock needs more food. Cyclone is making a major sacrifice for Equestria; one we'll discuss later. The problem is, you won't be able to explain that part to anypony outside this room."

Gale cocked her head, then glanced to her mom. "That's… actually fucking impossible, right? Like, even you couldn't do that?"

Platinum nodded. "The saying goes that nothing is impossible in court. But for that request I would make an exception." Although Gale had asked, and Platinum's words still referred to her at least in pretense, she pointed her eyes at Hurricane. "To say nothing of your grandfather, the rebellion killed both Grand Duchess Chrysoprase's foals; she will never agree to support him, and without her support, you might get all of three unicorn votes in Parliament… but if I were a betting mare, I'd wager what you just suggested would receive the first unanimous vote in Equestrian history—you couldn't get a single earth pony, unicorn, or pegasus to stand up for Cyclone on good will alone. And if I'm being honest: it would do a great deal of harm to your rule to even try."

"So we starve? Because we're Cyclone's foals?" Sirocco spat in the still untouched food she had been offered, and then glared at its chef. "Do they hate you, Blizzard? Or did you disown us?"

Wilting into her mane and her hunched up wings, Blizzard answered "I… I haven't told anypony…"

"Nor should she have to," Platinum added firmly, raising herself up to her most firm parental posture (not that it had really ever worked on Gale). "Cyclone and his followers were exiled, but that sentence has no business applying to foals who weren't even born at the time of the uprising. Neither of you bear his mistakes."

"So we're allowed to abandon our families, but you'd never stoop to something horrible like giving us food? I have to spit in my father's face if I want to live?"

Platinum winced. "I never said—"

"You never say any of it. It's obvious enough without talking. Grandfather's come to see us, what, twice—ever? And I know you—" (here, she pointed to Gale) "—had to run away for the chance. Was the food good when you had your little fight with Morty, and he almost killed Father? I doubt you even thought about how much that set us back."

(Quietly, to her husband, Platinum whispered "Morty almost killed Cyclone?" Hurricane frowned at the admiration in her voice, and after a moment of self-awareness that she'd said that about me, Platinum refocused herself on the conversation elsewhere at the table.)

"And Aunt Typhoon? Nice to meet you for the first time, by the way. You all have your excuses, but at the end of the day, it's all the same; you don't want to see what's really happening in River Rock, because if you did, you'd have to admit to yourselves that you hate Father so much, you want us all to die."

"Sirocco!" Blizzard snapped. "That's completely wrong! The ponies here are so kind, so helpful… you can't say that sort of thing about them!"

"Really? You want to take that bet, 'sister'?" Siroco stood, plucked up her helmet to tuck it under her wing, and turned toward the door. "Come on. Let's tell the first pony we see on the street who we both really are, and we'll see how they react. You want to take that bet?"

With a pop, Gale appeared in the entryway, blocking Sirocco's exit. "The fuck you will. You want to go outside, I'll be glad to buck your teeth down your throat."

"Gale," Hurricane chided. "There's no need for violence."

"Isn't there?" Sirocco retorted, despite not breaking fierce eye contact with Gale. "It seems like destiny that I'd fight a unicorn queen. Think you'll fare better than your grandpa?"

Queen Platinum cringed, and moved to intercept the duo, but was stopped by her husband's wing. The one-winged stallion sighed. "There won't be violence between family here, Sirocco. I can see you have strong opinions, and some of them are fair. I'm going to ask you to come up to my office with me so that I can write your father a reply, and then we'll all go our separate ways quietly. Is that acceptable?"

"Whatever you want, sir. I have my orders. But for the record; we're not a family."

In those words, something snapped in Hurricane. With a placid expression, the old stallion eased himself out from between the table and his chair, putting heavy weight into his braced bad foreleg, until he finally arrived to stand alongside Sirocco and Gale at the door of the villa. There, he fixed his granddaughter with a stony gaze beneath a furrowed brow. "I know Cyclone didn't teach you that. I understand you feel abandoned, but we have tried to make you welcome in this home, and time and time again you've thrown it back in our faces. What do I need to do to convince you that we are still a family? That Blizzard is still your sister?"

"I think I made it pretty clear," Sirocco answered. "She can own up to Father, or we can disown her for the traitor and the coward she is. Go ahead and write your letter, Grandfather; I'll be outside introducing myself to the 'locals'." Reaching a wing across her chest, she rested her leading feathers on the sheath of her gladius. "Unless one of you wants to stop me."

At that, Typhoon rose firmly in her seat. "I used to spar with your father. I can deal with this without either of us getting hurt."

"Typhoon, do you mind?" Gale asked. When Typhoon raised a brow, the mare who I will remind you was the seated queen of the unicorns rolled her neck, eliciting two audible pops. "I think this will go over really well with my… what's the earth pony term? 'Constituency'?"

"No," Hurricane said with a sigh. And then, to the surprise of everypony present, the old stallion reached his one remaining wing up, and plucked his sword, Procellarum, from the rack by the door.

"You're joking," said Sirocco.

"I wish I were," answered Hurricane. "But if all you are going to understand is violence, I won't make Blizzard suffer for it. Sirocco, let's step outside."

"What?" Gale gasped out. "Dad, um—"

"I really have to insist you let me handle this," said Typhoon. "You haven't seen combat in twenty years, and your body isn't what it used to be."

As the door to the villa swung open and Sirocco stepped outside, Hurricane shook his head. "She won't hurt me."

"'Cane, I am not certain I share your optimism." Queen Platinum rushed over to the group that had huddled at the door. "She's made it quite clear she doesn't have any fondness for you. Perhaps we should let Typhoon—"

"This isn't Typhoon's fault," Hurricane replied. "I raised Cyclone, so some of this is on my shoulders. And I promise, nopony is going to get hurt."

"Uh, Grandpa, if you really think nopony's going to get hurt, why'd you grab your sword?" Tempest asked.

In a staggering reflection of something I would say completely unironically, Hurricane let out a small hint of a cocky grin and replied "Because if I just used my magic, I'd kill her."

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

The venue Hurricane chose was a long patch of his lawn behind the Villa, right up on the riverbank (albeit well above the level of the water, where stone bricks had shored up the river's edges to control flooding). Instead of the hops and barley and Cirran grains ubiquitous in the front of the house, the back yard was largely grass and meadow flowers, unchanged from the wildlife that had been present before Everfree was built up.

There, Hurricane and Sirocco stood, a dozen paces apart. Each had their sword sheathed; Sirocco rested her leading feathers on the hilt, ready for a Cirran leading slash—the art of flicking the blade out of its scabbard far enough that the head could reach over and grab the hilt, then twist back into position in a slashing motion, since drawing from a fully sheathed position with the mouth meant craning one's neck far further, and exposing one's throat for a solid several seconds.

Hurricane, by contrast, wore Procellarum beneath his one remaining wing, making it functionally inaccessible to such a tactic. Its amethyst-set guard in the shape of a thin '+' and its braid-wrapped hilt were all that could be seen of the legendary weapon.

Off to Hurricane's left and Sirocco's right, on the house's veranda, the other members of the Stormblade family (for whom Hurricane' sword was collectively named) watched in varying states of concern and outright panic.

"Is he going to be okay?" Platinum asked the group at large. "I know everypony says he has so much magic because he bucks lightning, but…"

Gale shook her head. "I think we need to do something; those stories are bullshit. I can teleport him away if she gets in too close."

"Dad should be alright," Typhoon interrupted. "You give him too little credit, Gale. The old stories are true. I watched him him buck lightning when we were fighting Halite and the crystals. He might not be in as good of shape as somepony like Iron Rain, but he was always a competent swordstallion."

"Twenty years ago," Gale countered. "Back when he had six working limbs, and he didn't bitch about his back and his shoulders all the time. This is insane. This is stupid. And this bitch is actually going to kill him if somepony doesn't do something."

"We don't know how good Sirocco is, either." Typhoon noted. "Somepony that young doesn't often have strong memories to build powerful magic on."

"Yeah, it would be a shame if we had an example of somepony who was literally an elemental prodigy at about exactly that age, and—oh, wait, it's fucking you."

"I wasn't that strong with my magic until after Cyclone's uprising," Typhoon countered, before bitingly adding "As you well know."

Though the words hit home, they only gave an opening for the elder Platinum to speak up. "Would you say emotions like the rejection and spite she was describing earlier would be a source for that kind of magic?"

Swallowing heavily, Typhoon offered a single nod. "Not like what I have now, but… enough."

And in that very moment, Sirocco drew her blade and charged forward.

Hurricane, it seemed, had grown slower in his old age. Even as she closed to ten strides, nine, eight, he still did not so much as move to draw his sword. "Dad!" Gale screamed, and her horn lit up, but by seven strides it seemed obvious he was acting purposefully in restraint.

Seven strides.

Six. Five.

And then at four, Hurricane extended his wing—not toward Sirocco, but straight out to his side. When he did, a squall of wind rose up to tussle his well kept mane and ruffle the feathers on his wing.

Three strides, and Sirocco stopped with a metallic clang!

Nopony had seen Procellarum move; one moment it had been in Hurricane's scabbard. The next, it was halting Sirocco's advance, its profile pushing back against her standard-issue gladius' blade. But most notably, Hurricane had not moved. His sword had, apparently, moved under its own power. There was no aura of unicorn magic on its handle, no slight audible thrum of arcane power, and the blade was not so steadily held, instead bobbing and almost rolling on the gentle breeze of the riverbank that summer day. But for every other conceivable purpose, it seemed Hurricane had a hidden horn somewhere, and had drawn his blade via telekinesis.

The sudden motion took Sirocco by just as much surprise as it did the watchers, and in the moment it took her to register what had happened, Hurricane did flick his wing toward her. The ensuing gale, catching the mare's half-extended wings, was enough to flip her hooves over head and deposit her spine-down on the grass very nearly back where she had started. A moment later, with a swish, her sword stuck blade down into the dirt, a leg's reach away.

When Sirocco reached for the sword, there was a sound something like a whistle and something like a crack of lightning as Procellarum moved again. The hole in its blade seemed to be the source of the former sound, while the latter came no doubt from the frightening, barely visible speed of its motion. This time, its flat came down on her exposed foreleg, concluding the array of odd noises with a punctuating thwap—and depositing a small makeshift manacle of pure ice to arrest her motion.

Curling up her face in some mixture of petty frustration and genuine rage, Sirocco's foreleg burst into flame—but even with the full force of her magic, it was obvious that she struggled to break the simple band of frost Hurricane had made from several strides away. When the ice finally cracked, she lunged for her sword again. And this time, neither Hurricane nor his flying sword made any motion to stop her.

Sirocco took a moment with the sword in her mouth to steel herself, though the flames on her legs and wings did not falter. Then, without another word, she flung herself at her grandfather again.

Hurricane, it seemed, had grown tired; his wing sagged and a heavy breath escaped his nostrils. But the stallion's piercing eyes, that magenta bordering on true red, focused intently on his granddaughter. And with one last flick of his wing, Procellarum outsped Sirocco, flying right over her shoulder point first toward Hurricane. And then, with a hiss less like steel into a scabbard, and more like hot metal plunged into water, the blade was sheathed at his side.

A moment later, Sirocco's blade caught Hurricane's throat. The sound that rang out over the little stretch of grass by the river was steel ringing on stone. Sirocco was flabbergasted for a moment at her failure, then pushed harder, as if the motion had any hope of victory.

Hurricane sighed, lifted the more functional of his two forelegs, and pushed the blade away from his neck. That little motion, it seemed, was enough to make Sirocco accept reality—no rage left her eyes, but the fire was tempered by the realization of defeat, and with another nudge, she let her blade drop from her teeth to clatter on the ground.

"Why?" she snarled at her grandfather. "Why do you care so much about her, but let us starve and—" Sirocco's words ended abruptly when the same hoof Hurricane had used to push aside her blade touched her chin, gently raising her gaze to meet him eye-to-eye.

Hurricane didn't say anything, but everypony watching could tell something had happened. It wasn't the strange cold pressure he had occasionally exuded against misbehavior from younger ponies (myself included) that made one's breath catch in their throat and seemed to drain the color from the world. This was… deeper, somehow. More personal.

But the effect was much the same.

Immediately, the fires across Sirocco's body went out. Shortly after, she collapsed alongside her sword at her grandfather's forehooves, and wept. Despite the proclivity of her magic, tendrils of hoarfrost spread from her feathers onto the surrounding green. And, though nopony watching could hear the conversation they shared, we have the advantage of magic to fill in the quiet words they offered.

"What… was that?"

"The strongest magic we have," Hurricane answered. "Empathy."

"I'm too old for stupid fairytales."

"I'm serious," Hurricane replied. "The strongest magic a pegasus can wield isn't catching on fire or bucking lightning or changing the weather; it's making somepony else feel what you're feeling. Even at its most basic—when I ordered you to sit at the dinner table, using just fear and a harsh stare—settles conflict before swords are drawn."

"Your fear? What the Hell could you possibly be afraid of, with magic like that?"

Hurricane answered with a long hard stare at the eastern horizon. "Iniquitatem patrum."

"Uh, what? My old Cirran's useful, but…"

"It means 'sins of the father'. It's from Mobius' holy book; my dad used to worry about it… That was before I knew… well, a lot of things."

"Dad always said you didn't believe in the old gods anymore. Because of the war."

Hurricane chuckled. "Oh, no, I believe in them. I've met more than my share. I just don't worship them anymore." And then, with unprecedented spite, more to himself than his granddaughter, Hurricane added "They don't deserve it."

Silence hung between the two ponies, before Hurricane realized that questions were likely to follow; questions he had no interest in answering. And so he picked up where he had trailed off. "As for what I shared with you: that's everything a lifetime has taught me about family. I knew I couldn't show you just by talking. Words failed. Swords failed. But this is the truth. I love Blizzard, and I love you, because you're family. And family is everything."

"Why is it so sad?"

"Because I learned that lesson the hardest way a pony can." With obvious physical pain, in spite of his wounded knee and general arthritis, Hurricane lowered himself to sit on the grass facing Sirocco. "When I was your age, I respected my father, but I also resented him. His weird tendency to keep secrets, his quotes from the old scriptures. Because he'd been crippled in the war, I ran our farm. While all my friends were out playing, I sweated in the fields. My mother, rest her soul, could at least help, but she was hardly a young mare. And my sister, Twister, was useless; sometimes I really hated her running around chasing colts and playing tricks while I was working." Swallowing to make sure his emotions did not ruin his words, Hurricane concluded "I never got a chance to say goodbye. While I was fighting the war… running the war, if you want to call it that, the griffons came for them. Twister, at least, survived. But…" Hurricane's eyes ran away from his granddaughter. "I hardly need to tell you what happened with your father, and Swift, do I?"

Sirocco shook her head.

"It was everything I could do to get Platinum to spare his life—and truth be told, I only did it at the time because it was Swift's dying wish. I think, deep down inside, I hated Cyclone. Hated him like you feel now. But… that dying wish was the kindest thing Swift ever did for me. I don't know how I'd have faced myself in the mirror all these years if I had chosen differently.

"When you lose family, whether they pass too soon or you cast them away yourself, it scars you. It tears up something inside… your soul, if you want to call it that." (Hurricane was more right than he knew.) "I agreed to fight because I needed to know if you'd really follow through. If you'd fight your own grandfather because there was something deep hurt in your own soul, or if it was just…" The aged stallion let out a chuckle as his words briefly failed him, and then concluded "Just piss and vinegar. Like Gale."

"So now what? Now that you know? I… I tried to kill you."

"I noticed," Hurricane replied, massaging the (no longer petrified) front of his throat idly with his wing. "I won't take it personally, as long as you don't try again."

"You're just going to let me go back to River Rock?"

Hurricane smiled. "Well, now, I didn't say that. Come on, let's talk to the others. I hate repeating myself." Then, with a sigh, the aged soldier began the rather laborious process of standing up. After fumbling with his braced knee, he looked to Sirocco again. "Can you lend me a hoof?"

"Sure," Sirocco answered, offering both a leg and a wing to her grandfather after she hopped to her hooves. "But can't you just use your magic to get up? The wind you could control was incredible; I'm sure you could lift yourself. Hell, you could probably fly, even with one wing."

"It's bad for my heart," Hurricane answered, putting quite a lot of weight onto his granddaughter as he slowly got back to his hooves. "And it's exhausting. Worth it for family, but not for silly stunts."

To Hurricane's mercy, when he turned his attention to his wife and two daughters, they seemed to take the hint, and headed across the lawn to meet him before he had to walk too far on his apparently shot legs.

"Dad," began Gale, the youngest and thus quickest of the trio to arrive. "What the actual fuck was that? Everypony I asked my whole life said all those stories about you were overblown, and then you turn around and make your sword fly on its own faster than anypony can even see? You're a total badass!"

Hurricane rolled his eyes at his youngest foal. "I'm not interested in being a 'badass', Gale. I'm a tired old stallion who just wants to spend the end of his life with his family." As Tempest, Blizzard, Typhoon, and ultimately Platinum arrived, he smiled and nodded to each of them in turn. "Make a big deal about your skill with a sword or magic, and you wind up with young ponies knocking on your door, demanding you teach them. I understand Iron Rain has had problems like that for years with a certain pestering unicorn filly."

Typhoon nodded. "You're right, Dad, but I feel I do have to ask for the sake of the Legion: when did you learn that kind of power? I know you have a wing memory, but that's something different altogether. You certainly didn't have that kind of magic back when we were dealing with Cyclone' surprising. And can you teach me, so I can pass it on?"

"I learned from Celestia, after Vow's monsters cost me my wing." Hurricane looked mournfully back at his scarred side. "And I won't teach you."

"Dad?" The single word was full of Typhoon's worry as well as her confusion, and Hurricane let it hang in the air for a very long time.

In fact, it took Typhoon a moment to realize her father had stopped not for effect, but because he was still exhausted from the effort of his confrontation. In his moment of hesitance, Blizzard stepped over to his side and gently braced the stallion; the motion earned her a glare from her younger half-sister, but neither spoke a word.

"Thanks, Blizzard." Then, leaning against his granddaughter, Hurricane sat down on the grass. "There is a way to use a wing memory for more powerful magic than even what you or I can naturally do, Typhoon. But it consumes the wing memory."

"Wouldn't I want that?" Typhoon asked suddenly. "Dad, I of all ponies would want to get rid of—" Ever the root of discipline, Typhoon's words stopped abruptly when her father shook his head.

"If I could spare you what you went through, Typhoon, I would have taught you twenty years ago. This isn't that. A wing memory is a part of you. A defining part. Ripping it out and using even a part of it to power your magic… as Celestia put it, it hurts your soul. You lose the ability to feel that emotion—not just from your wing memory, but from anything. Not only would you lose your magic, you'd lose part of your identity. Your other emotions sweep in and replace it; you get more unpredictable, more spiteful. And the damage is permanent; even into the Great Skies."

After a fairly long silence, Gale muttered "Holy shit… and you just used that to show off kicking this bitch's ass?"

"I used a fraction of a moment of that power to help Sirocco understand the importance of family, Gale, yes." Hurricane accompanied that correction with a very stern glare at Equestria's queen. "It cost me the joy of a memory; coming home to Swift Spear after the dragon campaign."

"Dad!" Typhoon declared in worry, wincing; but when she moved to embrace him, Hurricane held her at wing's distance.

"I did it in her memory," Hurricane answered sadly. "She would have wanted me to make peace in our family. And I have lots of good memories left. Now, I'm more concerned with making sure River Rock doesn't starve tomorrow."

"I thought you said it was hopeless," Sirocco grumbled, glaring at Platinum.

"No; she only said we couldn't get the crowns to help." Hurricane laboriously lifted a foreleg to place it on Sirocco's armored shoulder. "But one advantage of retirement is that I don't have to care about my reputation anymore. I have friends in low places, and a lot of old debts I can call on. What I'll need is the assistance of somepony young and spirited, and who can haul my sorry flanks on a chariot when it comes to that."

"I…" Sirocco's mind caught up with the words, and she pulled her neck away from her grandfather's reach. "My orders are—"

Hurricane hurriedly interrupted her. "Blizzard, this is where I have to turn to you. And Tempest, if the Legion can spare you." That comment, he directed at Typhoon, rather than the young stallion.

Typhoon frowned. "I can get you a different scout, Dad; Tempest only just got back from chasing Gale and Coil there and back."

"I know you have better fliers," Hurricane countered. "This isn't about speed; I need discretion. I don't want a loyalty problem in the Legion. This needs to stay in the family."

"It's that important?" Typhoon pressed her father. "You don't trust me to send a loyal scout?"

Hurricane sighed, and then nodded. Worriedly, he glanced around the group—at first, it seemed he was scanning his family's eyes, though it soon became clear when he looked up that he was more concerned with anypony behind or around them. Finally, satisfied, he uttered a short sentence that stole all thoughts of magic and violence and family and inter-Equestrian politics from the minds of those present. "There is a griffon scout in River Rock."

The first pony to find her hoofing from that shock was the elder Platinum. "Dear… surely you don't mean you're worried about war? It's been, what, forty years?"

"Enough time for a new generation of griffons to grow up," Hurricane answered. "They grow much more slowly than we do. I don't know if that's the reason for the timing. But Cyclone has made a monumental sacrifice for Equestria. He has led this scout to believe that he is all that remains of Cirra."

"Time out, time out," Gale insisted. "How do we know Magnus even still wants to carry on the war? And for that matter, are we even still afraid of him? We've got two gods of our own now. And for all I know, Morty can just walk up and—"

"Gale, one gods-damned time will you stop contradicting every word I say?!" Hurricane snapped, fire (literally) in his eyes. "You have no idea what war is like. Real, inescapable, bloody war. You grew up in a world where all the stories you hear are me and Iron Rain and Pathfinder and who knows who else—and I'm damn glad everything we lost could buy you that—but war isn't about 'heroes'. It's about the thousands of average ponies who don't rise to glory. It's a sticky, boring, heartbreaking slaughter. Ponies die; they burn to death or bleed out and you have to watch and hold them and tell them bullshit stories about how you'll spread out their wings so they can rise up and fly off to the Great Skies, even though one of them is lying ten yards over that way! And all that slaughter is so the so-called 'gods' can indulge petty squabbles and settle arguments that predate every country you've ever heard of! Do you understand? I won't let you throw away the peace of Equestria for those half-baked stories!"

When Gale wilted back, Hurricane saw genuine fear in his daughter's eyes, and immediately, his expression fell into a mire of shame. But the words had been said. Gale, for perhaps the first time in her life, was cowed back out of a deep shame that tore up her very image of the world, and after offering her father a slow apologetic nod, she retreated from the circle of her family.

"Gale!" Hurricane called, but the damage was done. After a wince, he glanced to his wife, who nodded and moved after the young mare.

Which left Hurricane surrounded only by his pegasus family.

"Typhoon… you know I can't ask you to get involved in this."

"I know…" The pegasus leader hesitated. "But… if there's anything I can do—"

Hurricane nodded. "If it comes to that, I know I can call on you."

Typhoon then followed Gale and Platinum away from the surreptitious discussion in the middle of Hurricane's wide-open lawn, leaving Tempest, Blizzard, and Sirocco huddled around their grandfather.

"Tempest, Blizzard, to be completely clear, I want you two to deliver my answer back to Cyclone."

"You… want me to leave?" Blizzard asked with a wince.

"I'll make it very clear your father is to let you come back," Hurricane answered. "And if it's a problem, I can always send Morty after you." That comment put a grin on Blizzard's face, and she gave Hurricane a firm nod. "I'm going to see if I can talk Iron Rain into going with you. She'll complain the whole way about helping Cyclone, I'm sure, but once she understands what's at stake I'm sure I can convince her."

Tempest cocked his head. "No offense, but even if she's huge, she's kinda past her prime too, right? What's Rain going to do?"

"As I understand it, Cyclone's forces aren't as magically gifted as we are here in Equestria. If he winds up having to fight the griffons, it'll be with the old Cirran tactics. And in that domain, Rain has me bested. Also, Cyclone told the griffon I was dead, so I can't go myself."

"Huh. Wish he'd said I was dead," Tempest muttered. "This is the last time I'm flying to River Rock for a year, okay? It was bad enough chasing Gale the first time."

Hurricane nodded. "My apologies."

"What about me?" asked Sirocco.

"Hmm? Oh, well, I don't think I can talk Pan Sea out of retirement. So you're going to have to be my new Auditoris."

"I'm not a secretary."

Hurricane rolled his eyes and pointedly looked away from Sirocco, letting his eyes flit between his other present grandfoals. "Is this how ponies get curmudgeonly? Here I am, proposing calling in old favors and going behind my daughters' backs and getting involved in organized crime if I have to, all for the sake of making sure my son and his city are fed, as was requested, and I have to put up with the fact that it isn't violent enough? Foals these days…"

"I'll trade with her," offered Tempest, but this time, it was Sirocco who aggressively shot down the offer.

Hurricane bore a small smile at the exchange, before his mind drifted back to his youngest daughter.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

"You know he means well, right?" Platinum asked, when she found Gale in the kitchen, holding a thick mug full of tea in her magic (despite the house having plenty of proper teacups, I never once saw Gale willingly take the beverage in so small a quantity). "He'd never hurt you. I'm sure the fire was just because he'd been dealing with Sirocco."

"I know," Gale muttered to her mother, staring down into the steam of her drink. "It's not that. It's just…" The young queen seemed to expect her mother to offer another guess, but the elder Platinum remained silent, waiting for her daughter to finish the thought. "Well, it's a lot of things. Part of it is seeing Dad do that crazy magic and wondering if all those stories about him really are true, then why would he never talk about it? What was he ashamed of? And I guess he pretty much told me. But… I don't know."

"I'm certain you do if you think," Platinum prompted. "And finding the words might help."

Gale let out a scoffing noise, and then sipped a bit of her drink. "There's two things. The first is I'm worried you were right."

"Hmm?" prompted Platinum.

"A while ago, when you were talking to me about who I could trust, remember? Over breakfast. And I thought it was total bullshit when you said I couldn't trust dad. But you made a big deal that he knew what the… what's the fucking… the Cruel Mirror. Sorry, that he knew what it meant to look in the cruel mirror or whatever. And I blew you off."

"It was a difficult morning," Platinum admitted.

Gale shrugged. "Yeah, but you were right. I think today is just the first day I ever saw it. Like… I feel like I saw a little bit of 'Commander Hurricane' that everypony else talks about. And it's… it feels wrong."

"Why?" Platinum asked. "I would think it would mean you could sympathize with him more, given your current situation."

"But I don't know him," Gale muttered. "At all. My whole life he bums around downplaying everything he's ever done and spending all his time on his stupid beer and family-this, family-that… and then Sirocco shows up and immediately he makes a huge show of it for her." Then, with a sigh, she shook her head. "I probably sound like a whiny fucking filly, don't I?"

Slowly, Platinum dared to sit down beside her daughter, and to wrap a foreleg around her shoulders. "There have been a number of our interactions recently where I would say you've been… petulant, shall we say? But no; I don't think you're wrong to feel the way you do. That being said, I also have the benefit of wisdom, and age, to know at least some of what your father has lived through. You brought up the Cruel Mirror; consider that from your father's perspective."

"What do you mean?"

"'Commander Hurricane', as you put it, is his Queen, right?" Gale nodded, and Platinum continued "That's the pony your father had to become to protect and lead the pegasi. And think about what being Commander Hurricane cost him."

"What, his wing?"

"His son," Platinum answered, with a wince. "And I daresay his relationship with both your half-siblings, even before the rebellion. Have you spoken to Typhoon about her foalhood?"

"A little," Gale answered with a frown, before taking another sip of her tea. "Probably not enough."

"Hurricane wasn't there for either of them growing up," Platinum explained. "Because Commander Hurricane was constantly in the field, fighting off crystals and dragons and bandits and Celestia knows what else. When he wasn't there, he was dealing with my father, or the Cirran senate, or whatever else the day called for. Consider how he views the Cruel Mirror."

Gale sighed. "You're saying he had it even worse than you or me?"

"Not just that," Platinum elaborated. "Your father hates what he sees in the mirror. You remember that I warned you: if you let her, 'the Queen' would consume you? That's very nearly happened to your father. I admit, I don't need to imagine to say that; he's told me as much, in blunter words. When you think about his regrets from being 'the Commander', everything about the way he is now falls into place."

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess so. I just… It hurts that he keeps so much of this shit secret."

"You want to hear what he's ashamed of? Even though it hurts him?"

"I want to know my fucking dad. Not other ponies' made up stories. Though after today, it seems like more of them were true than I thought." After leaving that thought lingering for a very long few seconds, Gale's attention was stolen when Typhoon slipped into the kitchen.

"You okay, Gale? I know Dad can be intense, but he means well."

"Yeah, I know." Gale blew once on her tea remaining tea, then pounded it back like it was a mixed double-shot at a bar, including flipping the mug that had held the liquid over and putting it down on the countertop upside down. "I'll be okay about that. But now, I guess I need to talk to you as Commander Typhoon."

"Politics? Gale, are you up for that?"

In a response that made both Typhoon and Platinum wince, Gale uncharacteristically corrected "Queen Platinum." Seeing the effect the uncharacteristic insistence had produced on her family, she then added "Look, I'm fucking fine. You're the ones who wanted these rules… though it pisses me off that I'm starting to think they're right."

The cursing calmed Typhoon's concerns, and her worry lifted, if only to her usual state of ice severity. "Alright, Your Majesty. Your thoughts?"

"I hope you both know that I don't want Equestria to be in a war, despite what Dad snapped at me. But I do want to be realistic about this griffon."

"What do you mean by 'being realistic'?" Typhoon asked.

"Equestria isn't a small country. I'm pretty damn sure we're already bigger than Cirra ever was on Dioda, and we're a lot bigger than the old Diamond Kingdoms. We can't hide from Magnus forever."

Platinum gave a firm nod; Typhoon's response was more hesitant.

"So when I say 'being realistic', I mean that letting Cyclone and Dad handle this is stupid. If Magnus does want to continue the Red Cloud War, Cyclone's bluff can buy us time, but it's not like Magnus is an idiot. That was my point about the gods. I don't want to start a fight, but if the griffons are coming back for blood…"

"Let me worry about that," Typhoon noted. "You aren't wrong, Your Majesty, but Equestria's military defense is my responsibility."

Gale nodded. "Good enough for me."

Platinum steeped her hooves and gently asked "What if he doesn't want war?"

"What?" Typhoon glared—actively, spitefully glared. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that there are still very strong feelings about the griffons amongst the older pegasi in Equestria." Platinum glanced to her daughter. "But Equestria isn't Cirra. I admit, I haven't studied Cirra's wars as well as you two likely have, nor am I a student of war in general, but if Gale is right and this 'Emperor Magnus' can't fight Equestria—or simply isn't interested in more bloodshed—what is our response? Do we trade with the griffons? Do we sign some kind of treaty?"

Typhoon's look at Platinum only hardened further. "Did Dad ever tell you what happened when he tried to offer Magnus surrender?" When the elder statesmare shook her head, Typhoon donned a sort of sick grin at the corner of his her mouth (though her eyes still carried all her racial fury). "Magnus sent back the messenger's head in a box."

"Then perhaps Morty right be the right choice for dealing with him after all," Gale, in my defense, frowned at that, but it did break the tension in the room. "I'm not telling you what to do in such a circumstance. Remember; I'm not the queen anymore. I'm not telling either of you to do anything. I'm merely pointing out that, as long as you are considering an inevitable future—and for the record, Your Majesty, you were right to bring up the issue; well observed—we shouldn't be caught flat-hoofed if Magnus sees the same reality that we do. And in that event, we need to be sure that nopony on our side decides to ignite a new war."

Perhaps it is telling that, in response to that height of wisdom, from one of the greatest statesmares Equestria has ever known, Commander Typhoon responded in Cirran. "Si vis pacem, para bellum."

11-1 Hollow Hearts

XI

Hollow Hearts

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

XI - I

Of Scarves and Spoilers

"That seems like an awfully large course of study," I noted, looking at the list Vow had scrawled onto a piece of parchment at the table in my living room (awkwardly, slowly sounding out the letters to get through words much larger than I had yet reached in my lessons with Diadem). "You do remember I'm supposed to be helping Gale, right? And studying with Celestia? And Diadem?"

"I know," Vow agreed with a grin on his wooden face. "But I've got a secret for that. Do you think I knew everything I needed to slip into noble society when I left Wintershimmer and came to Everfree?"

I shrugged. "You were older than me when you left Wintershimmer, weren't you?"

That earned a nod. "But it's not as if he was waiting on your twenty-first birthday to teach you social graces. Wintershimmer had a lot of flaws, but if he ever had one virtue, it was that he had strong character."

I cocked my own head at that, and felt my ears spring up in curiosity. "We're talking about the same old crotchety wizard, right? Maiming ponies who got in his way in the halls?"

"I didn't say it was a good character," Vow noted. "I said it was strong. Meaning, he was exactly the same kind of pony no matter who he was interacting with. That pony might have been spiteful and evil, but he was reliable. And if he had any diplomacy or tact to offer when he was our age in River Rock, he'd certainly already cast them aside by the time I was his apprentice, to say nothing of your tutelage." Vow then chuckled, and gestured up the grand stairs with a ponyquin's wooden foreleg. "Which is to say, sir, I had to teach myself. And just like you find yourself now, my time was limited. But there was something Wintershimmer taught me that helped a great deal with that problem." As I began climbing the stairs, Vow added "The north hall there, but it's a hidden door. I'm right behind you."

Though I followed Vow's direction, I did pause at the top of the stairs with a curiosity: you may recall that amongst the dusty, weathered features of the house was a massive oil painting above the stairs, directly opposite the front door that had been covered in a great white sheet. In the days since his reanimation, Vow and Angel had made a great effort of cleaning the old home (even if it left many of the rooms completely empty as I hadn't yet started seances to bring in more funds). However, with so much dust, mold, and rot thrown out, and the finer wooden and glass pieces of Vow's furniture cleaned and polished, the white sheet over the painting remained. All I could see of the artwork was Vow himself (not wooden at the time of painting) in the upper corner, where one bit of the sheet had sagged. Thinking nothing particular of it, I grabbed onto the sheet with my teeth and yanked.

"No!" Vow shouted, but the word came too late; in a great puff of dust, I was rendered briefly blind and found myself coughing heavily.

"Ugh…" I managed between hacking and wheezing. "Sorry; I… I didn't think there'd be so much dust. I can… help you and Angel get that cleaned up."

Vow, however, did not seem especially concerned with the dust I'd deposited on the fine wooden staircase, instead fumbling desperately (and rather in vain, without a horn to reach up to the top of the painting) to put the sheet back up.

"What's wrong?"

And then I saw the subject of the painting.

It was a rather beautiful family portrait; you've probably seen the type. A proud father (or the mother, if taller) upright in the background. A seated mother, holding a foal. All three clad in their finest clothing.

Vow, of course, stood in the background—hence his appearance in the corner of the painting. But stunning to me were the other ponies, because I recognized both.

The seated mare was a younger Typhoon. And the foal she held was, though I hardly recognized him save for his coloration, Tempest.

"You're Tempest's dad?" I asked.

Despite a featureless wooden face, Vow managed to wince—even as he fervently shook his head in denial. "No, no. I… Morty, this is very complicated. And if there's anything I regret about the pony I was in life, it's how I hurt Typhoon."

I heard the sound of Vow drawing in a breath—which, given he had no real lungs, I knew was a sign of his emotional state and nothing else— and so I chose to interrupt. "Don't, Vow. I'm not here to rehash your life or… judge your sins or whatever you might call it. If you would rather not discuss it, I understand."

With audible surprise accompanying his gratitude, Vow first said "Thank you." He then added "How did you learn to… I mean, Wintershimmer didn't make you like that? Did he?"

I chuckled. "He did, accidentally. And if I'm being honest, it was a pebble in his shoes for the rest of his life. When you were a foal, did he tell you stories about King Ardor and the Knights of Canterlot?"

As I asked that question, I continued up the stairs, and Vow proceeded down the hall until he reached a much less controversial painting of an hourglass—notable only for the fact that the sands in the glass were flowing upwards, in defiance of gravity; and even then it was just an artistic stroke in a placeholder piece of wall art.

To my surprise, after removing the picture, Vow pulled back his hoof and punched straight through the rather elegant wallpaper. And so, as we spoke, we both proceeded to rip apart the beautiful wall.

"Those foals' stories?" Vow asked once we'd gotten properly started. "No; I was already too old for that kind of thing when Wintershimmer took me in." Then, with a cocked head, he added "How old were you?"

"Three. I'm half-crystal, and being a 'softcoat'..." I let the words trail off not into silence, but with a grunt of exertion as I fought with a particularly stubborn plank, which Vow reached over to help with.

Thankfully, even that little scrap of words was enough that—having spent enough of his youth in an even harsher Crystal Union than mine—my undead butler could put things together. "Oh. Stars, that must have been awkward. He really told you foals' stories? Old Wintershimmer?"

"Where would he have learned any better? His usual methods won't work on colts that young; I don't think the 'is your neck cold' threat can stop a foal crying." That got a chuckle from both of us, alongside a pause in our demolition. "Short version of a long story: the first time I realized he was going out of his way to look evil on purpose was the same day he told me the story of Sir Gallant Hat and the Holy Grail. So when he asked me how I wanted to present myself, I told him I wanted to be 'the hero'. And it just… stuck. Admittedly, my idea of what a hero means has changed a lot since then. Come to think of it, I think I have the Holy Grail downstairs now." When Vow's ears perked in surprise at that claim, I simply elaborated "Well, by definition, I got Celestia to fill a cup with her blood. And in fact, it did exactly what the legends claim, since I used it to bring you back from the dead."

"I… am not in love with what that implies for the future," Vow noted, ripping off a plank that exposed—perhaps unsurprisingly—a boarded up dark room. "Not for me, I mean, but for you and Her Majesty."

"It's just a foal's story," I countered, and ripped out another plank, now much easier with the leverage of the hole from the other planks to reach in and push back directly against its mounting. "Now, what have we here?"

Vow and I stood in silence for a very long moment. Then, finally, he realized my question wasn't rhetorical. "It occurs to me I need to grab a lamp, since you won't want to make your horn glow."

"I do see the runes on the floor," I offered. "I can't read them all in the dark. But I would hope maybe the author could just tell me what they do."

"It's my masterpiece. Well, besides my work as a warlock." With considerable pride, Vow swept his hoof broadly into the dark secret room that I still couldn't properly see into. "This, Morty, is my take on Clockwork's Runic Septagraph."

"Septagraph?" I asked with a scoff of disbelief. "And you buried it in some dusty room behind a wall?"

"I couldn't have Star Swirl come for a visit in his role as Duke Zodiac and just stumble on it. It's not exactly the kind of magic a 'failed apprentice' like me could believably make."

"What did you need all that power for?"

That question put a wide, almost foalish 'grin' on lips that formed on the surface of the enchanted wooden being. "Hourglass'..." he began slowly, letting each syllable linger in the air.

"No!" I couldn't help myself, grinning ear-to-ear. "You didn't! A Horological Hoop?"

"I did," Vow replied. "All the rooms up the hall on this side of the hall have a two-to-one time dilation. Or, at least, they did. Obviously, the Septagraph hasn't been unkept in almost twenty years."

My mind, however, had hitched halfway through his thought. "Only two to one? Why not go stronger?"

Vow's mirth turned to concern in an instant. "Why not… Morty, are you okay? In your mind? When Wintershimmer covered chronomancy, he did explain the risks to you, right?"

"Of course. I know—at least roughly—what happens if you screw up time magic. But a Septagraph is famous for its stability; you should be able to support three or four… maybe even five-fold dilation without even straining it. And Septagraphs fail gracefully; if it runs out of power, it's not as if you're going to tear apart your hallway. If it had, there wouldn't be any hallway past this point left."

"Yes, but…" Vow sat down so he could rub his wooden face with both his hooves, and sighed. "Something I learned as a warlock—and, might I add, unlike the famous adage, my spirits never turned on me because I didn't overreach my talents and try to bind something too powerful—is that only pushing magic as far as it is needed is what keeps our kind of pony alive."

I couldn't help but laugh in Vow's face, which he understandably took less than gratefully (even if he held his lack-of-tongue). "And as the pony who killed Wintershimmer the Complacent, I can tell you that if I had any kind of respect for 'limits' on magic, I'd be dead and he'd be a god. I'm guessing your point is that you picked up all the odd skills you needed by studying with time dilation, and getting more hours a day than anypony else?"

"I am," Vow agreed. "And two-to-one was more than sufficient for—"

"Seven," I interrupted.

"I beg your pardon, what?! It's official; the horn rot is already in your brain."

"If we're going to be studying all these different skills, and plotting to make me a noble, and plotting to steal Wintershimmer's notes back from Star Swirl the Bearded, then two-to-one isn't going to be enough."

"So you jump to seven?! Think of all the delightful integers and counting numbers you're spurning in between sanity and whatever you think it is you're jumping to, Morty!"

"By definition, Clockwork's Septagraph should support that level of dilation—and then we get we the synergy that we're building a seven-fold mandela inside a naturally seven-oriented—"

"In theory."

"The math checks out."

"The math… How do you know? You haven't checked it!"

"I'm very good at math," I countered. "Take one-hundred twenty eight and four-seventh's of a degree for the interior angles, and—"

Flustered, Vow cut in. "Even if the math works out in theory, better wizards than either of us have died trying to go to four-to-one. You're not just proposing going up to the known limit; you're shooting right past it!"

"Archmage Hourglass can stop time. Why shouldn't we be braver about slowing it down?"

"Morty, Archmage Hourglass is made up!" Vow very-nearly-shouted. "A pony who ages backwards? You don't think King Ardor was a real pony, do you? Or that Canterlot is a real place?"

Our argument was stopped by a knock at the door.

"Drat!" I winced. "You put the boards back, I'll get the door in case it's somepony who knows enough to object to chronomancy."

"Nobleponies don't answer their own doors," Vow hissed in a voice much quieter but no less urgent than the one with which we had been arguing. "It'll be suspicious."

"If they want me anyway, I might as well just be there in the first place; there's no temptation to just walk—"

Vow and I both instantly became silent when we heard the door open. And then a mare's voice that I vaguely recognized but couldn't quite put my hoof on called out "Morty? Sorry for letting myself in. I'll be right up."

Cold ran down my spine as if Wintershimmer had been there to threaten my life, and despite lacking blood or body heat, I suspect Vow felt the same. Together, we galloped down the hall hoping to catch the approaching pony before she saw the torn-up wall.

We met the pink mare on the stairs, where she had paused to regard the painting. She was clad in a wizard's jacket very much like mine, save that it was colored a rich cerulean with royal blue hemming at the trailing edge and on the sleeves at her fetlocks. Around her neck, she wore a scarf of marigold that she had knotted into a sort of necktie and tucked into her jacket (despite the warmth of summer) and around her waist was a similarly yellow sash of the same lush fabric.

"Ma'am," Vow began, not recognizing the mare—though I did. He had donned one of his accents for that word. "I must insist on behalf of Master Coil that you wait at the door to be greeted; as a wizard, he can't be interrupted so frivolously."

"You can drop the voice, Vow," the mare answered, causing Vow to lock up—even if I wasn't especially surprised by her knowledge. "Morty, care to introduce me?"

"Did you know we were talking about you?" I asked. "Did you time your arrival specifically to interrupt that conversation?"

"I… may have stood on the porch for a few extra seconds," she answered. "But we're scaring your friend."

I nodded. "Vow, this is Archmage Hourglass."

Vow's wooden surface developed an eyelid simply to accommodate it twitching.

"Hourglass, Solemn Vow. The, uh…" Every title that came to mind sounded insulting, accusatory, or both, so I settled on "My butler."

Hourglass couldn't help but laugh at how badly that introduction had broken Vow, but she did nod his way. "I'm not going to tell anypony your secret, Vow. That would cause a paradox that isn't worth the reality I'd need to patch it. And I might not have the same past you do, but I'm a firm believer in redemption." Then, with a slight scoff of amusement, she added "Knowing Morty as well as I do, you might just earn yours putting up with him."

"As well as you do?" I asked. "We met one time. For… what, three minutes?"

"Oh, you're so adorable when you're a kid." I didn't particularly appreciate that then, though I can now at least see where she was coming from. "Morty, our introduction after you fought Wintershimmer was the first time you met me… well, formally anyway… but it definitely was not the first time I met you." Glancing to Vow, she added "The 'King Ardor' stories about aging backward are a little bit of a creative liberty. But I do jump around through time, fixing places where misuse of time magic tears the fabric of reality, so it comes across that way to ponies who experience time in the 'normal order'."

Finally finding his wits, Vow offered a rather flourishing bow. "Well then, Archmage, it is my pleasure to make your acquaintance." As he rose, he took her hoof on his own (a motion she made no move to stop—and believe me, she could stop anything she wanted to) and deposited a kiss that was simultaneously flattering and quite wooden. "I'd say it is an honor, but I suspect your presence here means Morty's plan was about to rip a hole in reality."

"Yeah… Well, about that." She sighed through gritted teeth and turned to me. "I'm sorry, Morty, but unfortunately, Vow's right."

"Really? Am I just going to get it wrong in the implementation, or is the theory wrong?"

Hourglass frowned heavily at that. "You're trying to get me to explain how to do it right?" Then, shaking her head, she noted "Nice try. I don't think I can, at least right now."

"Why not?"

"The math you need hasn't been invented yet. Or discovered? Do you discover mathematical fields, or invent them?" The question was obviously hypothetical; she continued. "The problem with the math you're thinking through is that the thaumic degradation rate of the Septagraph includes an additional component based on the inverse of the dilation ratio."

"I can easily do one-and-one-seventh of my cost logic."

Hourglass shook her head again. "The degradation you add also has a degradation of its own. And so on and so forth, infinitely."

"So there's infinite degradation?" I asked. "But Vow got two-to-one to work."

"The degradation isn't infinite. It's the base value plus the limit of the sums of the base value times over of the time dilation factor to the value of 'n' as n approaches infinity. You need calculus. And that won't be invented for… spoilers."

(In case you're reading this well into the future, she said 'spoilers'; that isn't self-censorship. Calculus has been invented in the time between this conversation and my writing. And for those curious, the jar in which I am regrowing my brain has a glorious fourteen-to-one ratio right now, though that isn't practical for a container much larger than a beer keg. Though in her defense, there are other more practical reasons it would never have worked on a whole hallway anyway, and I suspect she just didn't want to list them all out to younger me.)

"But how did Vow's work, then?" I pressed. "Or anypony else who hasn't learned secret… 'calculus' math from the future?"

"I wish I had a chalkboard," she muttered—an odd complaint, given I am certain she could summon one from thin air if she really cared. "The margin by which you can miscalculate exact degradation and still produce a stable effect—not just for time dilation, but for lots of magical effects—is calculated in part using the magnitude of the effect; in this case, the quantity of the dilation. I'll leave it as an exercise to you to figure out what other factors go into that equation, since as far as I can tell, you taught me that."

"I did?"

"Crap; spoilers. But well… actually, that one's probably safe. It won't be a grandfather paradox because you have external motivation to do that research later anyway." Hourglass rubbed her temple as she thought. "Yeah… yeah, you'd figure that out regardless of this to get… that spell to work."

"Perhaps we'd all like to stop standing on the stairs," said Vow. "Archmage, can I interest you in something to eat? Tea? Wine?"

"Oh, yes! I've been so excited; Morty writes so highly of your cooking." Briefly rising onto her hind legs to clap her forelegs in giddy, foalish excitement, the mare who was the supreme magical authority of all of time grinned and rushed down the stairs ahead of us.

"Writes?" Vow asked, looking at me with concern.

At the bottom of the stairs, the archmage paused to look back up with a pang of empathy. "Oh, no, sorry; long after you're gone. Nothing you need to worry about."

"I'm not sure I like that choice of wording either." announced Vow as he caught up to the elder mage on his way to the kitchens. "Could I convince you to put a 'much later' in there?"

Hourglass shook her head. "I can't safely explain when I mean by that; it would probably change the way you go about your life in a way that would change my answer. And unfortunately, despite your excellent apron, The Time of Time's End only tells you about your first death, which you already know plenty well."

Vow looked down to verify he wasn't wearing his pun-emblazoned apron (for those who have forgotten the footnote, The Time of Thyme's End - only it wasn't written in Equiish, but rather as a parody of a ritual circle). After remembering that having never met the mare before, and that having never shown her his apron were no impediment to her knowing what was written on it, the warlock-turned-ponyquin retreated to the comfort and comparative sanity of his duties. That left Starlight and I standing in the entryway of my home, at the foot of the grand staircase.

"Take a seat?" I offered, gesturing to my exceptionally elegant set of sofas and armchairs around what we would now call a coffee table, whose legs I had yet to remove (pro tip, young wizards: floating furniture is better for your floors, in addition to the aesthetic).

With a smile, Hourglass flopped herself down on both seats of a loveseat, crossed her forelegs, and made herself altogether more comfortable than a first-time acquaintance would usually dare. "How are you doing, Morty?"

I couldn't help but offer a small quirk of my head. "Well, I'm getting used to the headaches, and nopony has tried to kill me in at least a week. So I guess that makes things good. I would think the mighty Archmage Hourglass had better things to do than make small talk, though."

"Come on; we're friends! You know I have time for you!"

I raised my brow even further, raised a hoof most of the way to pointing directly at her as part of a point, and then a bit of a realization hit me. "Have you… not met me when I woke up from fighting Wintershimmer yet?"

Hourglass' eyes widened, and then she let out a gentle laugh. "How did you put that together?"

"Because you keep implying that conversation made us great friends—but in fact, we barely shared four sentences, because Star Swirl kept complaining that you were going to cause a paradox by sharing 'spoilers'—I assume that's some technical term for a prophecy, or a description of the future?"

Hourglass' eyes widened, and then she nodded. "Alright, let me just be as open as I possibly can. There's some things you need to know about me anyway. Firstly, 'Hourglass' isn't my real name. And because you're my friend—or at least, you're going to be—I think you deserve to know better. Call me Starlight Glimmer."

Finally, I had the wherewithal to realize that I had not yet sat down to match her comfort, so I flopped myself into the tallest and most ornate of the armchairs in the room, and then folded a foreleg across my chest in a sort of bow-like posture. "A pleasure to meet you, Starlight."

"It's important you call me Starlight," she continued, "because someday, you're going to meet me before I'm Hourglass. And it would be bad for reality if I found out I was Hourglass that early."

"How long do I have to wait?" I asked.

It seemed like an innocent question to me, but Starlight shook her head firmly. "That is way off limits. In general, it's probably best not to ask about your future."

At the time of writing, that hasn't come to pass yet.

"Fine… But you're willing to tell me that I write about this in the future?"

"I sort of have to," Starlight confessed. Then she lit her horn with mint green magic and pulled out a tiny vial filled with what looked like the night sky, glittering with a swirl of vibrant suns. After unscrewing its cap, she tossed the liquid into her mouth, spent a few seconds swishing it, and then swallowed it. "Ahh…", she concluded, satisfied. "Now… right, your writing. There's a point in the future where another unicorn who moved to a parallel reality is reading what you write about this conversation. And, because I already exist at that time in the future, it isn't safe for this version of me—the one who is Archmage Hourglass—to be in that timeline for more than a few seconds. Because if I run into my future… well, my past self, but future from your perspective…" Waving away the thoughts like an odor with her hoof, she loudly declared "Anyway, the point is, if 'Hourglass' runs into 'Starlight Glimmer', the world definitely ends. But if right now I say to you 'This house isn't where you think it is, but you should follow your hunch about the Re—'" Starlight swallowed heavily. "Er, anyway, if I say something like that, then I know someday you'll write it down, so I can use it to pass a message to somepony who needs to hear it even though I can't show up and help her face-to-face."

"The Re-what?"

"It's a historical term for a period of Equestrian history in your near future, so my lips are sealed. I mean, I almost slipped up, but… well, you get the point."

"Are you new at this?" I asked. "Or just generally very lackadaisical about causing paradoxes?"

Starlight winced. "I'm that obvious? This is sort of my first stop after becoming Hourglass; I'm taking a tour arranging all the stable time loops and prerequisites so that my being Hourglass doesn't cause any paradoxes. Paradoxen? Parodicies? Whatever." Then she sighed, lit up her horn again, and produced an enormous leather-bound book from some pocket dimension she apparently kept handy. I took note of several obvious and important features: firstly, that the book was bound in iron, sealed with an iron clasp that featured an enormous lock, and was then chained shut as well. Secondly, the front of the book was decorated with a hunk of obsidian carved in the shape of an equine skull, possessing a tertiary eye socket in the center of its forehead. And, thirdly and perhaps most disturbingly, when the book was dropped—given the noise, some might say slammed—onto my coffee table, it began to leak a faintly green mist.

"What does this book have to do with you being new?"

"You need it for me to become Hourglass," Starlight explained. "So here it is. Enjoy."

"What is it?"

"Can't tell you," she answered with probably more amusement than was warranted, given how transparently evil the book felt.

"Oookay. How do I open it so I can read it, then? Once… you probably know, don't you?"

Starlight nodded. "And I promise I won't make fun of your illiteracy. But I do have to be a bit awful, because I can't answer that question either."

"You're not giving me the key?" I stroked my chin. "Does the key even exist now? Or am I going to have to hire somepony to pick this?"

I watched Starlight steeple her hooves. "If you think you can find somepony to pick that lock, I have a bridge in Canterlot to sell you. And Lark absolutely shouldn't try; it wouldn't end well."

"Lark?" I asked, honestly forgetting the name for a moment. "Wait, Gale's hoofmaiden? She knows how to pick locks?"

Starlight winced. "I, um… forget I said anything. And just don't try to open it."

"Then what good is the book?" I prodded. "None of my furniture has off-balance legs to shove it under."

For my question, I got a rather amused shrug from the legendary mistress of time.

It was about that time that Vow appeared, balancing across one foreleg a tray of biscuits, scones, and assorted baked treats, piping hot, along with various jams, a pair of delicate carafes of juice, and an ornate, s-nosed teapot. "Something to drink, Archmage? We have orange juice, apple cider, and I have a little bit of Earl Hay tea brewing. I apologize for the lack of variety; I haven't fully restocked yet, since I got back from… well, since I got back."

"Orange juice would be lovely," said Starlight.

I was able to gesture with my horn to the tea without speaking, and as Vow began to serve, I raised a question sitting at the forefront of my mind. "I have to wonder—that stuff you drank earlier; that potion. What was that?"

"Oh, my bottled reality? Mostly vodka, unfortunately. Reality doesn't keep in water; you have to store it like an extract of vanilla or orange peel or whatever. But there's a sort of… you wouldn't know what I meant if I said 'tutti-frutti', would you? I actually have no idea when that flavor was invented."

Vow and I shared a glance and a shrug.

"I'll have to ask Pinkie," Starlight resolved, mostly to herself. "Anyway, if you're worried it'll clash like mint toothpaste with the orange juice, I appreciate the concern, but if anything it would come across like a screwdriver."

Vow laughed. "I recognize about half of those nouns. What is 'Reality?'"

"That's quite the philosophical question," Starlight joked. "It's exactly what it sounds like." Starlight reached into the sleeve of her jacket not with magic but a hoof. It emerged holding a similar bottle to the one I had seen before. "I'm not going to explain how to use the stuff, so if you feel like keeping hoofnotes at sunset, don't take this as a masterclass." At the time, I thought the strange wording there might have been just an anachronistic idiom Starlight brought back from the future. Re-reading it, I assume it was instead a more subtle comment to a future reader of my current writing. If you keep hoofnotes, I won't hold it against you, but if you muck with the actual text like all the unwarranted censorship in Beginner's Guide, we are going to have a problem.

Starlight continued "I think the best metaphor is to think of reality like fabric. Like… imagine our timeline is a scarf. Some magic can damage the fabric, scuffing it or even tearing it, if it's misused. Time magic isn't the only kind that can do that, by the way; it's just the easiest kind to screw up—which is why we don't make seven-to-one Horological Hoops." I didn't particularly appreciate the look that accompanied that last comment. "If you tear fabric just a little bit, your scarf might have a hole in it, but you can still wear it and keep your neck warm just fine. But if you leave a hole in the fabric and you keep putting wear and tear on those frayed, damaged threads, the hole's gonna get larger, and the threads around the tear are going to keep pulling and ripping and the damage will spread to other parts of the fabric. And, sooner or later, you step on a thread or it snags on a doorknob or a branch or something, and your scarf is ruined; you just have a big bundle of loose thread that's all gnarled and knotted up and useless."

Vow frowned. "To be clear, in this metaphor, stepping on the thread is destroying the world?" I asked.

Starlight's chin bobbed up and down curtly. "Well, that version of the world. Now, I do my best to protect not just our timeline—our scarf—but also other scarves—adjacent timelines."

"Adjacent timelines?" I asked.

"Do you remember how Clover explained her spell when you were dueling her? I think she used a river as a metaphor, because she was talking specifically about branching, but we're both talking about the same thing. Despite using the metaphor of a scarf, time isn't actually just a line. It branches depending on the choices ponies make—and if a choice is important enough, the scarf splits so that both realities exist. Now, from your perspective inside of time, it looks like a straight line, because you can't see down the road less traveled." With a chuckle she added "...and that has made all the difference."

"Hmm?"

"Famous poem from the future," Starlight noted idly. "The point is, in addition to moving up and down the timeline, with magic I can also hop off of our path and see alternate worlds where ponies made different choices. Worlds where Wintershimmer won, for example."

"Don't they each have their own Hourglasses to take care of that?" asked Vow, refilling my cup of tea without needing me to ask.

"Oh, no; there's only me. It's, um… Nope, actually, can't talk about that with Morty in the room. Just, suffice it to say there are lots of Starlight Glimmers—oh, that's my real name, Vow—but only one Archmage Hourglass. Only one set of choices can lead to me… Explaining why is really complicated, since it gets into bigger and smaller infinities, so just trust me on that for now."

"And you said our timeline?" I pressed. "That, and the book, mean this is the timeline that leads to you?"

"Oh, there are tons of forks between now and when I become Hourglass. So you'll be lots of Mortys. But one of them is my friend. Just as you'll have lots of different friends… lots of weird, magical friends, if I remember right. The kind you can trust for a carriage ride, but that you really shouldn't trust to host you overnight." Starlight seemed to lose track of her thought for a moment, before glancing back to the bottle in her hoof. "Oh, right; reality. So, I do my best to stop time magic and paradoxes and so forth from destroying timelines. But, as a particularly heroic necromancer once taught me: you can't save everypony, but sometimes the ponies you can't save are your best tool for doing whatever you can."

I took a long sip of my tea and frowned. "So what you're saying is that I live long enough to sound that wise?"

"Morty, you already talk like that already when you think somepony is going to write it down," Starlight answered. "But yes; that's a possible you. The only difference between what you meant and what I'm doing is that you were using corpses, but this reality is—to continue the metaphor—the usable leftovers of the gnarled pile of thread that used to be a scarf. And, if you have enough of that spare thread, and you know something you're going to do is going to make a tear in your scarf, you can apply your spare thread and patch the hole immediately, before it has a chance to get bigger."

Vow seemed very confused by that, but I gave a small nod and spoke up to summarize my understanding. "So you drank that other bottle to cover your tongue, so that even if you slipped up and said something that would cause a paradox, it wouldn't destroy the world."

Starlight nodded. "For somepony about to make as poor of a choice as you were upstairs, Morty, you pick up time theory quite quickly. Again."

"I appreciate having a friend in high places—or in your case, high times—to help me out of that spot." I offered in return, before draining a long sip of my tea.

Vow raised a brow. "You consider Morty your friend, Archmage? Just a friend?"

"I'm not sure that's a conversation I want to have with you of all ponies, Mr. Vow."

"Ah, forgive me;" Vow nodded his head. "I'm not trying to be a lecher on your shared future, Archmage. But since you already know about me, I feel I can be blunt, and if you're his friend, I hoped you might do him a favor. I'm attempting to teach Morty certain, shall we say life skills, and there's one such skill that I'm woefully unequipped to provide direct mentorship in. And in addition to being able to assist, you might benefit yourself in the future by teaching him precisely what you prefer in—"

Starlight's expression got gradually more sour, and she finally cut Vow off with a "Please stop, Mr. Vow. Morty might be cute, but…"

"I prefer handsome," I cut in.

Starlight smiled and rolled her eyes. "Never change." Then turning back to Vow she continued "But he's a kid. And I'm immortal. I'll admit, dating as an immortal is weird, since the 'half-your-age-plus-seven' rule falls apart really fast when time dilation gets involved. But I'm not that desperate." With a huff of her nostrils, Starlight added "Morty, you can talk to me when you're older, and less complicated."

…

Starlight, were you hitting on me, now, eight-hundred years in advance?

…

Anyway, she didn't actually pause at that point in her sentence, instead continuing "Even if you were an adult now, I know enough about the cyclomatic complexity in the shipping chart of you nobles in this era to know I don't need anything to do with Gale's teenage libido and her weird preferences… Er, uh, not trying to kinkshame; just not what gets my motor running."

Vow turned to me. "The future has such delightful vocabulary, don't you agree, sir?"

"Is 'kinkshame' one word or two?" (I should note that at the time of writing I still haven't actually heard this one used by anyone I haven't introduced it to.)

"Celestia, I need to get out of here… Let me make sure I covered everything." Drawing a small list out of her jacket breast. "Let's see… stop the time dilation disaster, hand over The Princess in Yellow… and I didn't let any spoilers slip there, good…"

"I take it that's the title of the evil book taking up so much of the coffee table?" Vow asked.

"Fuck." replied Starlight, in what I now know from many subsequent encounters to be an uncharacteristic slip of profanity. "Ah, pardon my language."

"We know Gale," was all I had to say, and it was clear all was forgiven.

"Umm… note about the house in the Everfree…" Damn forest. Damn definite article that I chose not to comment on as a kid. "Yep, that's everything. And with plenty of time to leave before Cherry gets here."

"Cherry?" Vow asked, glancing my way. "Do you know that name?"

I nodded slowly. "He's a foal from Graarghs's school. I'm not sure he'd even know the address though…"

"Well, I'll leave you two gentlestallions to figure that one out from him. Morty, I will do you a small favor though; Cherry is telling the truth, no matter how strange his reasoning sounds. Knowing that won't make any difference to what you eventually decide to do; you'll just feel less guilty about what ultimately comes of it." Starlight stood up from her seat. "Thank you very much for the beverages and the company."

"How kind of you," said Vow. "It's good to know Master Coil has such a substantial friend."

"Well, I don't know if I'd say that yet," I muttered. "She might consider me her friend, but I hardly know her."

"There's no need to be like that…" Vow let the objection trail off when I held up a hoof.

I continued, "I'd think if somepony wanted to grease the wheels of a friendship that matters to the fate of all possible futures, as it were, they might be inclined to do a small favor."

The implication seemed to amuse Starlight, even as Vow (despite having a blank wooden face) took on a very concerned expression.

"Morty, are you trying to extort Archmage Hourglass?" Then with a hoof to his brow, he muttered to nopony in particular "Archmage, I'll have a talk with him about who it's appropriate to manipulate; I've just started—"

"Well, hold on, Vow. I don't remember this, which means that reality I drank was worthwhile after all. I'm curious, Morty; what did you have in mind?"

"Well, you know about my horn, and I may have started glyph magic studies with Celestia, but it's not like I'm up to really advanced permanent spells yet. So I was… kind of hoping I might borrow your horn upstairs."

"Didn't you just move in? What's upstairs?"

I slapped my hoof against my face. "Your name is literally in the spell, Starlight. Hourglass' Horological Hoop."

"You… want me to set it up for you?"

I couldn't help but don a bit of a 'no, seriously' grin. "If you wouldn't mind?"

Starlight sighed, glanced at the door, pulled back the sleeve on her jacket to reveal a bracelet centered around some kind of winding-free pocketwatch (which exist now only at substantially larger sizes, but certainly didn't then), and finally gave a heavy huff. "Three-to-one," she grumbled. "And someday, when you tell me I owe you for one of your ridiculous tricks, I get to bring this up."

"Deal."

Just as our hooves were meeting for a quick shake, there came a frantic knocking at the door.

"Morty, you'd better answer that. I'll send Angel down."

"Angel? What for?"

Starlight ignored that question, already heading up the stairs. "Vow, you can't help him with this; mind lending me a hoof?"

"Certainly," Vow answered with some trepidation.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

Mere moments later I opened the house's door to reveal, true to Starlight's word, an out-of-breath, sweaty, and visibly worried Cherry Tomato.

"Morty!" he shouted directly into my face, and then had to pause to catch his breath before offering a next word.

"Yes, that's me," I couldn't resist offering dryly. "Do you need a glass of juice or something, kid?"

As he firmly shook his head, he announced. "Graargh! They want to kill him!"

Immediately, all inclination to joke fled my mind. "What? Who?"

"Mrs. Aspirations! And a stallion."

"What? Sure, she's a bad teacher, but—"

"They aren't ponies. They sent us all home from school except for Graargh, but I felt worried so I snuck back to look in the window. The stallion turned all black, and was holding Graargh in green magic even though he wasn't a unicorn. I know it sounds impossible, but I can feel it. It's like how I'm lucky; I just know. Please, Morty, you have to believe me."

"I… I do."

"You do?"

I nodded, glancing back up the stairs—where, to my surprise, Starlight had disappeared around the corner, but Angel was fast approaching.

"Master Coil, a strange mare and Mr. Vow said you needed me urgently for some sort of combat?"

I nodded. "Angel, Graargh's in trouble. We need to go kill some monsters."

Angel… how do I express this to someone who had never met him? The way he reoriented his halos relative to his central rock, with a pinch near the top and tilted slightly forward, conveyed a mixture of worry and intensity of determination that I would like to a furrowed brow and tightened lips on a pony's face. "My gemstones are full, so you should have five spells… but will your horn be alright? Should we summon Lady Celestia?"

"Forget my horn!" I snapped. "I'm not waiting! Follow me, Cherry; we're going to the back balcony."

"The back balcony, sir?" asked Angel. "The balcony that looks out off the cliff?"

I was already running by the time I bothered to answer. "I don't want to try to teleport that far blind. If we look off the back of the house, over the edge of the ridge, I should be able to see it." Running up the stairs (the exterior balcony stuck off of the 2nd floor), I briefly glanced at Starlight and Vow, and between breaths I offered the former "Thank you."

"Good luck," said Vow.

"He doesn't need luck," said Starlight. "You'd have to be an idiot to pick a fight with Coil the Immortal."

At the time, I assumed she was stoking my ego. However, upon magically reviewing my memory to record this chapter, I note that the point of view my spell provided, somewhere off my younger self's left shoulder, was exactly where Starlight focused her gaze when she said that.

Given she fit at least a couple other secret messages to future readers into her statements on that day, I have a sneaking suspicion those words weren't meant for me.

So, dear reader, if you're in a situation where you're considering making yourself my enemy, you should really follow Archmage Hourglass' advice. I can't say how much more powerful I've grown since I wrote this, since (out of respect for my friend) I generally avoid forecasting my own future. However, when I'm done writing this book down, some portion of the next few decades of my life are going to be dedicated to making sure that if a threat like Nightmare Moon ever rises against Equestria again, I can put it down without needing the massive loss of life our most recent conflict cost.

Since you're worth Starlight's attention to even offer that warning, I guarantee you're strong enough to kill me, but you'll be sorely disappointed by how little that means. And if you've already crossed that threshold and made for yourself an enemy in Coil the Immortal, Hero of Equestria, I'll leave you with some parting words from a physical gate you are rather likely to soon pass through yourself:

Abandon All Hope, You Who Enter Here

Sunset's Hoofnotes:

Why did this have to be the chapter where Morty told me it was okay to write in the book?

I'm really, really worried about even asking 'Mentor' about this. Will he remember and realize Starlight was talking about me?

Honestly, right now, after Morty threatening me, personally, a thousand years into the future, I'm not sure I'm up to piecing through what stuff Starlight said was secretly for me and what was her just being kind of absent-minded or quirky the way she is.

Also, glad I don't have to hear about her sleeping with Morty and Gale; Somnambula is already TMI.

Oh, right, this world doesn't have text abbreviations. Future reader, that means 'Too much information'.

I'm just gonna go onto the next chapter and hope there's a touching family rescue or something that makes me feel better.

11-2

XI - II

The Eldest Hate

My horn was on fire, and as much as I'd like to tell you I grit my teeth and ignored it because my worries about Graargh were that strong, reality just didn't bear that out.

"Are you okay?" Cherry asked, hooves clip-clopping on cobblestones of the street outside Aspiration's schoolhouse. "That was a funny feeling for me; did it give you a headache?"

"No; I'm good at teleporting. It's my horn," I muttered, before lying "I'm fine, Cherry. Angel, mana."

"Of course, sir. Will this be like hunting cragodiles with Wintershimmer? Or should I hang back?"

I pondered briefly on the thought that Angel had been swallowed by one of said cragodiles, before abandoning the thought. I shook my head. "Whatever Aspiration is, she's sapient. Which means she has a soul." I rolled my neck, not for the sake of the popping of my spine so much as to try and get my head to feel right after the surge of agony in my forehead subsided. "Which means this will be brief."

"Can I come?" asked Cherry, grinning.

"I don't see why not. Just… what were Wintershimmer's rules again? Don't interrupt me if I'm speaking. If I tell you to do something, do it without asking why; it might be to save your life. Oh, and don't touch anything, even if it's dead. Promise?"

"You have my oath to Celestia, Morty," Cherry agreed.

"Good. Now, no time to waste."

I walked straight up to the door, and thinking it would be a relatively easy feat, I decided to spare my horn by turning around, rearing up, and bucking it. This… was less trivial than I thought; the door gave a loud thump and its hinges groaned a bit, but it remained firmly fixed in the wall of the schoolhouse.

"Oh, can I help?" Cherry, despite being five years my junior, gave a far less dramatic wind up and proceeded to buck the door in with a shower of splinters—just in time for me to turn back around and lead with my horn.

"What in the—Mortal?" said the by now quite loathed voice of Mrs. Aspiration, the schoolteacher. Standing next to her was a creature I had never seen before, but which I suspect readers of this book might recognize immediately: a chitinous bug-stallion with gossamer wings, a slightly curved horn, and gaping holes distributed roundly through all his limbs. He stood over an orb of vibrant green slime—some kind of monstrous cocoon, by my guess—and floating in its center, I could see the shadowy figure of a much smaller creature.

"Aspiration. Creature… I'm going to give you both a chance to surrender and let Graargh go."

The insect turned away from the cocoon and looked me over briefly with iridescent, gem-like aquamarine eyes. "You know this pony?" it asked, apparently to Aspiration.

"Mortal Coil," she explained, at least apparently willingly. "He's a wizard, and Celestia's student. And he's the drone's guardian; 'Graargh' is the name it goes by."

"Drone?" I glanced between Aspiration and the bug stallion, who had taken a rather unafraid step toward me. "Let me see if I have this right: black-and-slimy there is the natural form of a changeling? And Aspiration isn't your real name?"

Aspiration nodded. "Clever. You can call me 'Metamorphosis'; this is Husk. The real Aspiration—"

"Silence," snapped the more obvious changeling, this newly-introduced 'Husk'. "You won't say any more about us… Metamorphosis."

"If we replace him, who cares what he knows?" Metamorphosis, nee Aspiration countered with a snide grin. "And if he gets away, I haven't said anything Celestia couldn't tell him."

"Don't speak to me of Celestia," Husk answered coldly, before focusing once more on me. "Why do you want the drone, Coil? He's one of us. He shouldn't be any of your concern."

"He's family," I countered, putting a confused and spiteful look on the visage of the bug. "If you had good intentions, Aspiration—Metamorphosis, whatever—would have told me the truth when I trusted her with his guardianship; instead, Cherry comes pounding on my door telling me you're up to something evil in secret, and I find him trapped in some kind of… cocoon? Pseudopod? General ooze?" I gestured to the green blob in the corner. "And it looks an awful lot like you're foalnapping him, since he isn't apparently going willingly. Or consciously."

"You let one of the pony grubs escape without any confusion? Pathetic," Husk growled to… its partner? Given the tone, I would have guessed subordinate, though it would be some time later that I had any kind of affirmation of that claim.

Aspiration's ears plastered back into her mane. "I don't know what kind of strange pony magic Cherry Tomato has, but I did treat him."

"I'm very lucky to be an earth pony!" Cherry offered chipperly.

"A likely excuse," Husk grumbled, before letting out a sigh. "Fine. Pony; you want the drone… and I assume you think you can threaten us." He put on a small grin as he continued "Go on. I would like to hear it."

It isn't often a monster can put me off my game, but I found it hard to put my whole spirit into what I said next, and I think the words came off more perfunctorily than as a proper threat. "You're both going to surrender, and I'm going to talk to Celestia about what to do from there, since she knows what you are better than I do. If you try to fight me, though, I… well, you're both obviously sapient, which means you have souls. And it will take me less time and effort to rip them out if you than it would take you to clear the distance between us."

"Hmm," said Husk. "I thought I recognized the jacket, but I remember you being older." Then he stroked his chin and frowned. "No… no, you aren't old enough, are you?" Those words were followed by a burst of green flame…

…and then, before me, stood a sight that shook me to my core: Wintershimmer—though not as I had ever known him—looked at me with mild disdain. This Wintershimmer was not my old mentor, nor the figment of him from my imagination; the form Husk had transformed into was, by my guess, thirty years old. He still wore the mirror image of my jacket, though I noticed that in the intimate detail of Husk's transformation, it was a cheaper thing, of lower quality than the kind I had been given growing up, paid for by my mentor's access to the considerable stolen treasures of the Crystal Union. This Wintershimmer was naturally gaunt, but not yet skull-like; his mane was, to my surprise (having only ever seen it well whitened) naturally a sort of mint green that stood at odds with his rich mustard coat, and he wore it pulled back into a tight bun. And there was no hunch to his posture, no burden from the very act of existing in spite of nature in his form.

"No, this isn't you," said Husk, wielding Wintershimmer's voice. "A mentor, perhaps? Or a parent?"

"You knew Wintershimmer?" I asked, then shook my head. "What difference does it make? I'll kill you no matter what form you take."

In another burst of green fire, Wintershimmer vanished, and in his place my own mirror image appeared. With a confident grin, other-me dragged a hoof invitingly across his chest at shoulder level. "Then by all means, young wizard; slay me."

I lit my horn, grit my teeth at the pain, and focused on the beginning's of the razor.

"Coil, no!" shouted the voice of the figment of Wintershimmer in my mind, at the very same moment that I felt a grip of ice wrap around my own neck. Realizing the danger, I let the glow on my horn flicker out—

—but in that moment of hesitation, Husk rushed forward. A pair of long thin fangs, visibly splashing with glowing green venom, emerged from my own mouth as it lunged forward, biting for my shoulder. I wasn't fast enough to dodge; at most turning the bite at my neck into one pointed at my shoulder. But where my skill in hoof-to-hoof combat failed, Star Swirl's enchantments on my jacket spared me the pain of the changeling's venom. Husk's fangs scraped along the fabric of the enchanted garment, casting sparks as they were deflected.

I lit my horn again, but it was a doomed effort. To my horror, a burst of green fire turned the copy of my right forehoof on Husk into a snake's tail, and it whipped out with a crack straight into my brow; between that and the pain of my wounded horn, I lost my spell.

Cherry Tomato leapt into action without prompting as I recoiled from the blow. When the fanged version of my own face lunged for my neck, the little colt delivered a left cross right into 'my' jaw. The blow seemed to daze Husk, though it lacked the ursine strength of my usual sidekick to outright inacapcitate the enemy. Husk staggered back, let out an unsettling chittering noise, and rounded on Cherry. Green fire turned the snake's tail whip on 'my' foreleg into an eagle's talon—or, judging from the muscles attached to his shoulder, a griffon's—which lashed out and grabbed the colt by the throat. Talon points like needles drew blood at the back of Cherry's neck, nearly invisible in his coat but a violent clash with his green mane. With his throat held closed, the colt could only let out a muffled sigh as he looked to me for help.

His attack had bought me the time I needed, though. I lit my horn, focused my eyes on my enemy, and cast the simplest spell any unicorn can ever wield. My magic wrapped around the oversized muscles of the griffon shoulder bulging through the facsimile of my tailored jacket, and I twisted, and I pulled. And with a scream in my own voice, Husk was thrown across the room—smashing foals desks and chairs and cracking both the plaster in the far wall, and the glass in its two nearest windows—as I tore his shoulder off.

It should have been a killing blow; certainly, no normal pony could walk away from that wound alive, much less conscious. But the changeling, powered by some alien magic, simply bobbed his head in a heavy, pained panting as he glared at me with my own face, contorted in hatred. My own blood leaked from a hole in my chest, and I smiled about it.

"Master Coil!" cried Angel's tinny voice in warning behind me… but it came too late. With my attention on Husk, I had let Metamorphosis—still in the guise of the unassuming Mrs. Aspiration—slip out of my peripheral sight. I realized my mistake not with Angel's warning, but with the feeling of fangs sinking deep into my hind left leg—a rare spot unprotected by my enchanted jacket. In a moment of clarity that one rarely finds outside of mortal danger, through the pain, I recognized a horrifying cold in my blood, and a pressure. I didn't need reflection to realize it was the venom I had seen dripping from Husk's mouth—from my mouth.

I rounded on Metamorphosis, and I moved to light my horn again, but she responded to the threat by yanking her head violently, like a dog shaking its prey in an effort to break its neck. And with her fangs more than an inch into my leg, the pain was more than I could focus through. I fell to my side, horn sputtering dead sparks… and as I fell, the world spun on an axis it shouldn't have simply from the fall. A part of my mind raced through my memories of Wintershimmer's lessons on toxins, even though the rest knew it was frivolous; the venom had come from the changeling's fangs, so it was not something that I could ever know. And no poison I'd ever seen acted that fast; at least, none that a pony could survive.

When I fell, I couldn't even find the strength to lift my head from the floor. In the twisty, lurching slow-motion of my vision, I watched Angel dart out the door—no doubt to get help. Metamorphosis lit the horn of Mrs. Aspiration—if that was even a real pony, and not a fiction she had concocted—and fired a crackling green bolt at my golem… but her form with the shot was shoddy at best, and she spent too much focus on getting the spell out quickly to have any chance of hitting my nimble creation. Angel would be too late to save me, I was certain, but at least he might save Graargh.

At the opposite side of the room, just barely in my peripheral vision, my own bleeding shoulder was engulfed in green fire, and the foreleg I had torn off and tossed aside was regenerated in an instant. I took some amusement in that moment of impending death to note that Husk hadn't regrown my jacket, and I similarly drew satisfaction from the wince of pain on my unusually handsome visage when he put the new leg down on the floor to try and steady himself, only to pull it up again and re-center himself to accommodate a limp.

"You alright, Commandant?" asked Aspiration, standing over me. She was so close that I could only catch the blows she traded with Cherry by watching their shadows on the wall behind her, but when she remained in place calmly and a loud thud issued from some wall behind my back, it wasn't hard to guess who had won out. The ensuing quiet, punctuated by a groan in a younger colt's mid-pubescent tone, meant I could only conclude that the unusually lucky colt's luck had run out in the face of the shapeshifter's physical and magical superiority.

"I'm not well-fed," Husk answered in my voice, wielding it with sneering disdain for the concern he was offered. "I haven't been in the field to harvest freely like you. But the threat's dealt with; dose the child so he doesn't remember this. Kill the unicorn."

"What? Commandant, the Queen's orders—"

"Damn the Queen!" Husk snapped. "I'll face her if it comes to it." Then the changeling wearing my face lit my horn—no, it wasn't my horn; he hadn't copied the tightness of the grooves, so it didn't flare up—and blasted out one of the windows I had cracked when I hurled him into the plaster wall. "Extract the drone if you can, but if you can't, kill it too. We've used too much magic; the hounds will be here soon." With that Husk let loose one more burst of green fire, and in the place of my handsome visage, he became a rather unremarkable brown earth pony with talent marks of spades biting into the ground. "You have your orders, Infiltrator," Husk offered in a much gruffer voice, before he heaved himself out the window frame with his good forehoof and limped out of sight.

As Metamorphosis rounded on me, hesitation in her stride even as she bared fangs that were more serpentine than insectoid, I felt myself struggle to swallow. I had one spell, maybe, and if I couldn't do something with it, not only would I die, but Graargh and possibly even Cherry with me.

But what to cast?

When I let the first glimmer of magic build on my horn, the changeling schoolteacher leapt back and lowered herself toward the floor, knees bent and ready to dodge if I hurled a spell at her. I had a decent chance of ripping the monster in half, or flinging her clear through the wall and into the street… but would that kill the shapeshifter? I'd just watched Husk walk off a killing blow, and by his own admission, Metamorphosis was the healthier—the 'more fed'—of the two.

How had I bested Wintershimmer the Complacent and lost to some poisonous bugs? Even in my dizzy, heady state I had enough self-awareness to be disgusted that it was even possible. But then, I quickly corrected myself, Wintershimmer had also killed me—if only in a wizard's technical sense—in the course of my victory.

That, of course, was the answer. Then the only difficulty left was working out the spell.

"I…" My tongue felt like lead, and when I tried to lift my head from the floor to at least get it to sit in the bottom of my mouth, my neck refused to respond at all.

"I'm sorry, Mortal. But… I have to do this."

I somehow managed to get my horn to light—it seemed less burdened than the rest of my body (I would later learn this is because the act of casting magic relies on far less of the extended nervous system than any more conventional muscular movement, because the horn is connected directly to the brain)—and the sight of that pale blue made Metamorphosis wince and ignite her own horn. And then, to my surprise and horror, the telekinetic glow I had wrapped around her head and neck, with intentions very much like those I had inflicted on Husk's foreleg, was pushed away by the power of her magic. I had literally never before been magically overpowered, owing to my unique horn, and that was the worst possible moment to experience the phenomenon: knowing my next spell would by my third.

"You'll pass out quickly," Metamorphosis said, not at all in relation to my spell, and then opened her mouth wide.

To my astonishment,the next solid object to enter Metamorphosis' mouth was not, in fact, my neck. Instead, it was the leg of a wooden chair, beaten into the back of her jaw after a flying leap from Cherry Tomato! In a spray of wooden splinters, the chair broke on the changeling's face, and she stumbled backwards from the force with a gasp of pain and a spray of vibrant red blood. Cherry, for his part, slid on his hooves when he landed, eventually skidding to a stop with a small spray of splinters and I could have almost sworn a few visible sparks.

"How? I smashed you headfirst into the wall!"

Completely devoid of the witty tone with which I would have delivered such a line, Cherry answered "I am an earth pony. You probably think of me as being lucky, but I am also very tough. And I was a knight's squire, so I have some combat training. Morty, what do I do next?"

"Focus," I ordered, and then realizing that despite the leaden feeling in my tongue, it was still responsive enough, I added "The poison won't kill me; if it could, she wouldn't try to bite again. Just keep yourself alive, and Angel will be back with help soon."

Metamorphosis—who I remind you, still wore the face of Mrs. Aspiration, chuckled in her authoritarian, 'classroom-control' tone of voice. "You're making assumptions, Coil. With the dose of poison I gave you, you will die without treatment. I wanted to make sure nopony came along in time after I leave." Despite speaking to and looking at me, Metamorphosis' horn ignited with emerald green magic (for those of you familiar with changelings, this was the natural color of the unicorn Aspiration's magic, not the more sickly glowing green common to changelings in their natural form), and she sent several blasts of crackling mana toward Cherry. The colt, for his part, rolled, and finally dove behind a toppled desk to avoid being struck.

"Good to know," I replied with bitter sarcasm. "Let me return the favor: if you leave without Graargh, I won't kill you."

Metamorphosis drew her eyes across my form—paralyzed, sprawled out on the floor, bleeding from my flank—and correctly concluded that said peace offer (or if you prefer, implicit threat) did not warrant a reply. Instead, she turned on Cherry. "Look, Cherry—"

"You aren't going to convince me to stop," he interrupted. "I know it is the right thing to do, and also I have a very good feeling about it. You should give up."

Metamorphosis responded by grabbing the desk Cherry was hiding behind in her green magic, and flinging it against the far wall with enough force that I can only fairly say it exploded—a show of magical power that some random schoolteacher likely could never have exhibited. "Young stallion—" Apparently, Cherry had been expecting the desk to be removed, because he had been crouched down in a ready state, like a runner on blocks, behind it. When the desk disappeared, he launched himself straight at the schoolteacher's face, driving a hoof directly into her horn, and another into her muzzle. Despite being an earth pony, Cherry still had enough growing left in his still foal-like frame that the blow wasn't enough to topple an adult unicorn (to say nothing of whatever advantages being a changeling in disguise might have granted Metamorphosis), but it was enough to leave her reeling with her horn not at the ready while he darted once more out of reach.

Metamorphosis took only a moment to recover, though, and took more careful aim for the colt; she might have fired a blast then and there, had a pair of shadows not darkened the doorway and one of the shattered windows of the now thoroughly damaged schoolhouse.

From where I lay, I could (awkwardly) just make out both figures: through the window entered a unicorn-like stallion, though his horn was unusually long and sharp and had an unusual upward curvature to it, and his mouth was full of carnivorous fangs. Around them, his body was a washed-out gray blue, and his hair silver like the moon. His eyes, perhaps most importantly, were vertically slitted, vibrant blue that I suspect would have glowed in the dark like a cat's.

(A brief aside: for any readers who peruse this tome in the very new future, that description, less the colors, might call to mind the late Somber Shadow—and I fear for future readers, his self-styled name, 'King Sombra'; that isn't an accident, but I won't elaborate further here except to say that in a roundabout way, he was Luna's fault too.)

The other pony—or perhaps former pony would be more accurate—I knew by the name Summer Celsus: pale pink, with flesh blood red hair in her mane and tail, and a matching set of fangs that had not all too much earlier dug their way into my lower lip. For those who may have forgotten, I knew a few things about Summer: in addition to being my friend Blizzard's mother, Summer was perhaps most notable for being an undead, raised at Luna's behest as servants and warriors. And that one fact gave me a pretty good guess as to the nature of the other new arrival.

"Here's the damn parasite," said Summer as she answered. "One cocoon, two civilians, and… wait, Coil?"

"You know a breather that young?" asked the stallion, apparently thinking Summer was referring to Cherry, who rushed over to my side in the relative safety. That motion, that distraction, in turn caused Metamorophosis to perceive her chance to escape. Yet the changeling was hardly quiet enough to escape the notice of the sharp-eared dead; with a flick of his horn, the male corpose created a curved barrier covering the partially broken glass and visibly crackling with raw mana. The changeling skidded to a stop to keep from running into it headfirst, and wound up standing just beside the cocoon that held Graargh. Then, with a flick of her horn, she surrounded herself in a bubble of green very much unlike the color of her natural magic, and very much like the color of the fire that engulfed the changelings whenever they shapeshifted.

"Huh. The bug knows barriers," the stallion in the window joked, finally hopping fully into the room. "Think she can teleport too?"

"If she could, she already would have," Summer answered, before making a show of licking her lips. "She knows who we are. Don't you, parasite?"

Metamorphosis didn't seem inclined to answer that question, and the silence seemed like as good a time as any to speak up. "I don't suppose either of you fine corpses have an antidote for their poison?"

"Did the mighty wizard get bit?" Summer rolled her slitted eyes and shook her head. "Their venom takes a long time to kill; just shut up and watch real monster hunters work. Five, can you pierce that? Or should I cook her out?"

"It'll take a few minutes," said the presumably dead stallion whom Summer had called 'Five'. "Probably go faster with some fire. Anything you're particularly pissed about?" With a glance in my direction, he grinned a mouth full of those vicious fangs. "Is that one rutting your daughter?"

Summer's throat began to glow orange from within, even as she shook her head. "She insists he isn't." The words were accompanied by frankly draconic tongues of flame licking past her teeth. "But he pisses me off enough all the same." And then, very much like a dragon, she opened her mouth and proceeded to expel a column of orange flame—that is to say, to 'breathe' fire—against Metamorphosis' shield. Only a moment later, a beam of blue magic struck another side of the bubble, stemming from 'Five's' horn.

"No, please. Please! I didn't hurt anypony! The school teacher's fine; I can tell you where she is, if you just—"

"That's adorable," interrupted Five. "She thinks that's an offer. The Mistress can ask your corpse for directions just as easily as you can tell us alive. You got a better offer?" With a… dramatically more lascivious lick of his lips than Summer had given moments earlier, he let his eyes wander the schoolteacher's body. "They say you can turn into anypony, right?"

That comment, at least, got Summer to cease her breath and glare at her fellow corpse. In a cautionary growl, she asked him "Isn't that what got you raised in the first place, Five?"

Slitted eyes rolled in their sockets. "When I did it to a pony, big sister. These things aren't real ponies. Mistress wouldn't care if we had some fun."

Summer's warning tone became a feral growl. "If you keep leading with your dick, I'm going to cut it off."

"Spoilsport."

Five resumed his magical assault, and inside her bubble, I noted the smallest of sparks on Metamorphosis' horn. Within the rippling surface of her sanctuary, slowly being ground away by magic, I couldn't help but have a bit of sympathy for the mare—even knowing that label didn't quite fit.

"Please, I… I…" Swallowing in desperation, she looked to Graargh's cocoon, and with a hoof, tore the sticky green substance open. Out slid, to my horror, not a little bear cub, nor even the green and brown colt form he occasionally wore, but a pony-shaped insect. Graargh looked to all the world like that brief glimpse I had gotten of Husk, if shrunk by perhaps half. Despite being freed from his cocoon, Graargh remained comatose, simply lying on the floor.

Metamorphosis raised a shaky hoof and held it above Graargh's neck. "Stop, or… I'll kill him."

Summer scoffed. "Great. Save us the trouble!"

"No!" I shouted, and for a brief moment, I let sparks build on my horn.

"Don't," Summer warned me, slitted eyes dropped into a glare. "I have the Mistress' blessing to put down anypony who sides with them willingly." Then her face shifted, and she grinned in a show of her teeth. "Or do; I would love the excuse."

I let the sparks fade from my horn, and Summer turned away—leaving both undead with their backs roughly to me. Only then did I dare to exercise another of the muscles yet-unhindered by the venom that seemed to have spared my face.

I winked at Metamorphosis.

"Hey, Cherry," I whispered. The colt glanced to me, but said nothing. "Want to be a wizard?"

"What, now?" he whispered back. "I mean, yes of course. But can you teach me a lesson fast enough to help Graargh?"

"I hope so," I answered. "If not, I'll use my last spell to save him. Is my leg still bleeding?" Cherry nodded fervently. "Stick your hoof in the bite. Get some fresh blood on your hoof."

"Won't that hurt?"

"The venom should have made me numb," I answered, and then had to work very hard to bite back a gasp of pain and avoid alerting Luna's servants when my hypothesis proved frightfully incorrect.

"Okay, got it," whispered Cherry. "Now what?"

"Now you're going to draw a picture," I explained. "In front of me so I can see it, on the floor. Start with a circle." As Cherry began to inscribe, I bit back my critique of his circle drawing (fun fact for non-mages: drawing a perfect circle without the use of a compass or similar mechanical assistance is a valuable skill we practice often), I decided the structure was good enough, and continued. "Now, draw a line through the middle—let it stick out both ends. Good, and then at one end of the line, draw another line perpendicular to it."

"Perpe-what?"

"Didn't you learn that from Mrs. Aspirations?"

Cherry shook his head. "I'm, um, not very good at math. There isn't much luck involved."

I sighed. "Make a corner at the end of the line, like the corner of a square."

"Oh, okay!"

So my directions continued, even as I watched Metamorphosis' shield waver and flicker and begin to crack, and even as the changeling inside glanced nervously between the shield, my eyes on the floor, and and the little bug beneath her hoof, completely unaware of the danger he was in.

Thankfully, despite his lack of skill in geometry, Cherry was a swift artist—though given I was putting my life in the steadiness of his artistic talent, perhaps swiftness wasn't the virtue that sentence implies.

"Now what?" Cherry asked.

"In a moment, my horn is going to light up and then go out. When it goes out, I want you to stomp your hoof in the middle of that circle and repeat my name. Okay?"

"Mortal Coil?" he confirmed.

I tried to shake my head, and then realized the motion was doomed, and corrected him. "No… I guess at this point, just 'Morty'."

"What then?" he asked.

"I'll handle the rest," I said, and lit my horn as hard as I could. And, with a brief, unpleasant chill, I set my plan in motion.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

"Morty?" asked Celestia, confused, as I floated in the empty sunny void of death, surrounded by billowing clouds and empty sky and utterly devoid of a body. "What—what are you doing here? Again?"

Thankfully, I was less disoriented this time than I had been at my first death. "I won't be here long. Come to the schoolhouse, and—"

And then with a lurch feeling, I was pulled away mid-sentence from my very confused deific mentor.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

I came into being a floating, transparent effigy of my former self, hovering in the air as Cherry finished chanting "Morty, Morty, Mo—oh, wow! I did magic!"

"I guess I owe you more lessons than that," I muttered, guiding my disembodied soul by force of will (the way all souls move, though most don't know the theory behind it and grasp the process on instinct) toward the still collapsed and now comatose form of my own body.

Just as facing Celestia for judgment was less disorienting the second time, piloting my own body as a sort of fleshy suit for my soul was likewise less disconcerting than it had been on my first attempt. Part, I'm sure, was experience—but another part was that I knew this time that the theory was sound.

Also, the threat of death by poison, rather than the threat of bleeding to death by the hole in the back of my neck, was at least a good deal farther away.

Which is to say, I was getting better at being dead. Go figure.

It was surprisingly easy to get to my own hooves once I could do away with the whole business of nerves and mental signals, though I confess the action wasn't as graceful as the standard to which I usually held myself. It also attracted the attention of the other 'adults' in the room, substantially enough that both Summer's flaming breath and Five's magical beam sputtered into nothingness.

"How?" Five asked. "Nopony alive gets up from their poison!"

"Venom," I couldn't help but correct. "It'd be poison if I bit her. And to answer how: getting a soul to drive an unconscious body isn't that much different than getting it to drive a dead one, so it really shouldn't surprise you. I had to guess that my body would still work because her venom was making me dizzy and light-headed—classic signs of a neurotoxin, rather than one that affects muscles—and because of how fast it started to affect the upper part of my body, far from where I got bit. As a disembodied soul, I can skip my own brain and my nerves." I dragged my hoof in a wide arc across the floor, only briefly catching myself before I rubbed out part of Cherry's drawing and quite literally killed myself (again) before extending it laterally in a sort of 'your move' type pose. "So now that I can stand up, and I can cast as many spells as I want again, let's talk a minute. Aspirations—Metamporphosis—whatever; you haven't actually killed anypony, have you?"

"No!" she answered, shaking her head. "The real Aspirations is fine; like I said, I can take her—"

"That's beside the point, Coil," snapped Summer. "They harvest you breathers for your love to power their magic. They're parasites."

"Hmm?" I raised a brow. "Let me make sure I got that right: you're a traitor and a murderer, and I don't think it's a stretch to guess that he's a rapist, but you think I should let you kill a sapient being who hasn't descended to either of those crimes, and is only trying to feed herself?"

"You think you can judge us?" Five snarled.

I scoffed. "Literally, yes. But also, I died to save your choice of Celestia or your beloved 'Mistress', so not only do I have the moral high ground, but I'm so high up that as they say 'you look like ants from up here'." I really need to emphasize, so that you can understand what was about to happen, that I accompanied that last action by rearing up on my hind legs so that I could accompany the quotation with proper 'hoof quotes'.

Summer growled in irritation. "Keep tearing at the shield. I'll keep my eyes on Coil in case he tries anything stupid."

"Ah, you want to talk about practicalities instead of ethics. Good. On the topic of judging souls, for the three-ish seconds I was just dead, I spoke to Celestia; she should be here shortly."

"What?" shouted Metamporphosis, worryingly twitching her hoof near Graargh.

"Calm down," I cautioned. "She already knew about him—frankly, probably a lot more than I do. As long as you don't hurt him, I'll make sure she lets you go." When that left her with some obvious concerns and a notable shake to her hoof, I drew a deep breath and embraced my oldest memories of my first mentor. "But if you lay even a single hoof on him, I promise you: I will make you immortal."

That got Five to cock her head—not diverting the beam that was drilling away at Metamorphosis' shield, but redirecting it to a different point on the shield's surface. "Why would you—"

"Because you have no concept of how much suffering I know how to cause once I don't have to worry about keeping somepony alive."

Those readers of you who find that threat uncharacteristic of me should perhaps know that I was directly quoting Wintershimmer from one occasion in my youth when a fae we were hunting had taken a crystal pony hostage. I don't know that I even had the capability to properly make good on that threat, lacking any proper understanding of how changeling souls or the changeling 'god' worked. But that hardly mattered in the moment. What mattered in my mind was Graargh's safety.

The threat gave some pause to Five, and Metamorphosis pulled her hoof away from Graargh's fragile throat, but my words seemed to have little impact on Summer, who took a rather bold step in my direction, lowered her head as if there were a horn on her brow to threaten me with. "Fifth Brother," she ordered, without removing her slitted gaze from mine. "Let's end this. Teleport into the shield."

Five—obviously 'Fifth Brother'—hesitated. "We aren't supposed to engage in bitting range—"

"If she had the magic for that to be a threat, she wouldn't need that shield." With a flap of her wings, Summer began to hover barely a stride away from me on leather wings. There, she pressed her forehooves against one another, popping the joints in her fetlocks. "What are you waiting for, Five?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Fifth Brother, and the beam from his horn ceased—though the blue glow around it did not. So I grit my teeth and tried something profoundly stupid.

And here, I apologize as a storyteller. In this moment of the highest stakes, with the life of the being who was for all purposes but blood my brother on the line, I have to stop and explain the intricacies of the craft of necromancy.

By strict definition, an undead is created when a natural soul is brought back from death via seance and bound into a body—whether that body was ever actually alive (as was the case for Summer and Fifth Brother) or merely a facsimile prepared for similar purpose (as in the case of Solemn Vow) is immaterial to this definition, even if most ponies picture a rotting corpse when one uses the word 'undead'.

That strict definition, however, misses some nuance of the word 'bound'—for while one can bind a soul into a body in the sense that one binds oneself into a hang-glider before flinging oneself off a cliff (that is, solely for safety, to avoid falling out), most often that word implies restriction, in the case of 'bound' as a synonym for 'enslaved'. This usually takes the form of absolute loyalty to the reanimator (or at least, absolute obedience to their commands—hence my confusion in an earlier Tale when Summer had demonstrated the ability to speak ill of Luna, let alone to sneak away from her duties to visit Blizzard.

These commands are the same spell that attaches the soul to a body (hence the convenience of the word 'bound' in our definition), and in theory, one cannot be broken without the other. But if one stretches the connection between body and soul, those ties that bind can then, if only for a moment, be tinkered with.

I make no qualms about admitting (now) that at the time, Luna was my better at necromancy. I could not casually dismiss the spell binding one of her undead servants. (Even now, that is hardly an easy process.) But that did not mean the Razor didn't have its uses. I grabbed onto Fifth Brother's soul and pulled—and rather than his soul popping free, I felt the sticky, spiderweb-stretchy tendrils of Luna's spell pulling back, dozens if not hundreds of times the better of my own magical strength.

But then, the point wasn't to out-tug them. The point was to find the tendril that demanded Fifth's Brother's obedience, and—in an act of desperate graffiti—to write 'Morty' where 'Luna' had before been carved.

It was a temporary solution; to lean on that strangled metaphor even further, I could feel Luna's magic washing away at my writing even as I finished my signature. But it was enough.

And it all happened in the span of a breath.

"Fifth Brother, stop."

"I—What?" He turned to me, utterly confused. "Mistress?"

Even as those words were escaping between his fangs, Summer lunged at me. And, bless his heart, Cherry Tomato hurled himself into her side. Had she stood on the ground, Cherry would have probably been little match for a living Summer's superior size and muscle mass, even earth pony to pegasus, to say nothing of the undead strength granted by Luna's arcana. But in the air, physics gives the wonderful quality of not providing nearly so much friction with which to push back, and Summer clattered to my side on the floor (though not without beating me across the face with a leathery wing—a feeling I was very grateful not to feel personally thanks to my possession of my own body).

"Release the window; let her go," I ordered Fifth Brother, and without even seeming to think, the dead unicorn's horn complied.

Metamorphosis shouted "Thank you," to me and then released her bubble and leapt out into Everfree City. Summer struggled to rise from her entanglement with Cherry, but even without much resistance on the colt's part, it took enough time for her to rise without hurting him (and to her credit, Summer did at least seem to care about not injuring the young stallion) that by the time she found her hooves and wings again, Metamorphosis was no longer in sight.

Only those few seconds later, Fifth Brother shook his head, seeming to gather his thoughts, and he focused a truly hateful gaze on me, fangs bared, horn lit, and eyes leaking a strange purple-green mana in a pattern that I can only roughly estimate by calling it 'fire'. "What did you do?"

I confess, the answer I would probably have given would have gotten me killed. Thankfully, I was rescued from further violence by a looming white figure in the doorway of the schoolhouse.

"Morty…" Celestia said with a sigh, pinching her muzzle with the crook of her wing even as she bent her head to fit her horn into the room. "This had better not have started with an argument about your literacy."

11-3

XI - III

Bear Witness

The first pony to dare to speak was not yours truly. "We came here hunting changelings per Mistress' orders, and—"

Celestia cut Summer off, shooting her not a proper glare (if you have never seen Celestia truly glare, count yourself fortunate, for I swear it shaves a decade from the health of one's heart), but merely a harsh look. "I know what kind of ponies you must have been in life to be member's of my sister's 'Night Watch'. Morty's word carries more weight with me." Only then did my mentor level her eyes toward me, much softer than they had been toward the living dead mare who had been my foe moments before. "Are you okay? Is anypony injured?"

"I'm technically undead at the moment, but my body is alive. I'm poisoned with changeling venom, though, and I'm also past passed-out from overcasting again. I… actually, let's see…" Then I sat down on my flanks. "I teleported here from my house, then I used the Razor… or no, actually, I didn't flare from that, since it pointed back at me. But then I did rip Husk's shoulder off."

"Husk?" Celestia asked, glancing around the room and setting her eyes on what was very clearly my shoulder—complete with signature identifying jacket.

"One of the changelings," I clarified.

"There were two?" asked Fifth Brother, only to wilt when Celestia fixed him with another strong look. "Um… sorry."

"Yeah, after I ripped off his shoulder, he left because he wasn't 'well-fed'. That was two. After that, I got bit, and I had to get Cherry to paint a glyph in my blood to seance me; great job by the way!"

"You're welcome, Master Coil," Cherry replied with a grin. "It was a lot of fun!"

Celestia glanced between the glyph, Cherry, and myself, and quietly whispered "What have I done?"

I chose to ignore that comment. "Of course, I had to use the Razor on myself, so his seance could work—that's when I popped up in your weird judgment demi-plane or whatever that is. And then once I was back in my body, I used the Razor again on Fifth Brother to take over control of his animation—"

"You did what?" asked Celestia—those italics denoting shock, not anger—as she took a half-stride back and her wings slightly unfurled. "You stole one of them from Luna?"

I shrugged. "For about… what would you say, Five, ten seconds or so?" The dead stallion, thoroughly confused to even be included in the conversation, shrugged. "Yeah, something like that. Remember, Celestia, I may be the Pale Master, but Luna has a pretty unfair lead on me in terms of experience. And also functionally infinite mana. Come to think of it, maybe that makes that achievement more impressive."

"Coil," said Summer dryly, rolling her eyes, "you're telling these stupid jokes while you're dying of poison."

"Eh, it's not that urgent."

Celestia sighed, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. "So you cast five spells? Was that the point of listing that all out?"

"Hmm? Oh; yes, that was the point. Five years down the drain." I let out a sigh; after all the excitement, it was all the emotion I could muster. "But it was worth it, since Graargh is okay. I think…" Then worry crept into my tone. "How long should it take him to come to, now that he's out of that cocoon?"

"That's—?" Celestia asked, concluding the question not with an Equiish word, but with the roar of a grizzle bear. The alicorn took only two strides to clear the distance to where Graargh was laying on the schoolhouse floor. Then, reaching down her head, she gently nuzzled his cheek. "Hey little guy. Are you ready to be awake now?"

"No," grumbled Graargh in a voice far less ursine than his usual—possessing instead what I can only describe as an insectile rasp. "I am hibernating now."

I couldn't help but gasp. "Was that a conjugation of the word 'is'?"

"You must be so proud," Celestia teased gently, before nudging Graargh again. I was again surprised by her unique vocal capabilities when she uttered his ursine name in a much quieter growl, like a den mother addressing a young cub. "Morty and I need you to wake up."

"Nuh-uh…"

"I'll buy you a salmon," offered Celestia in a sing-song tone.

Solid sapphire, multi-faceted insect eyes shot open. "Salmon!" Then, realizing how close he was to Celestia, Graargh's hooves (not his familiar claws) struggled to push him upright—only hurt more by the fact that they slipped and slid in the slime that had spilled on the floor with him from when Metamorphosis had opened the cocoon. "Ah! I—What happened? I was with Aspirations, and—" Frantically looking around, Graargh finally realized I was in the room, and his weird chitinous expression (somehow—given how inflexible chitin normally is) turned to a smile. "Morty!"

"Hey Graargh." I smiled. "Your Equiish has gotten better."

"I do-ed many drills," he answered proudly, before taking stock of the quite thoroughly destroyed classroom. "You hurt? Was there fight? And who are these pony?"

"Ah, I see there's still some improvement to be had." I gestured to the two dead ponies in the room. "Fifth Brother and Su—" and then I caught myself (though Celestia raised a brow silently). "Second Sister. They, uh, work for Luna. You know Cherry already."

"Hi Graargh!" Cherry announced with an enthusiastic wave whose cuteness belied his being a thirteen-year-old colt (damn him). "I'm gonna be a wizard!" Again, Celestia silently raised a brow—having to first lower it solely for that effect.

"And yes, there was a fight," I concluded. "But it's mostly sorted out now. I got bit by a changeling, and I used too much magic… and died again… but it's all sorted out and I'll be okay. Unfortunately, you won't be seeing Mrs. Aspiration anymore."

"I… live with you?"

I took a deep breath and nodded, glancing harshly to Summer. "I think for everypony's safety, that's probably best."

Graargh leapt in the air and (presumably on instinct) fluttered on transparent gossamer wings. This momentary hangtime shocked the young changeling, as he finally looked down at himself and promptly dropped to the ground in shock. "Aah! I—this is not good! Green fire! Bad, bad!"

Celestia roared like a bear quite loudly. "Look at me!" The forceful demand from the mighty figure was enough to shake Graargh from his worries. "You and Morty and I are going to talk about this soon; it isn't a problem or anything to be ashamed of, and you have not done anything wrong. But, for now, do you know how to change?"

"Change?" Graargh asked.

"Pretend," I offered, filling in the term Graargh had learned for the use of his talents. "Can you pretend to be a bear?"

"I am a bear," Graargh corrected, with just a hint of hurt in his voice.

"Graargh," I began with heavy heart, but Celestia cut me off with a wing.

"You are a bear," Celestia agreed with a smile, lowering herself to be closer to his eye level. "But you're a very unique bear," Celestia observed, ending the thought with Graargh's 'native' name. "Most other bears can't change their form like you can. And right now, you're in a different form. So you need to concentrate—to pretend, as Morty put it—so you can go back to being a bear, the way you like."

Graargh smiled, closed his eyes, focused, and in a flash of green flame, my little ursine companion was back. "Better?" he asked.

"Considerably," I answered. Then, when he rushed toward me, I winced and held up a hoof. "Woah, Graargh, hold on; I got bit, remember? I can't carry you on my back right now."

"Aww…" Graargh's disappointment turned to shock when his body was enveloped in a golden glow, though it turned to considerable joy when he was deposited between a pair of gigantic white wings. "Yay! Slestia, thank you!"

"My pleasure," said Celestia, ending the phrase with a small, tasteful roar of address.

"Look, Morty; I'm am bigger than you!"

I couldn't help but chuckle as I shook my head. "Graargh, every time you turn into an adult bear, you're bigger than me. It isn't that unusual for you."

"Oh. Yeah." Graargh smiled at that. "So we go home now?"

"Well, I need Celestia to help me not die again," I admitted. "I'm guessing that means a trip to Mage Meadowbrook?"

Celestia nodded, and then turned to the two undead standing silently in the room. "Go back to my sister, and inform her I wish to speak to her."

"She already knows," said Fifth Brother, before nodding to Summer; then both walking corpses departed through the schoolhouse windows.

"Ominous…" I muttered. "Well, Cherry, you want to walk with us as far as a doctor?"

"Of course, Master," he answered.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

We made it all the way out of the schoolhouse door and into the street before everything went to Tartarus, and as it surprisingly often did, it went there accompanied by the tinny voice of my greatest creation.

"Master Coil!" shouted Angel. "I got help!"

The 'help' in question was a sizeable mass of Cirran legionaries (I would later learn they made up two contubernia of the Praetorian Guard), led by Luna herself. Behind them, though, were a substantial throng of everyday ponies following eagerly to see just what fuss would bring both a small army and the goddess Luna herself out into the city together.

"Sister," Luna bellowed as she approached on wing, gliding downward and then alighting on the street. Upon seeing me, she added with considerably more disdain "Coil. I should have known"

"Luna," I nodded. "You're late, but the sentiment is appreciated."

"Do you think me blind?" Luna demanded, her eyes pointed in hatred. "You think you can tamper with my creations, with my magic, and that I would not notice?"

Celestia shot Luna a warning look. "Sister, may I caution you that this isn't a conversation you want to have in the middle of the street, with the whole city watching?"

At first, the lesser alicorn winced. Then a stubbornness and resentment flashed across her features, and she answered the warning with indignity. "We are goddesses!" Luna proclaimed (much to Celestia's silent disapproval). "I won't be ashamed of what I do to protect these ponies. And I need not be tended after like some newborn foal, Celestia," Luna snapped in answer. "Mind your student; if he interferes in my affairs again, I will end him."

"Luna—" Celestia began to protest, only to stop (not so much in recognition as in surprise as the audacity) when I raised a hoof against her side to indicate that I would speak for myself.

"Your creations wanted to kill Graargh," I explained calmly, gesturing to my friend. "I would have preferred to talk them out of the issue with words, but they took offense at his…" Here, I had at least enough wherewithal to recognize the masses around us, and euphemized "...particular nature, and I had to resort to magic."

"They were defending ponykind," Luna countered. "If they judged he was a threat—"

"They were going to murder a child!" I snapped. "My little brother!"

"Don't be preposterous, Coil; you've known him for, what, three months?"

"Not matters!" Graargh shouted, pulling Luna's attention in a hateful glare. "Why are you so angry? Morty saved me! Why is that bad?"

Luna took a long slow breath, and I watched the muscles in her muzzle slowly relax. "My objection isn't your ongoing life," the alicorn stated. Under her breath, quite audible to me, if not the crowd, she added "No matter how objectionable I may know it to be." Then, again lifting her voice, she continued "I take offense because Coil oversteps his station; in his ambition, he plays at godhood, when he knows nothing of the burden—to say nothing of the responsibility—of our station. And he dares to interfere in my work, to second guess my defense of ponykind from threats you cannot even imagine."

"We are not gods, sister," Celestia warned.

"Aren't we?" Luna snapped back spitefully. "Perhaps you should let one of them raise the sun tomorrow then, sister. If Coil really is our equal, I admit, I might enjoy seeing what is left of his horn afterwards."

The pale face of Celestia flashed with… some emotion, complex and deep enough between the two ancient sisters that I would not presume to describe it casually here. "There's no call for that, Luna. If you feel that strongly, I'm sure Morty will agree not to get involved with your Night Watch—"

"Night Guard," Luna corrected.

Celestia let out a small sigh. "I'm sure Morty will give them plenty of space in the future. Right, Morty?"

"I'm not sure I want to make that promise," I observed. "Who knows what innocent pony I'll have to save from her 'protection' next."

"I meant what I said," Luna warned, taking a towering alicorn-sized stride to loom over me. "If you interfere with them again, my sister's patronage won't protect you. Or are you still high enough on your victory over your decrepit teacher that you think yourself my equal in magic?"

"Luna, I don't even think I'm Wintershimmer's equal in magic yet," I answered defiantly (an odd phrase on which to be defiant, in retrospect). "If you think I went into that duel expecting to come out alive, you completely misunderstood why I did it in the first place."

"Then I suggest you find a method of suicide less irritating to the mare who may be judging your soul."

I shook my head. "You really still don't get it? Let me be blunt: I was willing to die for Graargh. I almost did, five minutes ago. That's not because I think I can best you with magic, or because I expect everything to just work out somehow; it's because it's worth the effort anyway, even if it does kill me." I nodded to Celestia, and she offered me a small smile of approval (which would prove to be quite short-lived indeed). "So go ahead and threaten me. Smite me, mighty goddess; I'm waiting right here. Show all these ponies who you really are, and see how many of them still worship you. But I'm telling you right now, you and Star Swirl and Platinum and whoever else might want me to sit down, be quiet, and find somewhere to die: I will not go quietly into the night. I won't stand idly by while my friends are hurt. And when my real time finally comes, if I find myself standing in front of you instead of Celestia, I'll spit in your face and walk into Tartarus on my own hooves. And I'll do it with a better smile than you'll ever wear."

Luna's horn flickered briefly, very much like a cat's claws briefly extending and contracting from its paws. All was quiet in the street for a very long moment. Then she spread her wings to their full extent—much as Celestia had when she stood behind Gale at her coronation—and fixed me with a rather calm stare. "So be it, Mortal Coil. If you and yours wish to exist outside my protections, I shall not force them on you. But do not think you can call to me in desperation in your dreams again."

"Morty, Luna, can we please—"

"No Celestia, we cannot," Luna interrupted her sister. "Iacta alea est. I advise you teach the colt what dangers lurk in real nightmares." With that ominous threat, the worst pony who ever lived took to wing and departed into the sky.

There followed a somewhat concerning silence, which Cherry Tomato finally broke with the most chipper and banal of observations. "Wow. That sounds scary, Master Morty."

"Why do you keep calling him that, Cherry?" Celestia asked.

"I'm gonna learn to be a wizard!" Cherry answered with a mile-wide grin. "And since wizards call their teachers 'Master' instead of 'Sir', he's Master Morty, right?"

"It's Master Coil, if you're being formal, young sir," Angel corrected, hovering over.

"But when I drew on the floor to do the spell he taught me, he said the name I was supposed to say was 'Morty'. And he got very grumpy when Mrs. Aspirations—or I guess her real name was Metamorphosis—called him just 'Mortal'."

"It's fine," I told my new apprentice and my assistant before their discussion could turn to bickering. "Angel, go home, and pass along that I'll likely be late for lunch; maybe even dinner. Oh, and Graargh will be joining us going forward, though probably not for dinner tonight."

"Of course, sir. I'll see we keep some tea on, and perhaps some soup?" When I nodded, the little golem darted off.

"Cherry, do you have somewhere to go home to?"

"Oh, of course." Cherry smiled. "My mom and dad are very encouraging."

"You're not an orphan?" I asked with a raised brow. When Cherry shook his head in oblivious denial, I did catch Celestia raise a brow beside me. "I guess I just assumed between being a squire to Count Halo, and then asking to be apprenticed to me."

"Nope," Cherry replied. "I just had a good feeling about it. And I still do." He smiled. "It was a lot of fun getting to be in a fight and do real magic with you! Should I come by your house tomorrow?"

I smiled, and midway through my nod, felt the barest hint of a pain in my flank. "Er, actually, better give it two or three days; poisons are notorious for taking a while to heal."

"Three sounds good!" With a wave and a chipper smile, Cherry departed with two more adieu-s. "Goodbye, Lady Celestia! Bye-bye," Cherry then attempted to emulate Celestia's roaring, and for once demonstrated a lack of an uncanny natural ability.

"Just 'Graargh' is ok. Bye Cherry!" shouted my little bear, rolling his eyes. Celestia merely smiled and waved a wing.

And then there were just the three of us…

…or so I thought, until the multitudinous masses of Everfree City realized that our little party's internal chatter was over, and the more ambitious and journalistic members of the observing crowd rushed in on us.

"Archmage Coil, Held Presses, Ridgeline Review! What just happened? It sounded like Lady Luna was responsible for the fight that destroyed the schoolhouse?"

"I'm not an archmage yet," I gently tried to correct, though even midway through that sentence I was already being shouted over.

"Sir, April Kneel, Equestria Daily! What—"

"Loose Lace, Pony Planet—"

"Roan Burgundy—

"Any comments on rumors that you're sleeping with the Queen?"

"Can I request an exclusive interview?!"

"Peter-Out Parks; Bugle's Call, can you—"

"Ahem!" Celestia said, accompanied by (all things being equal, knowing how much strength she actually commanded) a completely calm and moderated stomp of one hoof. And then, instantly, almost everything was quiet.

I say almost everything because one little voice had the audacity to carry on right through Celestia's call for peace.

"Ey, don't step on me, idjit." Pushing past the mass of adult newsponies was a remarkably familiar and audacious young face. "'Ello, Mistah Coil. Reed Allaboutit, Equestrian Journal."

Celestia turned with a very concerned look on her face to me. "I'm starting to be worried by the number of foals a pony your age is acquainted with."

I rolled my eyes. "Look, I bribed her for directions to get to Gale after the whole debacle at the… what was it called, Parliament?"

"Th' Stable 'uv Nobles," Reed offered.

"Right, that. Speaking of which, don't you just sell the papers?"

Reed donned a broad grin, showing off at least one missing tooth I hadn't noticed before, and brandished her newscap. "I got pro-moted, on accounta' knowin you, Mistah Bigshot. By Mistah Hearse 'imself."

One of the other newsponies coughed heavily into her foreknee. "Ahem, Mister Coil; could some of the rest of us treat you some questions?"

"Well, I'm slowly being poisoned to death… but I can probably field one or two. Calmly. And you'll have to walk with me. Um… you, in the red hat; did you say your name?"

The stallion didn't re-introduce himself, instead pushing straight on to the business of journalism. "Would you like to elaborate on your conflict with the goddess Luna? And perhaps her desire to, per your accusations, kill your little brother?"

I took a deep breath before answering, but Celestia beat me to the punch. "My sister's subordinates demonstrated a lack of judgment which I will be discussing with her privately later. Morty has no further comment at this time."

"Morty?" one of the newsponies asked.

"Ooh, I know this one!" Graargh exclaimed from my back. "Gale make up name because Morty do not like his name, because it is like 'Bucket Punt'."

As one, about thirty journalists cocked their heads in confusion.

"Alright." I sighed. "I'm gonna have to give longer interviews if you want me to unpack that one. Let me make try and make this simple. I'm a wizard, which means I fight monsters to protect my fellow ponies."

"Do Archmage Star Swirl and Archmage Diadem fight monsters?" one of the wizards asked.

I couldn't help but roll my eyes. "Star Swirl certainly used to. Diadem, I couldn't tell you, but I get the sense she's too busy being a schoolteacher to actually be a wizard."

Celestia set a wing on my back, leaned her neck over to put her mouth near my ear, and gently whispered "You've already made more than enough enemies today, Morty."

I made a point to cough into my hoof to clear the air. "Anyway, I discovered there was danger from a monster in the schoolhouse there, and I went to confront it before any foals got hurt."

"What kind of monster?"

"Don't answer that," Celestia snapped, perhaps too quickly to make the response seem remotely comfortable to a group of newsponies—but in her defense, she did at least catch me before I spoke further.

"A particularly insidious, venomous kind," I offered, with a glance to where my leg was still bleeding as I walked down the road. "Hence my comment about slowly dying. I dealt with the monsters, but not before Luna's… helpers… arrived. And, suffice it to say, we had a little bit of disagreement about Graargh."

"Graargh?"

"I defy you to put the right pronunciation in your paper," I replied with a chuckle. "Celestia, can you pronounce your name for us?"

Graargh, of course, let out an ursine roar, and to my immense satisfaction, it was followed by dozens of ponies frantically scribbling onto little notepads with tiny pencils.

Celestia donned the tiniest, cheekiest grin, and noted "You need to say it slower if you want them to be able to spell it," and then echoed the roar—as she had prescribed, drawing out each 'syllable' in the ursine bellow.

The scratching of pencils stopped abruptly, as the journalists were briefly reminded that behind her gentle demeanor and generally positive attitude, Celestia was the still the primal, nigh-immortal being who defined the passage of day. And she, in turn, could not resist a wry wink with her one visible eye.

I took the silence that her noise left behind to speak up. "If you want to ask about Wintershimmer, or the Battle of Platinum's Landing or what have you, I'll invite you to talk to my butler at Twenty-Four Ridgeline Road."

"The haunted house?" one of the newsponies asked with a gasp.

Much more calmly, Celestia queried "You have a butler? Do you mean Angel?"

I briefly winced, but given (as Luna had put it in Cirran) the die was already cast, so I elected to tell her as… well-trimmed of a truth as I could. "That's what I needed the ponyquin for, that night you taught me about glyphs. Angel is wonderful as a mage's companion, but he isn't the best for keeping a house."

"Ah." Celestia nodded, and I had no idea if she suspected anything further. (Truth be told, I still don't, though the point is rather immaterial now.) "Well, mares and gentlestallions, as Morty has indicated, he is actually dying. And while asking questions of the already-dead might not be much of an issue for his talents as a necromancer," (Celestia's comment got a few gasps, though it seemed Everfree City was getting more familiar with that idea following my encounter with Count Halo), "I promise you're all going to have a much easier time getting your stories out of him if we get him to a doctor first. Thank you for your dedication to keeping Equestria informed."

With that conclusion, perhaps less elegant than her more modern practiced standard but certainly still possessing her timeless grace, Celestia dispersed the crowd and led me on toward sorely needed medicine.

11-4

XI - IV

The Second Worst Being in this Story

If you look back at the cover I have commissioned for this tome of mine, and you're clever about putting silhouettes with names, you'll realize that all but one of the figures so depicted have been introduced in our story thus far. But now, here at the close of our first act, as we see all the pieces on the board of what Equestria's nobleponies might call 'the great game', we can at last introduce our final player.

The better part of a week after the confrontation in the schoolhouse, miles beyond what was then Equestria's southern border, in a barren badland devoid of all life, one can find a gray palace riddled with holes, jutting out of the dead earth like the abominable hybrid of the Crystal Spire and a wasp nest. Dozens of stories tall, and descending into the earth with tunnels even I cannot claim to have walked, it is a blight not just on the surrounding land, but the entire world.

This accursed place was (and is) the original changeling hive, and at its apex, in a chamber consuming its tallest notch-ridden spire, Infiltration Commandant Husk stood before a black throne, broad and pocked and brittle like a mockery of a lotus petal.

"Then, my queen, I ordered that Metamorphosis apply her magic to cleanse the wizard's memory, and extract the rogue drone."

Atop the throne, a foreleg that seemed for its structure like as much chitin-coated cheese rose to stroke the chin of an unusually tapered muzzle. "And where are this infiltrator and the drone now, Husk?"

"I… do not know, my queen. I would not have expected them to be far behind me."

The queen closed her eyes and nodded… and then a slight smile built on the edge of her muzzle. "You are unusually brave, even for a changeling of your station, Husk."

"Thank you, my queen."

The greater changeling nodded. "Most changelings would not dare to lie to my face so boldly."

Immediate worry flashed over Husk—once more wearing his insectoid form instead of the far preferable visage of your writer. "Queen Chrysalis, I—"

"Silence, Husk," she interrupted. And here, in case some reader is familiar with that former name, I should briefly stop.

Changelings, you must understand, are like Celestia and Luna and the other so-called gods, and also like lobsters and certain tortoises, hydras, etc. While some members of this group (Celestia et al) are often mistakenly called 'immortal', (unlike yours truly) they are merely what one might call 'ageless', or if one is feeling scientific, 'negligibly senescent'. That is to say, changelings—and lobsters and Luna and whatnot—can absolutely die from, for example, disease or a carefully wielded knife or even a pair of scissors applied tactically to the neck; however, they do not age, and thus aging will never lead to a fatal failure in health by itself.

Thus, the Chrysalis I describe here is—at least at the time of writing—still the queen of the changelings; the name 'Chrysalis' is not some inherited title used to present a false continuity of rule or something similarly ridiculous. Chrysalis is 'immortal' not because she has a godlike power like Celestia, nor is she actually immortal like certain examples of especially handsome unicorn; she merely has the biological advantage of a changeling combined with a particular knack for being exceptionally difficult to kill, despite my best efforts.

That being said, the average lifespan of a changeling as a shape-changing predator in a cruel and punishing hive-society like that which Chrysalis rules has more in common with the philosopher Hobnail's Leviathan (that is, that they are nasty, brutish, and short) than with yours truly. So (barring Chrysalis herself) I doubt there is even a single changeling who was alive at the time this story took place who still draws breath at the time of its writing.

For any readers who have had the good fortune not to meet the bug queen herself, Chrysalis rather resembles a parody of Celestia: standing on even longer legs, and with an even longer horn, Chrysalis nevertheless lacks any of Celestia's more favorable ability to occupy such a body; she tends to move with jittering motions and to be at rest with her joints at frankly uncomfortable angles. Her mane, rather than radiating elegance and magical power, is a sort of mucusy green mop, or perhaps a fair portion of kelp she glued onto her neck centuries ago and has never quite found the time to replace. Chrysalis also shared the holes in her legs and tail and most other extremities common to her species, as well as the changeling curiosity of having a completely smooth horn. (If you have suffered the misfortune of meeting her, note only that this is not a mistake in my writing).

In that moment long ago, Chrysalis seemed completely enamored with the glee of being the figure in power in her 'play court'. A particular look of sadistic euphoria overtook her features as she glanced to one of the many tunnels leading into the throne chamber. "Metamorphosis, please come forward."

"What?" Husk snapped, his worry turning to rage. "Infiltrator, you're back? Why didn't you report to me—"

"I directed her not to, Husk," Chrysalis interrupted the lesser changeling's rage. "I had some concerns about the report of the incident in Everfree City, and I wanted to get a second opinion. Metamorphosis, would you mind repeating for the court the orders that Husk gave you as he departed?"

Metamorphosis (now also clad in the form of a black bug-pony, such that even all these years later I couldn't actually tell the difference between the two at a glance) was noticeably less happy to be standing before Chrysalis (and the rest of the changeling 'court') than her superior; with a hunched down posture that rather reminded me of Blizzard, she said "I… was ordered to kill the wizard."

"Interesting," said Chrysalis, drawing out each syllable to make it linger as long as possible. "And Husk, I suppose I should check: were you aware of my orders regarding taking pony lives?"

Husk nodded hesitantly. "Y-yes, my queen."

"Hmm. Would you care to repeat them for the court? I would like to know if there was some sort of mis-communication in the hive."

Despite lacking an apple of the throat, Husk nevertheless visibly swallowed in nervousness. "O-of course, my queen. Your orders are not to kill ponies under any circumstances."

"Hmm. Good," said Chrysalis nodding. "Good. I'm glad we don't have a problem with communication. Now, since you did have my orders, Commandant Husk, I do have to ask: was there some part of them you didn't understand? Were those words confusing to your little mind?"

"N-No, my queen."

"Good, good. I like to think any drone that rises to an infiltration commandant would be reasonably intelligent. Though, that does raise another question, doesn't it?"

"I… suppose so, my queen."

"Would you like to tell the court what you suppose the next question is, Husk?"

Despite his exoskeleton blocking most view of an 'apple of the throat', it was painfully apparent that Husk swallowed nervously. "Why would I give an order to kill a pony against your commands?"

Chrysalis gave a small applause. "Well done, Husk! Well done; I'm very proud of you. Truly, I didn't think I had it in you." The applause ended abruptly as Chrysalis lunged forward out of her throne, skittering across the floor with unnatural speed to finally rise up to her full, abominable height over the nervous drone, who shrunk back until he was fully laying on his belly on the throne room floor. "Do you have any justification for why you would give such an order?"

"Y-yes, my queen."

"Oh!" Here, Chrysalis again shifted her entire mood, once more dropping into that amused, grinning tyrant that she had been mere moments before. "Oh, you do! Well, that's very good." With a buzzing of her gossamer wings, Chrysalis flitted back to her throne and reclined once more. "Well, Husk? Let's hear it."

Husk swallowed again. "Well… My queen, some years ago, before I was a commandant, I was assigned as a builder drone for the new hive at Vesalopolis."

Chrysalis' brow rose, but the changeling queen said nothing, allowing the lesser parasite to continue.

"Um… I—I was there when the unicorn attacked."

"Hmm…" Chrysalis nodded. "That's very interesting. But, knowing what I know about the lifespans of ponies, and my reports on the unicorn colt, I am quite confident he was not that pony. Given he is not, what, fifty years old? Sixty?"

"No, my queen. That pony was this one." In a burst of green flame, Husk the changeling disappeared, and in his place appeared the young thirty-something Wintershimmer I had witnessed in the schoolhouse.

"And this means something to me because…?"

"This pony is called Winters—something. It's a strange name even for a pony." Then, in another burst of green fire, Wintershimmer vanished and the general aesthetic of the room was improved several notches as 'I' appeared. "This is the pony in question, Mortal Coil."

Chrysalis snorted, and then failed to restrain a chortle."Mortal Coil? Really?"

"Apparently his parents didn't like him very much, my queen," said Metamorphosis nervously. "But yes, that is his name."

After the moment of mirth died, Chrysalis steepled her hooves and nodded. "So Husk, you inferred by their matching attire that this—snrk—this 'Mortal Coil' was in some way related to the unicorn who destroyed the young hive?"

"His student, regardless of what other ties they might have shared," Husk replied in my voice. "And given the magic he exhibited in our brief conflict, I believe he represents a similar threat. He was also the 'guardian' of the rogue drone, so he likely knows a great deal about us. Knowing those facts, and because he confronted us knowing what we were, I made the decision that he was a great enough risk that it was worth defying your rule."

"Hmm…" Chrysalis nodded slowly. "You have built a sturdy argument, Husk."

Husk's face brightened considerably.

"It is a shame the ground you built it on is unstable."

Husk winced. "My queen?"

"Do you honestly think we couldn't have killed or replaced whatever unicorn wiped out the little hive? Ponies sleep, Husk. They bathe, and eat and drink and get ill, and perhaps most of all, they trust. Any single pony is trivial to deal with, by any number of methods."

"But if that unicorn goes on the offensive—"

"Then what will he do? Come here, where his magic won't work? Join Luna's hounds hunting us in the streets? Think, Husk. Luna already knows we exist. Celestia already knows. What difference does one child in a special jacket make compared to that?" Chrysalis sighed. "Is this really so hard to grasp? As long as we don't kill them in the streets, we remain a nuisance instead of a threat. That means the hive stays fed, and we stay alive."

A tiny bit of iron snuck its way into Husk's voice, some indignation at those words. "And is that what we're going to be forever? A nuisance that gets squashed underhoof if we get caught?"

When Chrysalis moved, there was no chance for any being present to comment on how jerky or insectile or unnatural she was, because she moved faster than the eye could follow. In one moment, she was reclining on her black throne. The next, her hoof bashed down into Husk's brow, slamming the smaller changeling down so hard that both the exoskeletal chitin on his crown and his chin bore cracks. When he tried to push himself up, he found his queen standing on his head.

"No, please, Commandant; don't feel the need to get up," the queen snarled. "The sentence for your disobedience is death, but right now I think the whole hive can learn a valuable lesson from what you just said. I've had a plan for a very long time, Husk, of how to change what we do with the ponies. How we could make them serve us, instead of hiding and… how did you put it? Ah, right—getting squashed underhoof." As she said those words, Chrysalis ground her hoof onto the other changeling's head, and his chitin cracked further from the force. "The problem, the reason I've had to be so patient, was that the ponies weren't together, and Celestia and Luna were in hiding. And until that changed, I couldn't solve our problems. Now, finally, our time is here, and you have the audacity to complain to me about some colt wearing a jacket you don't like? You're worried about somepony that small when Celestia is finally almost in my grasp?"

Between and through groans, Husk managed to beg out "I'm sorry, my queen."

"As you should be," she answered coldly. "Don't worry, Husk; I'm not going to kill you. Since the problem here is that you lack perspective on what 'forever' means, I think I'll help you understand how long I've been waiting for this moment. You can spend it in a cocoon. Awake."

"A-as my queen commands."

"I wonder if you will be as obedient in six thousand years." Changelings watching the court unfurl gasped in a chorus. "Let me give you this order: cultivate a hatred of Celestia in your time alone, and remember you brought this on yourself. If you come out insubordinate, I won't hesitate to reinstate your original sentence."

"My queen…" Across the throne room, Metamorphosis timidly raised a hoof, much as a foal in her school class might.

"You're very brave," Chrysalis noted, with a slight grin but absolutely no genuine humor in the barren desert of her tone of voice, as her eyes swiveled to the other changeling. "Yes?"

"Um… If your point is to hurt Celestia, Coil is her apprentice. Perhaps killing him would help that?"

Chrysalis cocked a brow. "You're arguing in his defense?"

"Y-yes, my queen."

"Even though his lie might have meant I blamed you for the outright disaster of our operations in Everfree City?"

"He is my commandant, my queen."

"Your loyalty is admirable," Chrysalis observed with a nod, and her expression softened. Then, rather quickly, she frowned—not in disappointment, but thought. "Celestia took an apprentice?"

A brief dip of her chin was all the motion Metamorphosis gave as she spoke, now rather petrified under the queen's gaze. "Yes, my queen. All of us infiltrators in Commandant Husk's swarm were told about the rogue drone, and his retrieval became top priority. By luck, in one of my aliases in the pony court, I overheard Celestia asking about schools for foals, and she mentioned the student was unusual. I replaced the schoolteacher on that hunch, and it paid off. But that's also how Coil came to me; Celestia sent him because she wanted him to learn how to read."

"An illiterate wizard?" Chrysalis stared for a solid three seconds, blinking twice, as her brain struggled to parse the thought, before finally shaking her head and giving up. "Celestia hasn't taken an apprentice in millenia…" Then, slowly nodding like an approving parent, the insect tyrant donned a slight smile. "Alright, infiltrator; let it never be said I'm not a forgiving queen. Husk, you are stripped of command; you'll operate as an infiltrator under my direct command for the time being. But before I give you orders, I'm afraid we need to address you, Metamorphosis…"

"Of course, my queen," Metamorphosis bowed her head. "Thank you."

"You failed to retrieve the rogue drone, and abandoned him to capture by the ponies."

Metamorphosis swallowed. "He was already with them, my queen. I admit I failed in my task, but—"

"I've already been generous at your request to Husk, haven't I?" Chrysalis clicked her forked tongue against the roof of her mouth thrice, before she continued. "Though I admit there are extenuating circumstances, I can't afford to be seen as too soft. The punishment for causing a fellow changeling to be taken alive by a host species is banishment, and that will be your fate."

"My queen!" gasped Husk.

"Oh, you shut up, Husk; you were trying to throw her under the wagon by lying to my face anyway." Chrysalis rolled her eyes before once more settling them on Metamorphosis. "As I was saying: Metamorphosis, you are banished from the changeling hive. No other changeling is to give you quarter or provide you with the hive's love, under pain of banishment as well. This punishment is only to be lifted if you redeem yourself with an exceptional service to the hive." Black lips grinned. "Normally, banishment is a slow death, but because you've been so helpful even in this failure, let me offer you some advice. Most ponies don't know about changelings, and if you were to reveal our existence to them, I would send a senior infiltrator to have you silenced. However, you know of a pony who already knows about our existence, so revealing yourself to him wouldn't be in violation of our laws. Not only that, but this pony already has a pattern of offering shelter—and I assume even love, given the rogue drone hasn't starved—to changelings in need. He's even faced down Luna's hunters on your behalf… and if they smell our magic around him, what will they expect but the rogue drone? Since you aren't going to get any help from us, I'd say your only reliable chance of survival is to throw yourself on his mercy. And who knows; if you lay low long enough, and you get close enough, there may come a time when the rest of my plan is in motion when the hive might reach out with an idea on how you could earn your redemption. Do I make myself perfectly vague?" Chrysalis chuckled at her own joke.

"O-of course, my queen."

"Then—I do love getting to say this—get out of my sight, and never return!"

Chrysalis waited some time as Metamorphosis ran out of the chamber, enjoying the drama of the exclamation and the moment, before at last raising a hoof frog-up (well, insofar as changelings have 'frogs' to their hooves; really, they just end in a flat, chitinous plate at the bottom of the leg) and waiting for just a moment. Before long, a single onyx beetle, seemingly lacking eyes or horns or legs, and consisting solely of a shell and wings, descended on her hoof. There, it opened its shell, and its green wings began to glow—soon, they formed the border of a magical image, like a mirror. That image, at first a plain green, fractured like a badly broken mirror (or the multi-faceted eye of a fly), and then revealed the faces of dozens of changelings, and a similar number of ponies (or, one might reasonably infer, disguised changelings).

"My favored children; commandants and harvesters, royal guards and hive architects; the time has come to put a new plan into action. Harvesting in Everfree City is now forbidden; ongoing harvests may complete their current crop, but then you are to transition to targeting secondary populations. Commandant Antenna, you and your soldier drones are to monitor the coming and going of Luna's hunters when they leave Everfree City, and to warn the relevant harvesting teams to reduce activity; harvest quotas will be adjusted in those events, so your teams don't need to be afraid of punishment if Luna starts sniffing around. Commandant Molt, I want you to find me a discreet location nearer Everfree City where I can personally direct replacements in the city. Mandible, the main hive is yours during my absence; just keep it running, and await my orders. In the next two weeks, once I'm settled, I want all senior infiltrators and commandants to report to me personally. Once you're assigned a role, unless I order you otherwise, you are to operate in complete silence; you will not fulfill multiple roles, you will not harvest beyond what you need to maintain your role, and you will not draw attention. Are there any issues with these orders?"

"My queen," said one changeling, "Using our best swarms for replacement isn't sustainable; our love reserves will run dry in a few years at most—"

"I doubt our moment will take that long to arrive," interrupted Chrysalis. "But if it does, we will adjust. Your concern is noted, Honeycomb, and appreciated. But trust in your queen."

"Of course, my queen."

"Anychangeling else?" Chrysalis waited several seconds, and then nodded. "You have your orders. Soon, we will never want for love again."

When the beetle closed its wings and flitted away, Chrysalis found Husk standing before her, head bowed (doing a great job of showing off the cracks in his chitin that he hadn't yet shapeshifted to heal). "You said you had new orders for me, My Queen?"

"Hmm? Ah, yes; I have a particular role for you to play, Husk. But I shall introduce it once we are relocated."

Husk nodded, and then stood somewhat conspicuously, not meeting the queen's gaze, until at last the leader of the changelings let out a groan. "You're obviously wanting to ask something, Husk; spit it out."

"My queen, forgive my impertinence; you said you've been putting this plan together for a very long time." Nervously swallowing, he added "A very long time. Can I ask what the next step is? What is all this infiltration and redirection for?"

Chrysalis chuckled. "You certainly can. But I can't tell you."

"I'm sorry I do not warrant that trust."

"Hmm? Oh, no; I can't tell you because I don't know. The plan doesn't have steps, the way you're thinking of. Remember, Husk, we are changelings, not… well, for example, not the unicorn wizard you fear so much. Our greatest advantage is that we can wait invisibly for the perfect moment. And then, in the right place, at the right time, we strike. This new 'Equestria' is powerful, and unsteady, and full of chaos. The worst thing we could ever do is set ourselves to some specific plan of how we want them to make themselves vulnerable. No, no, our plan is to wait and watch and use whatever openings they give us, gently prod when and where we can to make the situation even worse for them, and keep our eyes peeled for the right moment to strike."

"And Celestia and Luna? Won't they stabilize Equestria?"

"You think the sisters are a stabilizing force?" Chrysalis barked out the harshest, and perhaps most genuine, laugh that I have yet recorded. "No, they simply haven't found a conflict that exposes their unique brand of chaos. And that, Husk, is where your special role may yet come in."

Sunset's Hoofnotes:

I always assumed Queen Chrysalis was a changeling queen… but if she's that old, is she the only changeling queen?

I don't think this chapter matters to what's going on right now, unlike all the stuff Starlight said, but now I really want to ask one of Twilight's changeling friends about how changelings 'work'.

Interlude IX - The Black Carriage

Interlude IX

The Black Carriage

Sunset Shimmer frowned when an earlier copy of this book was pushed down from her line of sight by a red hoof. "You having fun with book time?" Red Ink grumbled in his thick Stalliongradi accent. "We need to talk."

"Something wrong?"

"I died," Ink replied with a tone bitterer and flatter than I have often heard, before offering the Mentor Medallion to Sunset in a proffered wing. "Magic necklace wants to talk. Also, Celestia is coming here."

Sunset quickly donned the magical amulet, and almost immediately heard its suave voice in her mind. "You should kill him for a minute or two so he can tell Celestia that won't be necessary. Also, given how many things have gone catastrophically wrong in Canterlot in recent history, I'm not sure it's the best idea for her to come somewhere this dangerous."

"You're worried about Princess Celestia's safety?" Sunset raised a brow, then winced as her mind caught up with her 'mental ears'. "Wait, did you just say—"

"Somepony has to; although I deferred that job a long time ago…"

Ink (despite not hearing that comment) rolled his eyes. "There will be an Honor Guard contingent with her."

"Oh. Well, that's better then." Sunset looked down at the medallion with a brow raised in confusion, and it expounded. "In all seriousness, I was wondering why she hadn't sent Hurricane in the first place."

"I'm sorry, what? Hurricane? And you still didn't explain—"

"Yeah… You said she gave you Tales, so obviously she trusts you; is this really a surprise?"

"What about Commander Hurricane?" Somnambula asked, ears perked up and wandering over.

The medallion sighed. "Okay… I'm going to need to drive for a moment, Sunset, if that's okay."

"Uh, I'm not sure about that; I—" And with a quite distinct tone, even in Sunset's timbre, her voice continued. "Mr. Ink, was it?"

"Am I talking to Morty?" Ink asked in reply. "You're just going to steal her body?"

Sunset's head nodded. "We were about to have a very long talk about ethics, and out in the field not far away from the last windigo is neither the time nor the place for hesitation—so I decided this was in our group, and Equestria's, best interests. Tell Celestia she can meet us in Stalliongrad if she absolutely—what's with the wince?"

"It's pronounced Stol'nograd," Ink corrected.

Mentor put a mild smile on Sunset's lips. "Ah, a native. Well, if you prefer archaic names, tell her she can meet us in River Rock tomorrow afternoon—though there's really no need, everything is under control. Ask her why she hasn't sent Hurricane, and if he's free, have her send him, or at least somepony with his armor. The two of us should be able to sort this whole mess out a lot faster than the four of you—no offense intended."

Ink frowned. "I can't fly back to Canterlot in one day; I'm not a wonderbolt."

"I had no intention of asking you to fly anywhere," Mentor told Ink, right before murdering him.

That turn of phrase is, I admit, not appropriate to the magnitude of violence in the events that took place; namely, Sunset's horn lit, Red Ink went very rigid, and then he likely would have collapsed onto his side were it not for magic keeping him upright.

"Morty! What the hell?!" Sunset demanded, relegated to a voice inside her own head.

Ignoring the voice in his head (which continued even through the following conversation, impotently and frustratedly), Mentor asked aloud "Anypony have a watch?"

"What for?" Tempest replied, wandering over, before raising a brow at the glow of magic around the short pegasus.

"Celestia can be a bit long-winded when somepony drops in unannounced to have their soul judged, and I want to make sure this Red Ink character has enough time to get the whole message across before we bring him back again."

"Soul judged?" Somnambula asked, and then her eyes went wide. "Wait, you killed him?!"

"Only for a couple minutes," Mentor replied, only to let Sunset's face grow sour at the look of condemnation Somnambula shot him. "Really, Somnambula? It's efficient. And I'm driving Sunset to avoid having this conversation."

"You can't just kill ponies because it is convenient, Morty. I wouldn't want to just be killed any time you wanted to talk to Celestia. That seems very rude. At least do it to yourself."

Sunset's eyes rolled at Mentor's whim. "What I have in place of a soul doesn't work that way anymore. And even if it did, I don't trust this 'Sunset' pony to resurrect a normal soul correctly, let alone mine. I mean, come on, she had to have me bring him back the first time. Besides, he was already dead when I found him. It's like… returning the favor."

"Morty." Somnambula chided, folding her wings onto her hips.

Something about that five-letter name changed Mentor—perhaps it was Somnambula saying it, perhaps it was the tone of condemnation. Whatever the cause, immediately the bumbling justifications stopped, and a hardness settled over Sunset's body. "'Morty' hasn't been my name in eight hundred years, and even then, I haven't been the pony you remember for a thousand before that, Somnambula. Don't presume to chide me when you're one one-hundredth of my age."

That chastisement deflated something in Somnambula; certainly, her firm stance failed, but more than that, a weight fell across her features, and she stepped back behind the rest of the group in the small gathering; after a moment, she even wandered away up the tunnel to gaze down into the ravine into which the last windigo had disappeared.

"Harsh, Mentor," Daring Do muttered. "You that much of a jerk to most new wearers, or this one just get on your nerves?"

"I'm a thousand years old, and I just found out I'm about to die," Mentor snapped in reply.

"Can you die?"

Tempest shook her head. "Celestia wants us to bring 'Mortal Coil' back to her. And if the medallion is part of him…" She shrugged. "He used to be a real pony, and not a necklace."

"I used to be part of a pony with a real body," was the reply. "Daring, here's the first lines for your next book: Once upon a time, there was a very handsome necromancer who took a razor and carved up his soul."

Daring Do rolled her eyes. "I'm not writing that schlock."

(She did, sort of. Her name's on it, anyway.)

"After the Twilight War, one of the things Morty did, around the time he was writing Tales and trying to get Equestria back to working order, was to make me: the Mentor Medallion. The Order of the Sparrows—a sort of secret knightly order of do-gooders—had been instrumental in the war, but while a few had survived, their leadership had largely given their lives in the fight. The idea was to pour all the lessons he learned about how to be that kind of wandering hero—both moral and practical—into me, and then let me get passed down through the Order, from initiate to initiate, until they've learned enough that they're not likely to get themselves killed."

"You didn't mention it was that temporary of an arrangement," Daring noted with a touch of venom in her voice.

"Well, normally that's obvious when I get hoofed off by the senior pony. But since you got me off a corpse… and I guess I have to clarify for present company, an inanimate one…" Sunset's body sighed. "That should be long enough." And then, after a surge of magic, Red Ink's eyes opened. "Message delivered?"

"Fuck you, necklace cyka. Yes, I gave her your message. If you ever do that again, I'll melt you."

The threat was answered with a scoff. "Don't be a foal; it doesn't even hurt. And for the record, I doubt you could hurt me. We're both fine."

"You killed me."

"For two minutes? These days, ponies are dead that long in hospitals and come back without magic. Sunset, I'm gonna give you back driving, but before I do: driving like this to do magic drains me; I'm gonna have to sleep for a bit. In a couple minutes, you're going to see a black carriage flying in the sky up there. Flare it down with magic or fire or something; I don't know what the mare driving it will be named, but ask her to take you to Stalliongrad to meet up with Celestia. And if she gives you any trouble, you can tell her you're calling in a favor from Midnight Castle. But since she saw that spell, she should know it's me." After that word, Sunset resumed control of her body with a rough shudder.

"What an asshole," muttered Ink.

"He… he stole my body!" Sunset shouted. "And then he killed you—Mr. Ink, I'm so sorry! I tried to stop him—or at least to ask what he intended, but he just—"

In reply, Ink patted the unicorn on the shoulder with a wing. "It's fine."

"No, it isn't! For either of us. When he wakes up, I'm going to give him a piece of my mind!"

Ink plopped his hindquarters down on the frozen stone and shrugged. "More power to you. But trust me: you can't talk to that kind of asshole."

"Saying that from experience?" Tempest teased. "Or because you used to be one of them?"

"Thank you for cutting my legs out from under me—but yes, that was the point." Alas, nopony had the wherewithal to point out that, judging by his diminutive stature, somepony had already beaten her to the cut long before.

Daring Do walked up to the short stallion's side and patted him on the shoulder just as he had Sunset—a motion the soldier rather forcefully and brusquely stepped away from. "I'm sorry, but trust me: he's nice when he's just hanging on your neck, whispering in your ear tips on how to deal with problems."

"So he never used your body to just kill somepony?" Ink snarked.

Tan wings indicated a smooth pegasus brow. "Would be kinda hard."

Tempest chose that moment to speak up. "So now we're just giving up on the Constellation?"

"The Princess and the rest of the Honor Guard will bring it in for us," Ink explained.

Sunset donned an expression of concern. "Isn't that a bad idea? What if Morty—the one out there—attacks them?"

Ink shrugged. "I don't get paid to second guess the Princess. She wanted to bring Luna at first, until I mentioned Hurricane."

"Are we going to talk about Mentor telling you to ask about Hurricane?" Sunset asked.

"Not unless you've got aspirin, or a whole lot to drink," growled Tempest. "Let's just wait for our ride, and then we can all get in the same room with Celestia, demand a straight answer for a change, and tell her we're out if this whole thing doesn't start making sense right away."

"It's here," called Somnambula, her voice still notably flatter than its usual chipper tone. "The carriage, I mean. I see it."

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

The black carriage, trimmed in brilliant red, flew on no wheels—cloud lined or mundane—and it likewise lacked anypony (or any griffon or dragon or any other sort of creature) to draw it through the sky. And as Celestia's questers watched, it descended to meet them at the mouth of the tunnel. There, the door was opened by a hoof so pale pink that you'd be forgiven for calling it white.

"Oh," said a voice with an overpowering Trotsylvanian accent. "It is you."

Red Ink immediately piped up "And here I thought dying was the worst part of my day."

"You going to introduce us?" Somnambula joked, some of her usual cheerfulness returning to her tone. "Or should I start guessing?"

Ink sighed. "Countess Solstice of Trotsylvania. Blyat, these are Tempest Shadow, Somnambula, Daring Do, and Sunset Shimmer."

Countess Solstice was a unicorn of the aforementioned color, whose rich red mane hung heavily down the side of her body and over one shoulder, rather closely matched to the thick and somewhat old-fashioned (but undeniably warm) dress the noblemare wore. "A war criminal, a pony who was born two thousand years ago, a made-up foal's story, and the personal student of Princess Celestia. My, you keep interesting company, Commandant. But where is… what is the stallion's name? The wizard?"

"You're expecting Morty?" Somnambula asked.

Solstice shrugged. "I never caught his name… you know what? Hop in; let us get out of here, and I can tell you as we fly."

Even as the mass of mares climbed into the carriage, Red Ink hesitated. "I'm tempted to fly back on my own."

"And I'm tempted to make you," Solstice noted. "But Predvidenie would be very unhappy with me, so do your brother a favor, get over your pride, and get in."

Grudgingly, Ink climbed into the carriage, and squeezed his incredibly brawny form in amongst the mass of mares (perhaps the most uncomfortable he had ever been in such a mass of his preferred gender).

"You two know each other?" Sunset asked.

Solstice chuckled. "Everypony in Stalliongrad—" (Ink winced heavily) "—knows Commandant Blood Stroke. But yes, we have a history between the two of us."

"Please, if it's that you're exes, we don't care," Tempest grumbled.

Somnambula looked at the rugged mare in shock. "Of course we do!"

Countess Solstice chuckled at the disagreement, even as Red Ink tried very hard to slip himself fully into the cushions of the carriage.

"No, no," said the unicorn noblemare. "During the most recent Stalliongradi revolution, I was the only noblemare who sided with your friend's father and his uprising. To that end, we were often at a war table with one another."

"What actually happened?" asked Sunset. When Solstice looked to the unicorn with a raised brow of incredulity, Sunset explained "I, uh… I was in a different world."

"Ah," said Solstice with audible skepticism. "Well, to tell the story shortly, some thirty years ago, young dragons rampaged across the domain in a series of Dragon Wars."

Sunset nodded. "I remember that. They reached as far as Baltimare Bay before the Royal Guard drove them back."

"The Domain of Canterlot was largely spared damage; I'm sure a few buildings in Baltimare burned, but nothing like what Stalliongrad suffered. All our great cities—Stalliongrad, Saraneighvo, my beloved Trotsylvania—were razed and ruined. The Last Windigo fed on the hate and the bloodshed and the winter grew colder than it had been in centuries. So Baron Frostbite—the ruler of the domain—instituted mandatory work to rebuild and make sure the population didn't starve or freeze."

"Harsh," said Tempest.

"It was necessary," Countess Solstice observed. "Princess Celestia herself endorsed it at first, as a stop-gap to get the domain back on its hooves. And even Frostbite himself intended it to be temporary—at first. But, like so many things, power corrupted Frostbite, and many of the nobleponies of Stalliongrad. Forced labor with pay controlled by Frostbite made his inner circle wealthy. Very wealthy."

"Ah," said Sunset. "But why didn't Princess Celestia step in before it turned into a war?"

"She did," Ink explained, with distinct fury bubbling at the back of his voice. "But the Princess, she likes to wear velvet shoes—that's the idiom, right?"

When a few ponies nodded, Solstice picked up where Ink had left off. "Frostbite's laws were challenged in Equestrian courts, ponies spoke out against him; some of the other domains even boycotted us, for a time. But Frostbite was cunning—"

Ink interrupted fiercely "Frostbite was a fat oaf. My brother was the cunning one, little shit."

"The, uh… the one we met in Canterlot?" Sunset asked with notable hesitation.

Ink let out a sigh. "No. And now, because Solstice knew both of my brothers, I have to tell her—Solstice, you can never talk about what you just heard. That's a 'Honor Guard will kill you' kind of issue."

"Luna raised Polnoch?!" Solstice asked, and a distinct fury (along with, Sunset could have sworn, worry?) were audible in her tone.

"I… How do you know about that?" Ink asked.

Solstice sighed. "Let me finish telling Lady Shimmer this story, and we can continue."

Sunset quirked a brow. "Nopony has called me Lady Shimmer in years. You know me?"

"You forget we met before, at the Grand Galloping Gala, when you were just a foal," Solstice replied. "And I am very good with names. But to return to the story: yes, your friend Roscherk's older brother, Predvidenie—which means 'Foresight' in Equiish—worked for Baron Frostbite. And together, they were terrifyingly effective at stalling the courts, working around protests, and generally getting very rich. So eventually, Princess Celestia turned to other solutions."

"Oh?"

Ink turned in his seat to face Sunset. "You must have met him when you were the Princess' student; did you meet 'The Commander'?"

"The leader of the Honor Guard?" Sunset nodded. "The stallion who wore Commander Hurricane's armor?"

"The very same," said Countess Solstice, with a hint of scorn. "Celestia sent him to… how did she put it, Roscherk?"

Ink shrugged. "How should I know? He said she knew revolution was coming, and he was there to make it as painless as possible. But I do not think that is Celestia's words." Ink rolled his eyes. "He convinced Predvidenie and my brother and I to turn against Frostbite… and then we had a war. And, at the end, I killed the baon." Ink scoffed. "There is more story after the end, but that is the revolution. Now, Predvidenie rules Stalliongrad for all purposes that matter, using all the same tricks he learned helping Frostbite to try and make the trains run on time and fix winter and whatever other issues he thinks he can throw money at to get to go away."

"You'll be surprised how successful he's been since you left," Solstice teased. "Now, to address your other question: I know about the Night Guard for the same reason I know to have expected the pale unicorn stallion to be with you. Namely, because Trotsylvania Hall is the closest fortification to Castle Midnight. Generations ago, my great grandmother however-many times over fought alongside Celestia and this 'Archmage Coil' pony in the war against Nightmare Moon. We were given this enchanted flying carriage, though it came with the debt that someday, it would call on us to go to somepony's aid, and that we would have to offer them whatever help or hospitality we could." Solstice chuckled. "But after a thousand years, this wasn't exactly what I was expecting."

"You didn't think you'd be the one called in?" Sunset asked.

"Well, certainly not twice," said Solstice, causing the rest of the carriage's eyebrows to rise and eyes to widen. "The pale pony called on me ten years ago, shortly after the revolution."

"What?! You've met Morty?!" Sunset leaned forward. "We're looking for him for Princess Celestia! Do you know what he was doing? What he wanted?"

"It wasn't a long conversation," Solstice explained. "As I said, I didn't even get his name. He needed to use the carriage for a few weeks, and I know he wanted to go to Stalliongrad; it was rather inconvenient, I had to hire a completely separate carriage for the trip home. But I left him to his devices, and a few weeks later, he brought the carriage back to my home."

"Do you know anything about where he went?" Sunset pressed. "Other than Stalliongrad?"

Solstice could only give a shrug. "There was some dirt on the floor of the carriage, so I assume he went somewhere outside of the eternal winter. Beyond that, who can say?"

"That doesn't seem like Morty," said Somnambula with a frown. "He was so obsessed with being clean."

"Maybe it wasn't on him?" Tempest offered as a guess. "He might have given somepony else a ride."

"Hard to know without just asking him," Ink muttered. "I second what Tempest said earlier. I need a drink to wash all this ancient time bullshit down. Let's talk about something else."

And so they did, until the carriage arrived in the city I knew as River Rock.

Interlude X - The Seven-and-Zero Souls of Coil the Immortal

Interlude X

The Seven-and-Zero Souls of Coil the Immortal

Countess Solstice deposited our heroes at the Tsarina Metel' International Airport—the sudden arrival of a self-driving carriage was, apparently, normal enough that guardsponies did not flood the unannounced arrival—but it was quite a surprise to a surprising number of heavily jacketed and hatted civilians who looked up in alarm.

The Countess wasted no time in departing, insisting she had business back in Trotsylvania, and so mere moments after their arrival, Celestia's gang of four, along with Daring Do, were suddenly just more faces in the masses.

"Did Princess Celestia say where she'd meet us, Ink?" Sunset asked as she guided her companions to a set of rather uncomfortable formed plastic chairs. "Do we need to head to Burning Hearth, or—"

"She'll come through here," Ink muttered, letting his eyes wander the room.

"You look like a tourist," Tempest teased. "New paint or something?"

"Stol'nograd doesn't have an airport," Ink explained. "At least, it didn't when I left. Most airships weren't rated to fly in the cold, and there weren't enough ponies who would want to visit. This is all new."

Sunset's eyes swept the concourse, where huge backlit wall displays advertised resort hotels, tours of historic sites like Burning Hearth Castle ("Relive the Battle of the Short Hallway!" and "See the Diamond Throne!" stood out to her), and even skiing and snowboarding were advertised not in the Stalliongradi language, but in familiar Equiish. Between them, ponies at food stalls vended a mixture of Stalliongradi favorites that filled the air with pungent smells of pickling vinegar and rich sour cream, along with more traditional Canterlot-style fare.

"Well, it seems like more ponies are coming to visit now," Somnambula observed, her chipper and optimistic air having returned since her confrontation with Mentor. "That's good, right?"

"Makes me wonder what else has changed," Ink admitted, though the shrug that came with it was more indifferent than offended. "The Princess usually prefers an open chariot, but she's bringing us back The Constellation, and there aren't a lot of spaces in the city wide enough to park an airship."

"Hey, friends," Daring Do cut in. "Um… I don't mean to cut you off, but I figure this is about as far as we go together. Was there anything else you needed?"

Sunset shook her head, and then paused. "Well, we got the medallion, but I guess I should ask anyway: do you know where Dr. Caballeron is? Or where the—" Sunset paused to pull up the medallion around her neck, but though it shared the trait of being a piece of neck jewelry, its flat, round surface had nothing in common with the shield-shaped amulet Celestia had described. "It's an amulet with Queen Platinum the Third's cutie mark on it."

Daring closed her eyes and rubbed a temple with her wing. "Was hers the crown with the rose through the middle? Or was that Prince Mercury?"

Somnambula spoke up at the confusion. "Gale had a tiara with a sword through the middle."

"Oh, that's right!" Daring sighed. "Sorry, I've been dealing with Tambelonian history so much recently, my early Equestrian must be slipping. I don't think I know any amulet like that; at least, I can't place an artifact with that description. But if it belonged to the Warrior Queen, of course it'd be an incredible piece regardless; so much of that history was lost in the Twilight War." Daring frowned, then shook her head. "Caballeron, right. I think I thwarted his schemes one too many times; 'Lord Barnacle'—that's his alter-ego; see, it's an anagram—"

"We know," Tempest deadpanned.

"It's clever," Daring grumbled to herself, before picking up. "From what I hear, he can't afford to hire his mooks inside Equestria anymore; ex-guardsponies don't come cheap. So he's working out of Verko's."

Tempest cocked her head at that. "The one in Klugetown?"

Daring offered a sympathetic look. "The one and only. Sorry if you know him. You get on his bad side too?"

"Y-yeah," Tempest lied. "Definitely that."

Daring Do was not convinced, but she elected not to press the issue. "Anything else I can do for you? Otherwise, I gotta get back to tracking down these magic bells."

"Good luck," Sunset offered. "And thanks!"

"Hey, you all saved me; a couple answers and…" Daring let out a little sigh. "…and Mentor, is the least I can do." With the wave of a golden wing, the adventurer departed, and our heroes set out to find a good spot to watch for the arriving Constellation.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

Something like three hours later, Lt. Commander Red Ink could be heard barking orders in Stalliongradi to the airport security staff, so that they could keep back a small but growing crowd of curious onlookers, as Celestia and her small band of Honor Guard escorts walked from their loading ramp across the snow-covered tarmac and toward the airport gate.

Sunset reflected they were an odd group; certainly less uniform than when she'd been Celestia's student living in the castle. One grim-looking olive pegasus stallion was rather normal, but a burnt-orange mare of the same breed hovered at Celestia's side; it was only after a moment Sunset realized that she was missing her hind legs entirely. On the Princess' other side were two unicorns: a weathered old mare of royal blue with a white mane, and a much younger tan stallion with a dark brown mane and—most notably—a jagged crack running straight down from the tip of his horn to the base.

"What's with the weird guards?" Tempest asked, having approached quietly enough that Sunset jumped. "Sorry."

"It's okay; just… not used to somepony as big as you moving that quietly."

Tempest chuckled. "When you don't grow up in Equestria, you have to find a way to live long enough that you get the chance to bulk up."

The implications of that thought chilled Sunset, but she said nothing on the subject, instead answering the original question. "Those are the Honor Guard; Princess Celestia's personal bodyguards."

"Really? She can get the best guards she wants, and she picks a guy with a broke horn and a filly with no legs?"

Sunset shrugged. "They're all newer than me."

"Even the old mare?"

"Well, I assume she was a guardspony before, but she wasn't Honor Guard when I was a filly." In the course of the conversation, a cold wind swept into the seating area in front of that segment of tarmac, as Celestia and her escort came in from the cold.

As Tempest, Sunset, and Somnambula gathered around the Princess, the guardsponies maneuvered past them to join the airport security guards. The senior unicorn, in particular, approached Ink.

"Lieutenant-Commander Ink," said the old mare, striding forward spryly for her age. "Good to see you're not dead."

"Well, not anymore," Ink muttered, tacking on "Commander Flag." as a loose afterthought. "Was there a fight?"

"No; whoever you encountered, they were gone by the time we arrived. And the bodies you reported being animated were all back to being just corpses." That simple note elicited a frown from both guardsponies. The elder continued "The Princess wants you included in these discussions; we'll relieve you of crowd duty."

"Believe me: it's a relief." Ink moved to step past the old mare, only to take pause when a blue hoof was placed on his shoulder.

"Are you alright, Ink? You died; that's rough on a soul."

"You know about this weird death magic shit, Flag?" Ink asked in reply, then shook his head. "I'm fine now. I got it less bad than Rainbow Dash, anyway."

Worry flashed across Flag's face, and her eyes flickered toward the crowd, though they seemed well far enough away, and the comment was quiet enough, not to be a risk. Still, crossly, she noted "I doubt the entire airport has Level Three national security clearance, Lieutenant Commander. Report to the Princess. But if you aren't up to this job after what happened, I want to be clear, it won't reflect poorly on you."

Ink shook his head, and stubbornly insisted "I'm fine." as he left her behind.

A moment later, Celestia smiled. "Ah, Mr. Ink; are you doing alright? If you're suffering any—"

"Just had that conversation," Ink brazenly interrupted Celestia (and to the credit of his bravery, he was one of very few ponies in history with the audacity to dare). "Let's get on with what you're actually here for."

Celestia pointedly cleared her throat, with enough force that it disturbed her ethereal mane. "Well, yes. It seems I have some things to tell you all, and I would like the chance to talk to this… fragment of Morty you've found. But first, I'm afraid this isn't the best venue for such a chat. Do you all mind if we use the Constellation?"

"It's your airship, Princess," said Sunset jokingly.

Nopony really seemed to have registered what the actual question Celestia was asking had been, until a moment later when the golden glow of her magic faded with the rather crackling pop of her terrifyingly powerful teleportation, and the group found themselves once more in the airship's common room.

"Oh. Huh," Sunset babbled, dealing with the shock. "Alright, Princess. Um, the medallion—'Mentor', he calls himself—said after using my magic that he had to sleep, so I don't know how long it will be until he wakes up. But—"

"I'm awake."

"Ah." Sunset rolled her eyes. "I stand corrected, Princess. He's up. Also, what the heck? How dare you use my horn to kill somepony!"

"You're still on about that? He's fine; he's literally standing right next to you. Now, can I drive, so I can talk to—"

"No!" Sunset shouted. "Absolutely not, you can't 'drive' my body again! You expect me to trust you after that? If the Princess wants to talk to you, she can wear the medallion, but—"

"No!" The shriek in Sunset's mind was one of desperation, or at least urgency. "That'll kill me. Destroy me. Whatever term you want. The way I interface with my wearer's soul isn't safe for somepony with a spark of immortality to use."

"Really?" Sunset rolled her eyes. "Okay. Somnambula… do you mind being Morty for a few minutes?"

"Me?" Somnambula asked. "I mean, sure, I don't mind, but why—"

"You're not a unicorn, so he can't use your magic to be a jerk," Sunset explained. "And I feel like this isn't the right time to ask Ink, given what happened in Onyx Ridge."

"You guess right." Ink had wandered over to the Constellation's galley, where he retrieved a sizeable bottle of gin and another of tonic water—which he offered to the rest of the crew (and even Celestia) and was turned down on all counts.

Somnambula took the Mentor Medallion from Sunset and slipped it around her neck. Within two seconds, her whole posture changed. "Celestia," she said with a rather even, but well enunciated voice.

"Should I call you 'Morty'? 'Mentor' seems a little odd, given our relationship."

"I don't really care what you call me," Somnambula's throat replied ambivalently. "I'd suggest not 'Morty'; I probably can't pass muster as the pony you want. But I might be able to help you find him."

Celestia looked at Somnambula with a rather harsh expression—one Sunset had only rarely seen, at the very end of her time in Canterlot Castle, when the tension between them had grown near to its ultimate breaking point. "I'm well aware, Medallion, that you don't pass for Morty. You've already failed that test. My old friend might occasionally cross a boundary in the interest of saving the world, but his centuries have at least taught him enough empathy to apologize when he's wronged another pony."

Somnambula's eyes rolled uncharacteristically, and her head glanced to Ink. Her voice, laden with sarcasm, said "I'm sorry I mildly inconvenienced you." Then, rather without even the pretense of a segue, Mentor bulldozed right on to the next point of the conversation. "Right… is there a chalkboard on this airship?"

Celestia brought a freestanding chalkboard into existence as though it was the most effortless thing in the world. "Ah. Thank you." Picking up a piece of chalk in Somnambula's feathers, Mentor began to write. "Some decades ago, 'Morty Prime' approached my prior bearer before Daring. He wanted to warn me that Nightmare Moon would be returning soon, and that he was taking some steps to prepare. Namely, there was some plan set in motion—he didn't tell us what—that he didn't trust."

"My plan to bring up a student who could use the Elements of Harmony," Celestia provided. "And yes, Morty did not agree with that plan."

"That was your plan?" Mentor asked with a scoff. Then Somnambula's face soured with shame at the look Celestia offered in answer. "Well, in any case, he decided to set up a backup plan—in case Luna took over Equestria, or something. The way he described it, Luna would have known to expect him, so if he didn't show up to confront her she'd seek him out. At the same time, it's also true she's the next-best necromancer in the world, so given his success stalling her in the Twilight War, it would be risky to throw everything at her—because if she still won, she might figure out the secret of his spell and actually kill him. Permanently. Or worse, raise him as the most horrifying Night Guard who could ever exist."

A small shudder ran down Sunset's spine at the thought, and even Celestia gave a small wince—though the alicorn picked up quickly. "But Morty didn't fight Nightmare Moon. When she reappeared in Ponyville, there were only a few of my Honor Guard there to face her."

"Really?" Mentor raised one of his currently-in-use brows. "And he didn't come around to your half-baked plan?" Again, Celestia expressed her displeasure silently, and again Mentor dropped the topic. "He didn't tell me a lot, but he did tell me that if Nightmare Moon won, my host and I were going to be responsible for picking up the pieces."

"Meaning fighting Nightmare Moon?" Tempest asked with a skeptical look. "'Go grab that leg by the door, I think I see where his horn ended up.'"

Somnambula's head shook side-to-side. "Picking up the pieces of him."

Sunset raised a brow. "Given he wrote the beginning of Tales with half his head in a jar, that still sounds like Tempest is right."

A sigh escaped Somnambula's lips. "'Morty' goes through limbs like mayflies go through bucket lists. There's at least three good arguments to make that he isn't a pony anymore; just… 'pony-shaped'. I'm talking about his soul… ish thing."

"Soul-ish thing?" asked Sunset.

Pegasus shoulders shrugged. "Ask Genius when you find him."

"Who's 'Genius'?" asked Tempest.

"Well, like I was saying, 'Morty Prime' divided his soul…ish thing… into seven pieces and scattered them all over Equestria—and beyond—with only enough of himself still driving his body to pass on the illusion that it was his 'full power.' The plan was, when that body died, if Luna poked around with it and ended the spells that were keeping it alive she'd think she had won, and Morty could build up a resistance or come up with a better plan after we got all the parts together again." Here, Somnambula's wing began to scrawl on the board with urgency.

"I know that there are seven pieces; he named them, though the names aren't going to help you find them. Here's the list, so pay attention. Or scrawl it in the margin of Tales, I don't care."

Regrets

Genius

Ego

Cunning

Compassion

Burden

Essence

Sunset conjured this book from her hidey-hole and began searching frantically for a quill or a pen, only to be surprised when Celestia offered both in her magical grip (the former apparently having been plucked from her own wing). "Thanks, Princess."

"You're welcome."

Mentor tapped on the end of the list with his chalk and turned to the group. "I'm not going to go into too much detail about what these are, because I don't know. He only told me where to find the first one; I guess it knows where to find the next one in line, and so forth. But, as luck would have it, Daring and I ran into one more in our little adventures."

Chalk scratched away on the board as Somnambula's wing began to write alongside the narration. It read thusly:

Cunning - Enchanted tattoo on badlands hippogriff.

"The one Daring and I ran into is Cunning; it's a bit like myself, but rather than a tangible object, it takes the form of a tattoo. I don't know what it does other than glow and vaguely feel like part of me, though given the name 'cunning' it can't be too hard to guess. Last I saw it, it was in the possession of a hippogriff of the criminal variety, working in the badlands near the old changeling hive."

"Hmm…" Tempest wrinkled up her forehead for a moment. "I can't place a tattooed hippogriff out of the badlands. But I do have… contacts I can ask."

"Friends?" Celestia suggested.

Tempest suppressed a chuckle. "I learned a lot from Twilight and her friends, Princess, but I haven't exactly brought it back south."

"This seems as good a time as ever to start," Celestia offered. "Perhaps talk to that delightful Abyssian tom; he seemed to know the lay of the land."

Chalk tapped on the chalkboard, clutched in Somnambula's leading feathers, to gather the room's attention. With a once-more raised voice, Mentor pressed on. "Morty actually wanted us to start with Regrets, which should be easy, since he just gave them to Hurricane. In physical form, it's akin to one of your memory crystals, Celestia." With a grin on Somnambula's face, mentor turned from the chalkboard. "Which brings us around to our other point of conversation, doesn't it?"

Celestia sighed. "How much did you already tell them about Hurricane?"

"Apart from my message to you, nothing. But I didn't think it'd be a big deal, when you let them read Tales."

"No, I suppose not…" Celestia then took a moment to compose herself and let her gaze sweep over the rest of the ponies. "Tempest, I suppose this means less to you since you never had the chance to meet the stallion, but the pony the two of you knew as 'the Commander' was Hurricane."

"What?" Sunset asked. "Really?"

"Well, now the fake names seem obvious. But why?" Ink continued with a bit of a scoff. "Nopony else in the last two thousand years cut it? As a history teacher, I'd say he was a half-rate military leader—all the respect he deserves is statesponyship. You should have picked Firefly, or Purple Dart, or Tartarus, even Typhoon would've been better."

"That's not the job I wanted him for," said Mentor, in Somnambula's voice. When Celestia raised a brow, the sapient amulet waved the concern off with a wing. "Believe it or not, I remember this choice quite perfectly." Then Somnambula's eyes fully settled on Ink. "At the beginning of the Twilight War, Luna and her Night Guard cut a bloody swath through Everfree City. The best of the Royal Guard, most of the archmagi at the college… And she raised the best of the best to fight on her side."

"And she didn't just win that night?" Tempest asked.

It was uncanny hearing such an ominous laugh come from the usually cheery Somnambula. "Give Celestia more credit."

"She wasn't that hard to beat…" Tempest answered in reply, a comment which made Celestia herself laugh, but left Mentor rather perturbed.

"I had a hunch things would turn out alright with you, Tempest. Luna and Cadance and I may have gone a little easy on you. Certainly easier than we would have been if the Storm King had shown up in person to start with."

Tempest found herself slack-jawed. "You let me turn you to stone because you trusted Twilight that much?"

"It hasn't failed me yet," Celestia admitted in reply, with an unsubtly harsh glance to Mentor. "But regarding Hurricane… when Morty returned to Equestria at the beginning of the war, we elected to resurrect him for three reasons. The first is that, despite Lieutenant Commander Ink's misgivings he had military command experience we desperately needed. The second is that he, to my knowledge, was the only living pony who had successfully killed one of Luna's Night Guards one-on-one." Sunset quietly noted that thought, but said nothing. "The third… was at Emperor Magnus' request. His one unusual demand in exchange for an alliance against Nightmare Moon."

"What?" Somnambula's head looked up in shock at Celestia. "You never mentioned that. And that isn't the third reason at all."

"Oh?" Celestia asked. "I thought that out of myself and Morty, Hurricane was much more likely to take that piece of news well coming from me. What was your third reason?"

Somnambula blinked the awkward, hesitant blink of somepony who had said too much. "Well… ah, what's the point of secrets anymore? Celestia, I raised Hurricane for you. When Luna betrayed you, you weren't exactly in an emotional state to fight her in a war. And since I couldn't cheer you up—or at least get your head in the game, as it were—I went to the only other pony I could remember that you were ever that kind of close to. Besides Gale, obviously."

"Why not her?" Ink asked over the lip of his gin. "I'd think the Warrior-Queen would have been just as much an asset as Hurricane, no?"

"Gale… can't be resurrected," Celestia admitted. "And as I told Sunset in Canterlot, the rest of that story is Morty's to tell." With a harsh glare, she added "The real Morty."

"Hey, no need to tell me twice," Mentor replied. "Not like I like digging that up."

Sunset cocked her head. "But how was Hurricane able to be resurrected? I thought the general limit on seances before a soul faded too much to come back was, what, two hundred years?"

Celestia glanced to Somnambula's body, but Mentor shrugged. So the alicorn's posture and tone shifted to that of the magical mentor. "Morty can tell you more when you find him, but I know the simple explanation. Souls fade when nopony with strong emotional attachments remembers them. The two-hundred year limit is because that's roughly the average lifespan of an earth pony. But when Luna and I form a strong enough attachment to somepony… well, old age hasn't caught up to us yet."

"So everypony you were ever close to just… exists in the Summer Lands forever?" Asked Ink, before draining a gin and tonic in a long swig and beginning to prepare another.

Celestia shook her head. "Souls are meant to fade—or so Luna and Morty both insist. Luna and I keep a sort of rolling storage of our memory in a set of enchanted crystals—I have next to no memory of the century that ended two hundred years ago. That century-long gap gives the souls closest to us time to naturally fade before we reclaim our memories and forget the next period. And usually, two hundred years is enough time that not remembering intimate details doesn't cause us any political problems."

"But you didn't forget Hurricane?" Tempest asked.

With obvious hesitation in her voice, Celestia replied "I can't forget Gale. Believe me, I've tried. And unfortunately, that makes Hurricane a bit unforgettable too."

Mentor suppressed a snort of laughter that was lost on the rest of the assembled.

"Wait," said Sunset. "So I could seance, like, Queen Platinum? Or Archmage Diadem?"

Celestia frowned. "You could," she said, at exactly the same time Mentor firmly said "No." The two ancients looked to one another and shared a silent conversation, before the latter eventually turned back to Sunset. "Somepony could, but you're not a good enough necromancer. Apparently, you had a bad teacher."

Celestia gave an unusual show of emotion by taking a slight offense at the comment. "Believe it or not, I don't groom all of my students to be copies of Morty. Given your list, Morty seems to have that more than under control without my help."

"I'm starting to feel you don't like me much, Celestia," said Mentor.

Celestia nodded. "Then at least in terms of his lack of social awareness, Morty has done a very good job on this particular copy." Turning back to the group, she continued "Hurricane volunteered to stay at my side for as long as Luna was exiled… and then, recently, a little bit longer, so that he could prepare a new successor to protect me and run the Honor Guard."

Nopony missed that Celestia's one visible eye flitted to Ink.

Gin and tonic were aerosolized as he sprayed the liquid in shock. "Wait, me?"

"That was his original plan, when he met you during the revolution against Baron Frostbite. But as I understand it, after your handling of the subsequent unrest, he felt differently."

Ink's ears fell. "I guess I deserve that… So he chose Flag? She's probably a better choice anyway; she's a career military mare."

Celestia shook her head. "I'm afraid his choice was Soldier On."

Fire engulfed the galley for about half a second before, with an extended wing of her own, Celestia casually began to absorb the fire. The display lasted for several seconds, until at last, panting and smoking, Red Ink collapsed against the countertop.

"He… stabbed me in the back…" Along with the fire, Celestia seemed to have removed the stallion's very fury; all that was left was fatigue in his hollow voice.

"I elected not to get involved, at his request, but he did confide to me that at one point he offered the chance to change your course, and you refused. Beyond that, I would tell you to seek him out and have a discussion that seems long overdue… but that brings us back to the original issue. Medallion, I could not have sent Hurricane because he was killed five years ago."

"Oh…" Mentor noted flatly. "And?"

"And? He's dead."

"No. He died. There's a difference… don't tell me you stuck him in some box somewhere?"

"What are you talking about?" Celestia outright snapped. "Morty told me the spell that brings a pony back to life—not undeath, but real life—ties them to their body in a way that if they die again, their soul gets dispersed!"

Somnambula's head cocked. "And you thought that's all I cast on him?"

"All you—what are you talking about?"

"I have no idea when, or why, Morty taught you that spell; frankly, he should have known you'd misunderstand or misuse it. But if that was where my immortality stopped, I would have been dispersed fighting the Prince of Thieves. And I wasn't stupid enough to send Hurricane into the Twilight War if he was going to be dispersed the first time he kicked the bucket. Imagine what that would've done to you, when you were already emotionally on the ropes from Luna's entire catastrophe. That'd defeat the entire purpose of raising him over any other soldier with half-good magic in the first place."

"Hurricane is… Morty's kind of immortal?" Celestia asked tentatively. Hopefully.

"That, I cannot tell you. Morty didn't give me all the deep understanding of those spells; I just know the general logic behind why. So I totally believe you that Hurricane died, but if you're telling me he stayed dead, you've got bigger problems than his passing. Where is his body? I'm surprised it didn't just get up."

"We… never found it," said Ink. "The assassin said she brought him to Warchief Khagan, but beyond that…" The red stallion ended the comment with a half-hearted shrug, still tired from losing his fire.

Mentor sneered in distaste. "What would that idiot want with Hurricane?"

"Who?" Sunset asked.

"He's the leader of the boars," explained Tempest Shadow. "Their, uh, 'god'; he's big like the Princesses. And he's scary; I tried to convince the Storm King to take his magic first, but he thought he had a better chance against Equestria. I guess he can make things rot or decompose or get old just by looking at them."

Mentor chuckled. "Sometimes, Celestia, I do wish some horrifying monster would read just one history book and try their luck with the dragons or the elk or something instead of us. But no, it's always the ponies that look weak and peaceful…"

"I much prefer we give that impression, rather than force ponykind to live in a culture that suggests otherwise," Celestia replied. "It seems I'm going to have to arrange to meet Warchief Khagan."

"After he blames you for the plague? That's brave, Princess." When most ponies present—including Celestia—turned to Tempest Shadow with expressions of confusion and worry, Tempest took a notable step back. "You, uh, you do know about the tusk plague, right?"

"I was aware there was a disease; we offered medical supplies, and I recall being surprised they were refused. But I hadn't heard they blamed me."

"Well, not you personally; ponies in general." Tempest frowned. "I don't know why, I just know I never got a good welcome anytime we stopped in Suida."

"Hmm…" Celestia nodded. "This feels like something I ought to have heard about. I'm going to have to have a talk with Secret Service. Sunset, team, for the time being I'm going to ask you let me attempt to locate Hurricane with Equestria's resources. Confronting Warchief Khagan is not a level of danger that I feel matches the task I've put before you all. And Khagan is notoriously an… unstable element. I would not want your actions leading us to war with Suida."

"Oh, come on," said Mentor jovially. "What good adventure doesn't involve picking a fight with a god?"

Celestia's brow turned very quickly into a knot. "We're not gods."

"I know, I know. But 'immortals empowered with control over elements of the natural world' just doesn't roll off the tongue quite as cleanly, you know?" Glancing around the room, he shrugged. "At least even without Hurricane, you've got Cunning to chase, right?"

"And the locket amulet thing from Caballeron," added Sunset. "Two leads, and at least kind of both in the same direction. I think we're off to Klugetown."

Celestia gave a small nod, and then opened a small pocket dimension of her own, very much like Sunsets, and produced four small torcs of simple silver, with a gap in the front, and a small sapphire in the back. "I hope your further adventures will be less dramatic than this experience with this rogue Morty, but I prepared these just in case. If somepony tries to cast Wintershimmer's Razor on any of you, they'll start to glow and heat up, and the effect will be slowed down considerably. Hopefully, enough time to take some action. I have to warn you, they won't delay the effect forever, and if somepony using such a spell breaks past them, the enchantment will be broken permanently."

Gratefully taking the offered items, the crew of The Constellation then set about making the airship ready for another voyage. Celestia, for her part, offered a few more mostly empty words of encouragement that probably did make our heroes feel better (it was Celestia, after all) but weren't of enough substance to be worth recording here. Soon, Somnambula was back to her old cheerful self, Tempest had once more taken the helm, and Sunset found herself sprawled out on one of the ship's couches delving into the next chapter of this very tome.

12-1 A Superb Morty Party

XII

A Superb Morty Party

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

XII - I

Housewarming at the Mausoleum

Through the eternal wit of a newspony at one or another of the early Equestrian newspapers, the morning paper arrived at dawn proclaiming in its social column that there was to be a party at The Mausoleum. Through my continuing efforts studying under Archmage Diadem—whom at the time I still quite disliked, but only quietly to myself so as to not get in the way of my studies—I was able to enjoy the pun under my own power, albeit after a great deal of pain sounding out the letters and failing to get the syllable 'mozz' out of what is clearly pronounced rather akin to the word 'mouse'. Whatever the etymology that produced such a spelling,—and I could tell you, but I simply don't care to waste the ink—the paper was quite correct. After weeks of study with Vow (though not weeks plural for anypony else, owing to Archmage Hourglass' benevolent gift of time compression), he had declared my social education suitable to begin setting our plan into motion. And, like every new introduction or assignment of a new title within the upper echelons of unicorn noble society, my advent was to be announced and celebrated with an elaborate house party—specifically, my house.

I leave it as an exercise to the reader to complete the mental leaps that led to the quite persistent pun—a name that stuck to my home until Luna's decision to grow a whole cursed forest through the middle of town decided not to play nice with Hourglass' time distortion magic. Which I suppose is to say, now the name is even more fitting, because if you go inside, the remains it will contain will be yours.

I won't bore you with a description of the preparations for the party. This isn't a Tale about me. Rather, much like the greater story of those short precious years in Everfree City, the title of our Tale's hero belongs to Gale. Likewise, this particular tale in our grand play begins with Her Majesty's arrival in the royal carriage, a slightly less-than-fashionable hour and seventeen minutes after the party had been scheduled to begin. The venerable Sir Gauntlet offered her a hoof down from the door, and she at least made a show of touching her hoof to his, even if she couldn't bring herself to put her body weight on the grandfatherly stallion's shoulder just to spare her a single long step. The motion brought her electric blue dress, apparently fabricated of tiny metal scales in emulation of the skin of a dragon, into full sparkling daylight.

"Do you need accompaniment for the event, Your Majesty?" Gauntlet asked with a smile, apparently satisfied by at least the show of tradition.

Gale shook her head. "While the offer is appreciated, it's just a house party." With a slight grin, she added "Even if anything did happen, I'm probably safer around Morty than anywhere else in Equestria. But if you're interested in lending a quick hoof before you go, I wouldn't mind a hoof with the gift."

"Certainly, Your Majesty," Gauntlet agreed, taking a single step toward the back of the carriage, and from the trunk strapped behind the rear quarter he telekinetically hefted what was obviously a framed painting, even beneath its wrapping of butcher's parchment and twine (lest I confuse historians, in those days nopony had yet popularized the wrapping of gifts. I'm quite certain the parchment was just to protect the artwork during transit). Moving the painting onto his armored back (and still balancing it with his magic), the stallion extended a hoof to invite Gale to take the lead up the short path to the front door.

The door, as always, opened on its own. Behind it, while there was quite a lot of party to see, Gale's eyes settled first on the familiar and welcome but also very awkward face immediately behind it. Or, one might argue, the head that very pointedly lacked a face.

"Your Majesty! Welcome!" said Vow—emulating the same earth pony accent (and synthetic timbre and pitch) that he had used in our first conversation the morning after I resurrected him.

Gale smiled. "Hello, V—very alive ponyquinn… um, I'm sorry; what do I call you?"

"Oh; Sisters, y' must be forgiv'n me, I forget ponies be so expecting names. I've been called 'the Professor' by Master Coil."

"Professor?" Sir Gauntlet asked with a raised brow. "This 'Coil' pony educated a block of wood?"

"Oh, y' do cut to the quick, sir knight," Vow joked, stepping forward and extending a hoof to take the painting. "I can take that off your back if it should please you." As he transferred the painting with Gauntlet's blessing, Vow turned his head to Gale. "Master Coil has had me pickin' up teaching young master bear a few things about proper speech. And given I'm made of the very same wood and that I'm doin' the instruct-tin, he took to callin' me 'Professor Oak'."

"So you're like Angel, then?" Gale asked purely for Sir Gauntlet's sake (not that I'm sure Sir Gauntlet knew of either Angel or golems in general). "A golem?"

"Aye; well, of a sort. I'm a fair bit less useful when the young master gets his whole self into a magical conflict, or when he's tinkerin' up in his lab… but on the other hoof, I have four of 'em, which is often just a touch more conveni'yent for keepin' house and throwin' parties and so forth. Speakin' of which, here I am, a servant, blabberin' off the ear of Equestria's queen. May I announce Y'er Majesty? And the good sir knight?"

Gauntlet shook his head. "I have to take my leave, if it pleases the Queen."

Gale nodded. "The crown appreciates your aid, Sir Gauntlet,"

Vow stepped away to the side of the door. "H'em," he said, quite loudly. "Fillies and Gentlecolts, Her Royal Majesty Queen Platinum the Third."

Across the room, ponies bowed; Gale took the moment (as she was smiling and slowly twisting a hoof in the air that some might mistakenly call a 'wave') to survey my living room. In the center of the chamber, a series of long tables had been covered in black tablecloths with scarlet trim to match my jacket, though little of the coloration was visible between the veritable smörgåsbord (and here, I endure my hated nemesis the umlaut (and my less-often encountered but no less loathed foe, the kroužek) in the interest of conveying the quantity of food) that covered every available surface. Vow (and a small staff of hired chefs to supplement his directions and talents) had produced every manner of charcuterie, unicorn delicacy, and sampling of more distant cuisines one could reasonably imagine (at least in those days) onto the table. We had crystal berry pies, yak cheeses, and samplings from the cuisines of the pharaonic pegasi to the south and the shogunate of Uma somewhere in the distant east. Tartarus, Vow somehow even managed to wrangle us a platter of Elkish lemon trail-bread despite the elk still largely being considered a fictitious species to the general Equestrian population.

Surrounding the table, and the broader room, were nobleponies and influential players from across Equestria's three breeds (and a few others besides). In premise, the invitations had started with my physical neighbors on Ridgeline Road, and the other suitors whom I knew even if they didn't live close-by, but in his scheming over the weeks of planning that led to the event, Vow had concocted excuse after excuse for me to know just enough about various families and players that I would know enough of their existence to invite them.

As for what value inviting them had for me, most such knowledge was still locked up inside Vow's wooden skull—not because he was keeping secrets, but because when it came to understanding the spider's web of noble intricacies in Equestrian society, I was still rather a novice.

Gale's eye picked out more of the guests than I honestly could say I stood any chance to: immediately, she spotted Grand Duchess Chrysoprase and her grandson High Castle, who had been bantering with a few more minor nobleponies from their own banners near the base of my mirrored staircases. In the corner of the room, my grand piano was being plucked away at by an unusually diminutive earth pony pianist alongside other members of a hired band; the Duchess Glass Menage was entertaining no less than Chancellor Puddinghead himself and his 'least illegitimate son' Peanut Gallery very near the musicians. Gale had more than enough social cunning to realize the locational choice (at least on the savvy Peanut and Glass' parts) was almost certainly chosen to avoid unwanted eavesdroppers. At the top of the stairs, beneath the visible discoloration on the wall where the portrait of Vow, Typhoon, and an infant Tempest had been removed, Archmages Diadem and Grayscale (if one can really call the latter such a title) shared words with yours truly, Dawn Coral (Equestria's foremost criminal power), and Gray Rain. Curiously, the Dawn's successor was nowhere to be found, though Gale at least knew why Gray's mother was absent—owing to her placement on a secret mission to River Rock on behalf of her own father. And, across a small sea of other nobles, Gales' only feminine suitor, Spice Menage, was locked in what seemed from a distance to be a seriously intense debate with the host of the party and owner of the house.

If you just had to do a double-take and read back through that block of description because of an apparent contradiction, you aren't alone. In the time Gale's focus shot back across the crowd to verify what she had seen, another pony approached, and at his greeting she jumped nearly her shoulder height into the air.

"Your Majesty!"

"Gah! Morty! What the fuck?!"

I cocked my head and raised a brow, ears folding back. "Um… Good to see you too?"

"You're over there!" she shouted, pointing to the top of the stairs. "And over there!"

"They wax!" announced Graargh, stepping up beside me. "Or maybe this one. I forget. It like a… Morty, what you say game? Clam?" Gale hardly parsed the little grizzly's innocent questions, stuck as she was pondering his freshly groomed coat and his new outfit: a miniature (and somewhat broader) copy of my attire. That is, he wore a black robe with red trim, a red sash, and a cravat which, in battle with a monster, could easily double as a mask to protect ones muzzle from spores or gasses. (Those of you who recollect my hallucination/memory back to my foalhood with Wintershimmer will recall a hat was also part of the attire of the Order of Unhesitating Force, though I had been… shall we say 'less successful' in getting such at thing to play nicely with ursine ears and Graargh's obstinance).

"It's called a shell game," I explained, before properly addressing Gale. "We got the candlecorns working… sort of. As for which one's 'real', well, that seems to have become the game of the evening."

"Is there a prize?"

I winked. "Depends on who wins."

"...so there's a prize for you?"

Graargh made a gagging noise, and pulled the collar of his new black-and-red jacket up across his short broad muzzle, which brought Gale's focus back to the garment. "Morty gave you evil cult robes too?"

"It not robes," said Graargh, warming my heart considerably. "It jacket. I not trip and die!" Then, showing surprising insight for those days, he seemed to sense Gale's pending curiosity. "I learn to imagine up horn, so Morty teach me be wissard."

I gave in to a small sigh and nodded. "A wiz-ard, Graargh. Wih-zzz." Then to Gale I returned my focus. "I guess there's a lot we have to catch up on, but it'd be terribly rude of me as host to keep a guest so delightful, to say nothing of her esteem, all to myself."

Gale rolled her eyes, and glanced over her shoulder to 'the Professor'. "You know I liked him the way he was; don't push him too far off a cliff with this noble talk bullshit."

"F'rgive me, Your Majesty. Has t'be done, I'm a-feared." Then stepping forward, he indicated the painting on his back to me. "Master Coil, she's brought you a gift."

"Oh?" I lit my horn and began unfolding the protective covering. "Why thank you."

"Thank you for making it clear this body isn't the real you," Gale answered with a grin.

I glanced up rather cross-eyed at my casually lit horn, and then shrugged. "We'll see if you can keep track of which me is which. Oh, this is beautiful!"

That latter comment was directed at the painting which I lifted fully from Vow's back to hold in the air. The piece was an oil painting by Erroneous Bash (whom readers may know better for his triptych Dream Valley) depicting Gale, Celestia, and I dueling against Wintershimmer. The piece survives to at least the day of writing in Canterlot, though as part of Celestia's private collection it isn't well known in the art world. Suffice it to say it was a flattering work that rather accurately depicted our side of the conflict, but hilarious cast Wintershimmer as probably fifty years younger, healthier, and less skull-like than reality.

"Shall I mount this a'top of the stairs, sir?"

I gave 'the Professor' a nod. "When you have time; I know you're pulling most of the strings to keep food and whatnot out."

"Oh, y'needn't worry, sir. A party is a bit akin t' rollin' a boulder down a hill; it picks up a bit o' momentum after a bit. 'Specially if you hire professyunals."

Gale frowned. "Okay, I'm sorry; what the fuck accent is that supposed to be?"

Vow let his mask slip just slightly, dropping his volume to be sure he couldn't be heard over the crowd, and in an enunciation more formal that Gale's own, answered "The kind stuffy unicorn nobles assume belongs to a backwater earth pony village that isn't worth knowing the name of, so they won't stoop to asking that question." And then, with a 'wink' (emulated mostly by a ripple in his brow, since he lacked distinct eyes), Vow returned to his accented tone. "M'ster Coil, I should encourage you ta spurn Her Majesty's affections fer now; spend some time workin' your charms on somepony else, eh?"

"You make a fair point," I agreed, before taking Gale's hoof and depositing a perfectly respectful kiss on her fetlock. "I'm sure you'll see me around, My Queen. Graargh, come on; against my better judgment, I'm going to introduce you to some important ponies."

As Graargh and I wandered off, Gale approached the spread of the buffet, idly snatched up a full carrot from what was obviously supposed to be a decorative part of the spread rather than the actual food (obvious in that all the food was roughly coin-sized and, in some way, actually cooked). Biting off the end with a harsh crack, she glanced around the room and chose seemingly at random to wander over toward Duchess Glass Menage, and the father-son dysfunctional duo of Chancellor Puddinghead and Secretary Peanut Gallery.

"Oh, it's Gale!" Puddinghead exclaimed quite loudly as she approached, grinning and adjusting the undulating, pudding-filled "bowl-er" hat that always seemed a bit odd given he was (contrary to most modern depictions) a fairly tall earth pony who loomed over most unicorns even without it. "Peanut, look; she's come to see you first at the party. Maybe you're doing something right after all."

Hot pink Peanut defied his coat by managing to blush, and offered an earth pony bow (that is, one forehoof curled back at his side instead of just crouching both forelegs). "Queen Platinum… It's nice to see you here."

"Likewise, Peanut. Chancellor." Making a point to introduce herself, she smiled at the last pony present. "Duchess Menage."

"Your Majesty." Menage dipped her head—a small token of respect, but one more than reasonable for one of the five unicorn Dukes. Then she fixed her monarch with the focused gaze of her piercingly blue eyes. "I'm sorry I haven't been able to host you since your ascension; Guild business has kept me unusually busy these past few weeks. But I congratulate you on your masterful handling of the… unfortunate events outside the Stable. This Royal Guard you're building sounds like quite the solution to the city's problems."

Peanut heavily coughed into his hoof. "Actually, about that, Your Majesty—"

"Oh, for the love of Celestia, Peanut!" Puddinghead cut in. "You don't talk politics to a mare at a party. Have I taught you nothing about game?"

Gale groaned and massaged her temple with a hoof. "It's fine; that's what hob-knobbing at this kind of thing is actually for, right? Why pretend. What were you going to say, Pean—er, Secretary?"

"You can call me by my name," Peanut answered. "I'm not that stiff. But yes. Um, we still need to talk about gem mining limits, Your Majesty. I know we kind of side-stepped that issue for the sake of getting a noble title to Miss Grainwood, but it really does need to be addressed."

Gale nodded. "I'll bring it up at the next Stable meeting, Peanut. And I'll try to find something my esteemed, uh…" The seated queen donned a sour face. "Does 'subjects' seem rude to anypony else?"

"It is the objectively correct term," Lady Glass replied. "But your compassion is admirable, Your Majesty."

Gratefully, Gale returned her attention to Peanut, whom she was surprised to find wearing a tight-lipped frown. "Does that work?"

"I'd, uh… it'd really help if…" Peanut hesitated. "Look, in Lubuck we're seeing reports of six and seven-twelfths year-over-year—mmph!"

The last syllable was because Puddinghead had actually reached over to smush his son's muzzle with a massive brown forehoof. "I take back what I said earlier; you can discuss politics with a mare; fine. But economics? Are you insane?"

Wriggling away from his father's hoof, Peanut muttered "Somepony has to convince her to fix it!"

"And you're going to do that by quoting numbers at her?"

"Why not?" Peanut demanded. "It's the most factual, equitable—"

"Nopony in the history of pony civilization has ever gotten what they wanted with math!" Puddinghead very-well nearly snapped at his son, brows dropped. "I know you know better, because I know you sometimes get what you want out of Parliament, but I have no idea how you actually manage that if you thought what you just started saying was ever going to work! And you're sure-as-sugar never going to get with Morty if that's your idea of seduction either!'

At that, Peanut's blush reappeared with a vengeance. "Dad!"

Lady Menage chuckled, glanced around the room to see where I was (or perhaps where I 'were' given my curious plurality) and then offered "You fancy the young hero, Secretary? If you were to end up capturing his heart, and you were so inclined to start a family, the House of Three would be more than willing to enable such a thing."

Gale and Peanut both blushed at that, albeit for very different reasons, and Puddinghead burst out into a healthy chuckle. "Trying to eliminate Peanut from the running as Gale's suitor, Lady Glass?"

"Oh, come on; it's obvious Her Majesty isn't the young secretary's type… Secretary, with the utmost respect for your subtlety in the field of politics, you must understand you aren't what one would call a discreet admirer." Then, with a shrug, the brilliantly sapphire coated noblemare offered a gestured hoof in the direction of one of me. "If your admiration for the Hero of Platinum's Landing happens to serve my line's political end, why not indulge a bit of playing matchmaker?"

"I'd be careful if I were you," threatened Puddinghead, albeit fairly jovially. "Two can play at that game, Lady Glass. And I'm very good at it."

Gale quirked a brow at that. "Good enough to overcome Spicy being a huge asshole to every stallion in the world?"

Puddinghead barked out a laugh, while it was Lady Glass' turn to sour—though, notably, not toward Gale but instead almost inward. "I… admit Spice has taken the unique lessons of our lineage to a further logical conclusion than I would like, Your Majesty. But I have to ask: whom did she mistreat so directly?"

"Morty, as it happens. Ask him about the hole in his neck, if you want to know more."

"I beg your pardon, what? Spice might be sharp tongued, but my daughter would never have injured somepony—"

Gale briefly winced, and then ferociously shook her head. "I took him with me to meet all of my suitors before my birthday, and one of the wounds from his battle wasn't quite as healed as we thought. It opened up while we were walking, and I figured Spice would be able to help faster than dragging him all the way back to the palace to meet with Meadowbrook. She gave him some potion to close the wound, but I guess because there was still something in the wound it made the potion work funny. I'm sure he can explain it. Or Spicy; whichever. It's all wizard stuff to me. All I meant was that she was dismissive of him as a wizard and he took it kind of personally."

Lady Glass clicked her tongue even as she smiled. "Alchemy has only the most tangential relationship to the wizard's craft, but then a queen isn't expected to master either, so I can hardly fault the confusion. Thank you for putting my mind at ease that at least it wasn't a matter of violence; I'll speak to Spice regarding how… forward she is about the strength of her convictions."

"You know," said Puddinghead with a chuckle. "I've always wondered how that worked with your family. Can I—?"

"There exists no ending to that sentence where I reply with 'yes', Chancellor," Glass interrupted curtly; then she turned to Gale with a soft smile. "Before I lose the thought or you're pulled away by the handsome host, I wanted to extend the assistance of the House of Glass on your 'Royal Guard' project; if there is anything we can do to be of service, please do not hesitate to ask."

Gale offered a rather sheepish smile of her own. "I appreciate the offer, Duchess, and I'll keep it in my pocket—but for the time being, it sounds like Secretary Peanut can help me get all the votes I need for funding in Parliament."

"Yes, well… actually, Your Majesty, that and the inflation topic are rather linked…" Nopony needed to cut off Peanut this time; a disbelieving raised brow from his father was sufficient to put an end to any further discussion of Equestrian macroeconomics. "Um… yes, I imagine you'll want to get back to Morty, Your Majesty; don't let us keep you."

"Well, thank you." Gale smiled, nodded her head, and took the exit provided to her on a silver platter.

12-2

XII - II

A Noble Affair

Gale's next stop at the party was her de facto rival in Equestrian politics, the Grand Duchess Chrysoprase. She arrived at the duo only moments later than one of me did.

"Ah, Gale! Glad you could make it!" I told her with a smile.

Gale raised a brow. "Do the copies of you not actually know what each other are doing? You greeted me at the door."

"Did I?" I closed my eyes and scrunched up my face, though an astute eye would note that my horn did not light. Then, after about three seconds, I opened them again and smiled. "Well, my apologies for any confusion there. And thank you again for the painting."

"...what?" said High Castle, quite justifiably, adjusting the collar of a gray tunic that helped to mute his powder blue coat. "Coil, if I may be so blunt, what is the point of this?"

"Well, with so many ponies present, I felt it wouldn't be fair to deny anyone the pleasure of my attention." Gale's eye twitched heavily. "Thank you for coming by the way, Duke. Grand Duchess." I swallowed a bit of my pride (finding it went down particularly poorly sheathed in wax) and folded a foreleg across my chest for a short bow. "I, uh, wanted to offer my apologies for our disagreement at your home a few weeks ago."

Chrysoprase, who had chosen for the party a dress that was probably in fashion before River Rock froze (that is, predating the birth of all three other ponies in our little gathering), casually waved a hoof in the air. "Water under the bridge, Mister Coil. And thank you very much for hosting us; it's always good to meet a new neighbor, even if the home has… uncomfortable memories."

"Oh, on that note!" I said, an early contender for the worst segway in the history of the Equiish language. "Lest you think I'm spying on you or anything," I continued, only deepening the concern on the Grand Duchess' face, "I found an old cookbook in Vow's kitchen, and he'd written in the margins that a recipe for artichoke… meuniere… was your favorite dish."

Chrysoprase let out a hearty and genuine laugh (not that I had the skills to tell if she had been faking it at the time). "'Moon-y-air', not… well, nopony in their right mind would make the name of a dish sound anything like 'manure'."

"Point taken."

A glimmer of cunning flashed across Chyroprase's eyes then, though I missed it. "Though this question might be called intrusive, I do feel the need to ask: have you found anything else of particular interest from the late Baron Card's records?"

"Baron Card?" I asked.

Here, High Castle picked up. "Amongst his other sins, Solemn Vow used his reputation and his magical tricks to con his way into a noble title that he did not deserve."

Chrysoprase sighed. "As… unpleasant as this may be to hear, grandson, Vow probably was entitled to that title."

"He was?" I asked, having to refrain very hard from glancing across the room at the oaken form of The Professor.

Chrysoprase nodded. "Probably. Bloodlines can be a tricky thing to trace in times of even orderly war, let alone the ravages of the crystals." Then, with a heavy pause, she added "I mean no offense, of course," in my direction.

I raised a brow. "Why would I take offense?"

High Castle smiled a smug smile on powder blue lips. "I suspect Grandmother is concerned you might take offense due to your mixed-blood nature."

It was an obvious rib, a test to see if I would be as easily irritable on the subject of nobility as I had been in their home weeks earlier. I was resolute not to indulge Castle's games, though the temptation to briefly mute him as Wintershimmer had that palace maid on the day of his ostensible death did cross my mind. "I assure you, no offense taken. I don't exactly take after dear old mom… actually, on that topic, there was a favor I was hoping to ask, Grand Duchess."

It was at this point, I suspect, that Chrysoprase decided I was choosing my conversational pivots on purpose, though in truth talking to a young Morty was just like that. "That is a… troubling introduction to a request, but go ahead."

"I understand you keep a collection of older copies of Twerp's Peerage? I was hoping you'd let me borrow a couple, or at least reference them."

"You know about Twerp's Peerage?" Gale asked. "Morty, what the hell are you on about?"

Contrary to Gale's confusion, Chrysoprase reacted much more darkly to the request than Vow had led me to expect. The already substantial furrows on her brow wrinkled, and I watched a veritably legendary knot tie itself from the muscles at the base of her muzzle between her eyes. "The parallels in this conversation are making me uncomfortable, Mister Coil."

"I… confess I don't follow?"

Dropping all pretense of noble language or euphemisms, she fixed me with something just a step above a glare. "Solemn Vow asked me almost that same question. And I can't help but suspect a similar end."

"Oh." I forced a chuckle that I don't think Chrysoprase really believed, but it was the first of the 'disarming' techniques Vow had taught me which came to mind. "I can see how that would be an uncomfortable parallel, but you've got me backwards."

"What is that supposed to mean?" High Castle asked.

"Vow wanted to find a parent to prove he was a noblepony. I suspect, given my mother, that I might be of some minor noble birth, and I'm hoping that I can use it to find a parent. Namely, my father."

"I'm confused," said Castle. "I thought it was crystal stallions who usually… well, you know."

Chrysoprase sighed. "I don't think this is a topic that we as representatives of a noble family need to be dragging out of a stallion who is obviously their victim, in his own way. Especially not in front of Her Majesty."

"I can't speak for Gale—er, I guess that should be 'Your Majesty'—but I don't mind."

Gale rolled her eyes, and then she donned a suddenly predatory grin as an idea lit up her mind. "Tell you what, Morty. You can call me whatever you're brave enough to say to my face."

Chrysoprase winced. "Choose your next words very carefully, Mr. Coil."

"Despite the rather obvious bait, I'd never say anything untoward, Grand Duchess. But since my best friend doesn't object—" Gale blushed at that, which made me grin like an idiot. "—I'll be blunt: my mother is Castigate."

Chrysoprase cocked her head. "I feel like I've heard that name, but it's eluding me."

"One of Warlord Halite's lieutenants; before the Cirrans arrived, she won the title young with a reputation for taking more of her victims alive than the other commanders in Halite's army. But when the Cirrans arrived, she was the first to face them in battle. I had a rather funny conversation with… is it Baroness Rain now, beautiful, or does she still get to be Princess Rain because of whatever her city was called?"

Gale winced at being addressed by 'beautiful' and I mentally chalked up a point. "Okay, fine, you win. Just use my name." Then, with a sigh, she added "Rain will kill you if you call her 'Princess' to her face."

"She can try," I answered, before returning to the thought at hoof. "I grew up knowing my mother had a long, painful-looking scar on her back. I only learned recently it was our newest Baroness who delivered it. It's a small world, as they say."

"Indeed," Chrysoprase agreed. "But for all the unpleasantness behind your amusing anecdotes, Mister Coil, you haven't yet explained why you wanted to borrow my books."

"Oh, right." Then I let out a huff. "There's no 'polite society' way to say this, so I'll just rip off the bandage. In that older, pre-Jade crystal society, one sign of reputation was what 'softcoat' you, uh… took advantage of, to produce your offspring. Being one of Halite's lieutenants, and then in disgrace over how badly she was beaten by the Cirrans, my mother became obsessed with those sorts of status symbols. To that end, while I don't know my father's name, I have decent reason to suspect he was almost certainly a knight, and therefore likely a noblepony." I cracked my neck. "And while I suppose I could just ask her when Gale and I head north next week, I'd rather not give her the satisfaction. Between the books, a bit of hoofwork to track down addresses if anypony is living in Everfree, and some light necromancy if it comes to that, I ought to be able to piece things together."

"Some light necromancy?" Castle asked with a scoff. "I would think you'd be more careful admitting to such magic after what happened with Count Halo."

"Actually, I've been offering my services much more pleasantly in the evenings; the Count aside, ponies have been quite grateful." I gestured to a door on the ground floor of the main room that led to the southwestern side of the house. "I've got a little parlor set up, and I let ponies talk to their deceased friends and family for a few minutes at a time. I wouldn't want to presume, but if either of you have anypony you'd like to talk to, I can have the Professor pen you in for an appointment."

High Castle rolled his eyes, but Chrysoprase showed considerably more interest. "Is this your trade, Mr. Coil? Do you charge?"

"I'm a wizard first and foremost… but I do take some payment. Mostly, it's to ensure ponies don't abuse the service with frivolous requests. If it's a legal matter—settling a will or something—then I do ask a share of whatever is being settled, if only to make up for the time and energy it takes to haul my supplies out to a courthouse."

"You've been settling court cases?" Gale asked.

I nodded. "Six contested inheritances, two testimonies in arbitrary judgements, and believe it or not, a murder." For those curious, I omit that story because it is one thing to solve a murder mystery through intense and sophisticated deductions and analyses, and it is very much another to resolve it in thirty seconds by asking the corpse directly. The killing blow being a knife wound to the chest meant there wasn't even any risk the deceased was wrong, as there might have been with something more distinguished like poison.

"I may have to take you up on your offer," said Chrysoprase. "It would be good for my grandson to have the chance to meet his parents."

Castle winced. "I… suppose," he said, forcing away his concern with a small smile I was just starting to suspect was forced at all times I had ever seen it (and he wore the little thing constantly, like an undersized mustache). "By all means."

"If you're willing to lend me the books, we'll call that all the payment I require," I offered the elder statesmare of the House of Gullion. "Do we have a deal, Grand Duchess?"

Chrysoprase sighed. "As much as the knot in my stomach warns me about the memory of your predecessor, I suppose so. If you really are a noble, making you take the long way to discovering it won't change anything."

I offered a dismissive snort of amusement at that. "You've got no need to worry. If I wanted a noble title, I'm sure I could earn myself an Archmage's seat and then petition the Queen. Between literally saving Equestria and the tradition of archmagi being granted baronies, I doubt it would be a hard argument, even if I didn't already have her friendship."

"Don't talk around me, Morty; I'm right here." Gale rolled her eyes. "It's not clever."

"Sorry. Just… nevermind." I shook my head, and then told her "Maybe I'll ask anyway, if it turns out I'm wrong about my dad. 'Lord Coil' has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?"

"Don't push your luck," warned Chrysoprase, darkly.

High Castle, however, seemed amused. "I don't know, grandmother… the more I think about it, the more I think he's right."

"I beg your pardon?" Grandmother rounded on grandson, not angry but confused. "After your last debate with him at our home?"

"Water under the bridge, Grandmother. But in this case, I would rather say I believe Coil because he's all-but proven me right."

"I have?" I asked with a swift downturn to my thus-far-growing grin.

"Well, at the time we were initially debating Wintershimmer as an example of morality… but if we're being honest, I think the unstated subject of our debate was you yourself."

"You could make that argument, I conceded, nodding. "I'm not one to brag—"

"Fucking liar," Gale muttered, unable to resist.

"—but I did save the world. But I didn't know I had any claim to any noble title at the time."

"Ah, but you misunderstand," Castle corrected. "You'll recall my point was that nobility is a property of blood. It's passed down a line. It hardly matters whether you knew or not; if you're a born noblepony, it only proves my point all the more that you rose out of the horrors of youth among the crystals and the 'morality' imparted by somepony like Wintershimmer to save the day anyway. At that point, the only difference between you and any of us in the Stable is that you never had somepony to teach you the good graces and rules of our class—a lack of education we can hardly fault, and which I for one would imagine anypony would be more than happy to help correct. Especially for such an esteemed wizard and… 'hero', as yourself."

I had never before and have rarely since hated the word 'hero' as much as I did in that moment. I found myself glaring with my teeth slightly clenched as Castle's diatribe carried on. Finally, when he seemed to be done, I managed to restrain the urge to lash out with a shout when I said "Want to bet on that?"

"What do you propose?"

"If I prove not to be from some noble lineage, but a self-made half-crystal bastard who rose to this position under his own power and saved the world on his own two hooves, I win. And if it turns out the other half of my lineage gives me noble title, I admit—however grudgingly—that you might be right about hereditary heroism and birthright."

(If you find yourself at this point frustrated by a lack of logic in this progression of affairs… so am I. But the mind follows where the heart leads, especially for teenagers.)

"The prospect is amusing." Castle teased his chin, despite the lack of any facial hair to bother on his muzzle. "What do you propose to wager?"

"Well, I'm not familiar with what's considered fashionable to bet amongst the nobility. When wizards have an ideological dispute, the loser usually dies, and I'm guessing that isn't how things are settled when you don't train for that sort of thing your whole life. What's a reasonable sum? Twenty-thousand bits?"

Chrysoprase winced. "We certainly don't bet with coin."

"It's an easy trap to fall into that, just because most noble families are rich, that we care deeply about money. Quite the opposite; honor is what matters. To that end, we sometimes call a single bit a 'gentlecolt's bet'—but more often and more entertaining is something of honor. Suppose this: if you do prove to be a noblepony, you pledge your house as a banner to the House of Gullion—with the pledges of loyalty that entails. It solves your problem of needing an introduction to what it means to really be a noble, and we get the services of, as you so bluntly describe, a superlatively gifted mage."

"Castle, that's not fair," Gale interrupted. "He doesn't even know—"

"I think I can match that bet," I interrupted over Gale (putting a heavy frown on her face that would prove more persistent than many of my usual irritations). "But do I understand correctly that what you ask is no small thing?"

"It is a lifetime oath," Chrysoprase explained. Then, with a huff, she added "And lest you get any creative ideas, the noble understanding of a 'lifetime' does not have as many loopholes as your 'debate' with Count Halo surfaced."

"Ah. Well, then," I nodded. "Castle, if I win, you drop out of the running for Gale's hoof."

"What?!" Chrysoprase and Gale snapped in near-tandem. Only the latter had the audacity to punch me, and the blow was solid enough that it tore a chunk of my face off. A hoof-sized slab of undeniably handsome fur and the corner of tidy lips slapped onto the marble floor and began to ooze wax until I reached down, picked up the sticky mess, and placed it back onto my face as though nothing of note had happened.

"My apologies," I said.

"You can't just—" Gale slapped her own face heavily with her hoof as she groaned, her frustration overtaking her ability to speak functional Equiish. Some wax, still stuck to her hoof, dribbled down her muzzle until I gently lifted a hoof and slurped it back into my body. This won me no points with the queen; after a glare, she turned head and shoulders fully to face Chrysoprase and Castle. "I didn't put him up to this."

"There's no need to apologize, Your Majesty," said Chrysoprase, with a chuckle.

High Castle added wryly "Well, maybe for his face—though even that seems like a negligible concern… what are you made of?"

"Candle wax," I noted briefly, and briefly ran a hoof up my horn to reveal that, behind a bit of magic, it was actually a lit candle—before it once more resumed its disguise.

"Your distaste for the whole prospect of continuing the royal line is an… open enough secret," the Grand Duchess continued, blatantly not acknowledging the magic. "And from there, it's hardly a stretch to gather that Coil made this offer with his friendship in mind, and perhaps a less-than-well informed understanding of how the royal lineage actually works." Turning to me, the elderly mare added "I suggest you choose an alternate ask—"

"Well, now, I wouldn't say that," said High Castle. Immediately, his grandmother rounded on him not just with her eyes, but reorienting her whole body, and the lines that crossed her forehead grew pronounced even through the makeup she had used to disguise them.

"You will not throw away your standing, Castle, over some ill-advised bet that may well be decided by a coin flip."

"I hardly think the odds are so fair," Castle answered, evidently competing for my smugness. "I don't know if Coil's logic on the subject of borrowing from our library persuaded you, but it does compel me to think he's right. Beyond that, there is the matter of his history as icing on the proverbial cake—how does a colt raised by this traitorous archmage, surrounded by the ravages of the barbarians, come to have even the modicum of refinement we see before us, if there isn't something more factoring into his person? Frankly, I'd take this wager at even higher odds. And clearly, it's a matter of honor for him."

"I cannot stand idly by—"

"Then your objection is noted, Grandmother," said Castle, and he picked up my hoof from the floor in his magic in order to bring it into a shake with mine, before the older mare could actually do anything to object further.

In retrospect, I wish I had oozed just a little on his hoof if only to unsettle him, but alas there was hardly enough force in the motion to disturb my body's surface tension.

"Well, since I'm clearly just a prize here, let me just say: fuck you both," Gale said—deliberately maintaining her 'high society' enunciation despite the crass punchline. Then she turned and stormed away.

What followed was a moment of silence, before at last Castle spoke up. "Aren't you going to go after her? Try to apologize? I'd offer, but of the two of us I suspect she'll take it better from you."

"Oh, I am," I replied, gesturing to where another of me was making rather frantic excuses to step away from a group of other guests. "That's the one that isn't made of wax, since this is obviously… how did you put it? 'A matter of honor'?"

"You are without a doubt the strangest stallion I have ever had the pleasure of knowing," Castle replied. "The implication of a 'matter of honor' is that you're willing to duel over it, not just that you feel strongly."

"Oh." I chuckled. "Well, then I think I'm an inadvisable opponent even for Gale."

"Quite the contrary," warned Chrysoprase. "Nobles do not duel with spells—or rather, the conventional rules are that one never touches one's opponent directly with one's magic. Since the division of 'archmage' and 'king' into separate titles after the passing of King Electrum, tradition has held that nobles settle disputes with swords. And in that regard, I'm afraid Her Majesty is the pony to be afraid of… well, at least, I assume you aren't a student of swordplay. It is perhaps the one aspect of our culture to which she has taken any meaningful fondness; I suspect it's the pegasus in her."

"Wait, Gale's killed somepony before?" I asked.

Castle scoffed. "We aren't so barbaric. Only in the most extreme of cases do nobleponies duel to the death. We usually settle matters either by dueling to the touch with magically blunted blades, or to first blood. The point of the duel is to show that you're willing to risk death yourself, not that you're bloodthirsty against your enemy. Near as I know, Lord Tone is the only pony who's actually killed anypony in a duel in our lifetimes… Present company excluded, I suppose." What followed was a noise I will term a 'country club brunch laugh', which is to say a noise which consisted of laughter in the strictest sense, but where nopony—the laugher included—believed there to be any humor involved, and instead the noise was a signal of a sort of high-class social camaraderie to help wash down an otherwise off-color (or often outright racist) comment.

But this asshole had the unmitigated gall to suggest I was barbaric?

.
.
.

Ahem; my apologies. Thinking back on that rat-bastard Castle still gets my dander up even after a millennium of satisfaction about the especially painful events of his untimely passing. (Lest any reader be confused, his death was 'untimely' in that it should have happened sooner).

That day, I didn't yet know the extent of Castle's conniving nature, and was content to think that I was playing the so-called 'Great Game' with at least some level of proficiency. That, combined perhaps with the fact that for the first time ever I was finding myself welcomed into a social group of greater than perhaps three ponies, I looked past his awkward laugh. My wax body closed its eyes for a few seconds at a sort of 'ping' (I would liken the feeling to the tactile equivalent of a needle dropping, which was quite noticeable on a body where all physical sensation was dimmed as if being felt through layer of wax) and then I opened my eyes and smiled. "I've just had a great idea for cheering up Gale; would you like to join me, Castle?"

"For Her Majesty's sake? Certainly."

12-3

XII - III

The Trial of King Hematite's Reliquary

"Ah, M'er Coil, can I borrow a lean ov' an ear fer a word?" The 'pony' speaking was Solemn Vow, who had intercepted me on my way to Gale's side after (I assumed) having discreetly eavesdropped on my conversation with Castle and Chrysoprase. I nodded as he stepped up beside me, where he promptly dropped the horrifying amalgam of accents and let his natural voice drop to a hoarse whisper. "We'll discuss what just happened this evening, but you are not going to make any new agreements or bets or try to play any further 'turns'."

"Turns?"

I had the distinct sense that Vow had tried to roll his eyes, before remembering he didn't actually have any in his wooden body. "It's another 'Great Game' metaphor… I wait with bated breath on your literacy reaching a level to handle Eleventeen Wagers of King Malachite."

There, I let out a scoffing breath of a laugh and turned my head fully away from Gale to meet his would-be gaze. "Eleventeen?"

"Ancient unicorns liked lists," Vow snapped with unusual terseness toward me given the dynamic of our usual relationship. When his wooden brow shifted to furrow, I found myself standing up to my full height (a fair bit taller than the androgynous dress form from which he was made). The show of authority did not improve his mood. "Say what you need to say to Her Majesty, get your head in whichever one of you is talking to Diadem, then find a way to blend into the furniture."

"But—"

"If you want to win Her Majesty's hoof, consider that an order. I will explain in privacy. And when I do, I hope you will suffer me an esophagus and a liver so I can indulge in some kind of alcohol…" Vow made the noise of sighing despite not even having indents where his nostrils might have been and concluded "I am going to attend to more of my espionage now, but if you are in any doubt, speak to me before you take further foolish action. Are we clear?"

With a glare, I muttered "Sure."

"Wellth'n—" (I'm reasonably certain Vow coined that nonsense contraction) "Master Coil, I'll be back to me duties, 'eh? Less'n there's another thing else ya' need?" And without actually waiting for a reply to his other persona, he strode away into the crowd.

With that scalding critique still turning my skin red beneath my coat, I drew in a breath, huffed it out, and finally approached Gale. I knew in an instant she was furious by her choice of snacks from the buffet: the Equestrian Queen had selected a few sticks of celery and a bunch of red grapes. The former snapped like bones directly in front of her eyes before she tossed the bite-sized pieces into her mouth. The latter, she took a grim satisfaction in twisting until their stems gave in rather than merely plucking them from the bunch.

"What the fuck do you want?" she asked after a visible swallow.

"I'm sorry, Gale."

"And I'm the fucking Queen of Equestria," she muttered.

I raised a brow. "Um… you are?"

"Yes, I am." Gale turned toward me with her ears half-folded back, bit down the last of her celery, and bluntly stated "And everypony knows it. Great, whee. Tell ye old town cry-er."

"I… don't know what else to say."

Gale scowled, and then groaned, and then rolled her eyes and stomped a hoof, and finally said "I'm not mad at you… No, that's a lie. I shouldn't be mad at you. And I'm pissed that I am anyway. I know I put you up to this, and I know you and V—the Professor have some kind of plan going. It just… gah! This is stupid!"

"Not it's not," I said, and though the words sounded conciliatory, I was channeling Wintershimmer. "It's never stupid to sort through your emotions; emotions are the source of most stupidity. And I hope you feel like you can talk to me, whatever's bothering you."

"I can," Gale answered heavily, out of the corner of her mouth. "It won't do any good though."

"Try me." I wandered over to Gale's side, grabbed an apple (slightly awkwardly) in the frog of my very much not waxen hoof, took a crunching bite, and leaned against the table.

Gale nervously glanced around the room, and then spoke in a whisper that made her voice husky and raw. "I was seven when I had my first heat; I was in court with Mom when the feeling got strong enough that I realized something was happening. I interrupted her and Ty; I thought I was sick. Some of the nobles said something about the line being 'secure', and how it was only a matter of time until the 'race' started—I didn't know what they meant. But Dad took me home and explained to me what was going on. And then I understood. Ponies had been talking about me—not to me, but about me—literally as long as I can remember. So now when I hear you talk about giving up chasing my hoof and betting and… all of that shit, all I can hear is those seventy-whatever year old assholes commenting on me when I was a foal."

After a pause, I asked "Should I have actually killed Count Halo?"

As grim of a comment as that was (or perhaps because of it), Gale burst out laughing. "I let myself wish you had for a few minutes, but no." Her horn lit, and she adjusted a bit of her mane that had fallen across her muzzle in the course of her laughter. "I just… I don't actually have a lot of real friends, Morty. So I really, really don't want you of all ponies to wind up like that."

"If I do, you can stab me," I told her, to which she gave a good-natured roll of her eyes. "Want to practice?"

"What?"

"Well, when I was exploring the house and setting up some rooms for a workshop and a library and a seance room and whatever, Angel and the Professor and I found this set of old dueling swords. And I know you're into that sort of thing…"

"Oh fuck yes," said Gale, donning maybe the widest, most unabashed grin I had ever seen. "I guess I should warn you that I'm gonna destroy you, though."

"I don't know," I answered. "I can do an awful lot with magic even when I'm not allowed to use it on you directly."

"Where do you wanna do this?" Gale asked.

I closed my eyes for a few seconds, and then explained "Other-me and Castle should be back with the swords in a couple minutes. In the meantime, there's somepony I should introduce you to. I—"

"Master Coil," interrupted Vow from seemingly out of thin air, speaking with barely constrained urgency in his preferred voice. His arrival was so sudden that I noticeably jumped, and even donned a wince when my instinctual reaction to a surprise of lighting up my horn caused a twinge of pain in my forehead. "There's something we need to discuss," he said, only casting the slightest tilt of his head toward the show of unintended magic, however slight.

"It's urgent?" Vow nodded fiercely, so I briefly offered Gale "Go see Diadem and Grayscale and I. That me should be free."

"Okay," she said, then glanced to Vow. "Is everything okay?"

"Nothing you need to worry about, Your Majesty," said Vow, and then added in parting "I know how to hide a body, if it comes to that."

He wasn't joking either about the knowledge or the implication of its possible application, but for now we'll follow Gale away through the party toward the micro-conclave of several of Equestria's finest wizards.

They still stood where Gale had first observed them; Diadem and Grayscale clad in their pajamas as I entertained them and settled a few notes of business. This Morty was accompanied by Cherry Tomato, looking far more natural in an undersized sleek black coat than Graargh had—even if his own red coat was perhaps a bit too close to the jacket's red trim to form elegant delineations at the fetlocks. Never as fashion-conscious as I, Gale hardly gave it a thought as she climbed the stairs; instead her attention was on the tail end of just one of our many conversations that day, fading into audible definition as her ears grew closer.

"—forcing my way through Tenets of Gravity, but it has been an absolute slog."

Grayscale nodded. "Not something you can cut your way through with your 'Razor', is it, Coil?"

Diadem rolled her eyes. "Grayscale, give Morty some credit. It's incredible he's reading Orbit at all, given where he was only a few weeks ago. Learned anything interesting from your reading, Morty?"

"Mostly, I've just lost most of my respect for Archmage Orbit," I answered. "And—ah, Gale! Come on up, join us."

"Hi, Your Majesty," said Cherry with his big friendly grin.

"Hello, Cherry…" Gale cocked a brow as she fully took in the colt's appearance. "Morty can really get you to do magic?"

"A little, so far," Cherry answered. "Once Lady Celestia teaches him more about other kinds of magic, I won't have to use blood, and then it should be a lot safer to practice."

Gale stared straight into my eyes and stated bluntly "Evil. Cult. Robes." Then, before I could object, she added "Is this you busy too, or just the other one?"

"I'm too busy for you?" I closed my eyes for a moment, then chuckled. "I… oh. Well, that will be fun to deal with. Well… swords. Right. Castle stopped me to talk about some kind of game with wooden mallets, so they might be a moment delayed. But you're welcome to join us here."

"How are you doing that?" Grayscale asked. "Surely even you aren't brave enough to fragment your mind, right? I could imagine a set of really good golem anima, but then you wouldn't be psychically linked…"

"Is that something I can learn?" Cherry asked, piping up.

I considered just answering the question and revealing my necromantic expertise to the other two wizards, but then a wry, teasing challenge snuck its way into my mind. "Archmage Diadem, do you have a guess?"

Diadem bit her cheek for a moment in thought, scrunched up her muzzle, and then raised a hoof frog up in a kind of half-shrug. "If I had to take a stab blind, I'd guess the fact that one of them is your real body is a misdirection, and rather than the three bodies talking directly to each other, they're proxied by a single controlling point… your real soul, set aside somewhere?" I let out a small gasp, and after a pause, she added "Oh, was I close? Wait; please tell me you didn't make yourself a lich for a party trick."

"No, no… I was just testing a hypothesis of how Wintershimmer did it, and I stumbled on this odd little application. Really, it's nothing." Lest a future reader be discouraged, that magic is definitely not 'nothing'. "Just a parlor trick." Also a lie. "I mean, it's fun, and it's occasionally practical to save some time, but you wouldn't want to use it in a battle or anything." Absolutely, patently false. "Part of today is an excuse to see how functional I can be in two places at once; and there are a lot of restrictions. The candlecorns can't still be me if they leave the house, I probably won't remember ninety percent of today's small talk in the morning…" I sighed and finally indulged the question on the tip of my tongue. "Not that it's a huge deal or anything, but… given I was under the impression you weren't much of a necromancer, how did you come to that conclusion?"

Diadem smiled and glanced down at her hooves rather sheepishly. "Well, Morty, I might not be Master Star Swirl—" I interrupted her explanation to spit on my own floor (thus disproving the ancient pegasus philosopher Diogeneighs centuries before the advent of the spitoon) "—but I know my way around magic. And if I might be so bold, well, Clover the Clever is every bit the wizard Wintershimmer was. Plus, I have the advantage of age." Then, looking up and meeting my gaze, she concluded "But it was a guess. An educated guess, but still mostly luck."

I tried my best to refrain from grinding my hoof into the floor in frustration, but the irritation snuck out regardless. "Well, I congratulate you for your insight," I answered, feeling utterly despondent that the senior mage had seen through what I assumed had taken Wintershimmer decades to perfect, and me the better part of three weeks to reproduce despite knowing (or at least strongly suspecting) how he had achieved the effect. "I suppose we can discuss more at our next lesson?"

"Oh, no, actually…" Diadem shook her head. "I was going to tell you then, but might as well save you the walk to the academy; you're done, Morty."

"I beg your pardon?"

"There's nothing more I can teach you. At least, nothing more that you can't just as easily teach yourself. You know your diphthongs and blended phonemes and we even covered all the unusual spellings you get from the loan words Cirran brought back into standard Equiish."

"Sure, but it still takes me minutes slowly sounding out words to get through any kind of sophisticated text. I mean, I'm literate enough to get through a foal's storybook just fine, but I'm nowhere near what I need if I want any kind of success in independent research. Can you imagine me reading the Tourmaline Grimoire at my level?" I let out a disdainful snort, to which Diadem answered with a gentle smile that only served to irritate me more.

"Morty, I'm sorry to have to say this, but the only thing separating your literacy from mine right now is practice. Just like how as foals we learn control of your telekinesis enough that it ceases to require a conscious thought, any kind of speed with reading comes from having seen a word enough that it's familiar. And you don't need me for that. Even if you did meet with me, all I could really offer at this point would be to catch a few words with unusual pronunciations, or to recommend books for your reading level. All you need is to keep investing time in reading. And in that regard, if you want to build up to the level of something like the Tourmaline Grimoire… well, having written my own thesis and read through the old entries, let me warn you that some of the older stuff uses language so archaic it's barely comprehensible as Equiish. But setting that, and King Tourmaline's borderline-illegible script, aside: books like Tenets of Gravity are exactly the sort of thing to keep working through. If you ever feel like dropping by the school after lecture hours, I'd be more than happy to recommend a few other books for you, though."

"But…" I sighed. "Isn't there a better way? Some sort of mnemonic enhancement spell or accelerated… something?"

Diadem shrugged. "You could ask Archmage Hourglass, if she's still around."

It was at this exact moment that my mind jumped to a very particular book and I had perhaps the worst idea in the history of Equestrian magic… but that's a different story.

"Hourglass?" asked Gale—and I took some amusement in the fact that Grayscale also cocked his head in confusion. "Like, King Ardor's wizard? From the stories about Canterlot?"

"She's real, Your Majesty," Diadem confirmed. "She showed up to help clean up the mess after Morty fought Wintershimmer. Given what she says about Canterlot, I'm not sure if it was actually a real place that the stories just exaggerated, or if she's pulling my leg. But near as I can tell, she really does travel through time. Or, at least, Master Star Swirl had met her before, and she's gotten younger since he was in his twenties."

The mention of cleaning up sent a jolt through my mind. "Oh, that reminds me. Does the old stallion still have Wintershimmer's staff?"

"The severed dragon's spine?" Grayscale asked. "Why would you even want to touch that?"

I shot an outright glare Grayscale's way, and felt my ears flick back without me even really thinking about it. "Gale and I are going to visit the Crystal Union, along with a small delegation, and while I'm there I'd like to pick up what Wintershimmer left behind—at least, whatever Star Swirl hasn't already plundered."

"Morty, please," said Diadem. "Can we not revisit this argument?"

"He asked," I replied. "I need the staff to disarm some of the wards and traps; not everything was just spoken passwords."

"Ah." Diadem nodded. "Master Star Swirl offered Celestia to accompany you and help deal with Wintershimmer's vaults, so I'm sure he can bring the staff along then."

"Well, that's very kind of him to offer, but his services won't be necessary. If he wants to take upon himself an independent excavation of Wintershimmer's vaults, I suppose I can't stop him, but I'm not going to help him either. And in the interest of intellectual openness, you should remind the Archmage that he was the specific pony Wintershimmer was thinking of when he installed what I'll call a borderline-paranoid series of traps." Brushing my hoof on my lapel and inspecting it purely in the petty interest of breaking eye contact (it wouldn't do to just stare into Diadem's soul; I wasn't threatening her), I concluded "I'll be up to the academy tomorrow to pick up the staff."

The borderline threat left an ominous silence in the gathering for a moment; one which was eventually filled when, much to everypony else present's surprise, Cherry Tomato added "And…"

I sighed. "Celestia would…" The words didn't feel right; I rubbed my hoof on the floor, and even lowered my gaze to it. "I was wondering…" Still wrong.

"Master Coil, you can do this; it isn't that hard," said Cherry.

I shot the young teen a harsh glance, though it only lasted a second before I had to admit in my mind that he was right. "What does it cost to enroll two students at your school, Archmage Diadem?"

"Hmm?" Diadem had a hint of a smile when I built up the spine to look her in the eye—not a cruel, victorious smile like most of the happiness one would find in social circles like these, but just a plain, friendly, genuine one. "Well… I see. Hear me out before you react to this number, because there is some nuance."

"Alright?" I raised a brow. "You realize money is basically no object to me?"

That got a snort of dis-amusement from Grayscale and even implacably optimistic Diadem rolled her eyes. "Tuition is ten thousand bits a year."

"I'm sorry; ten thousand? I saw the size of Grayscale's class; how can all those parents afford that kind of money? Are they all nobles' kids?"

"No; we offer what I call 'scholarships', based on need and talent. That way, ponies with a true passion or a natural talent can study regardless of their wealth, but… well, it's a bit shameful to admit outright, but at the end of the day, we're only able to offer the education to those ponies because we do accept at least a few ponies from families who have expectations of some magical training, even when they're a bit hopeless." Swallowing, the friendly archmage added "That being said… there is an entry exam. And—I'm assuming you're referring to Cherry as one of the prospective students—while Mr. Tomato here might prove that he's worth making an exception, we do usually require a show of some practical skill. And even if we did make such an exception, grading for courses also requires practical displays, and—"

I interrupted Diadem not by speaking, but simply with an upraised hoof.

"I will bet you his tuition that he can pass your practical exam right now."

Diadem frowned. "Morty, please don't be cruel to the young stallion. I'm sure Mr. Tomato is an exceptional student of magical theory, but he is an earth pony."

"You're not proposing sticking his soul in your body, are you?" Grayscale prodded.

I shook my head firmly, even as I reached my right forehoof into the breast of my jacket. "Nothing so drastic, no." Those words were, at least from the perspective of an outside observer, somewhat undercut when I produced from within my jacket a long, slender stoppered glass decanter, about the length from my knee to my fetlock. Its thick, opaque contents were obviously blood, even at a glance.

"Morty!" Gale shouted. "Is that yours?!"

"Stars no! That much blood loss would give me anemia." I shook my head.

"It's Lady Celestia's," Cherry added, once more making my lack of concern seem very troubling to the assembled group. "Am I really allowed to use your reserve, Master Coil?"

"It's a special case," I replied with a nod, handing him the vessel. "Now, let's see what Archmage Diadem's challenge is, shall we?"

"How is a bottle of blood going to let an earth pony do magic?" Gale asked.

I chuckled. "Just watch."

Diadem took a deep breath, and then nodded. "I'm not certain I'm comfortable taking on a student who's going to have to bleed Lady Celestia before every class…"

"Celestia and I are working on a more practical mechanism. For now, though, this will do."

"Very well… Cherry, before I continue: is this what you want?"

"Oh, yes, absolutely," said Cherry with a grin. "I had to talk Master Coil into teaching me. He didn't think I could do it either."

I nodded. "He saved my life. He's handy in a fight."

At that, Diadem frowned. "He's, what, thirteen?"

"And?"

"Wintershimmer. Right." Clearing her throat and rising up to what I will call an 'academic' posture, Diadem lit up her horn. "Morty, may I borrow the vase there on the table?" The piece in question sat on a small table at the side of the hall; I dipped my chin to acquiesce to its use. No sooner had I done so than the vase flew violently over to hover beside Diadem—a rather sudden show of telekinetic brutality, given her calm demeanor. In another small surge from her horn, the vase disappeared, and in its place hovered a solid steel box whose face was set with an obvious keyhole, and what one could only conclude was a matching steel key. "I apologize for the lack of showponyship in the box; Master Star Swirl's omniomorphic spell is a vital tool, but I don't have any of his artistry or panache with it."

Cherry looked up in wide-eyed awe. "What's an 'amniomorphic spell'?"

"Omniomorphic," I corrected. "Meaning 'all shapes'. Before Star Swirl's research, you had to know a separate spell if you wanted to transform any object into another object. It was a different spell to turn something into a teacup than it was to turn something into a throwing knife. Being any good at transmutation meant memorizing far more spells than a mage who specialized in any other kind of magic. Now, if you know the omniomorphic spell, you've got the only transmutation magic you'll ever need."

"Well, sort of," corrected Diadem. "Compared to other specific transformational magic, the omniomorphic spell is horribly mana-inefficient, and it takes a lot of concentration so you'd never want to use it under any kind of pressure. It also can't be sealed to make the effect permanent. But in general, yes; it's an incredibly useful tool."

"Can I learn it?" Cherry asked.

"I don't actually know it myself," I answered. "Once I finish my thesis and get my hooves on Tourmaline's Grimoire, though, I'll let you read how it works with me. But for now, focus on your immediate goal."

"Okay," Cherry nodded. "So the key goes to the box?"

Diadem smiled gently. "Yes, it does. But not the way you'd usually lock or unlock a chest." Diadem's magic opened the lid of the box and placed the key inside. She made a show of demonstrating inserting the key into the back side of the lock (where the keyhole was also visible). She then closed the box with the key still in the inner keyhole, and the small group of us present all heard the distinct click of the box locking.

"This exercise is called Hematite's Reliquary. Please open the box."

"Oh," said Cherry. "So I have to get the key out of the box without opening it? Master Coil, can you teach me the glyph of teleportation."

"I can," I admitted. "But I think you know at least a few ways to do this without needing that lesson."

"Oh. Okay. Um… well, am I allowed to just turn the key on the inside lock like you did, Miss Diadem?"

"If you can exert that kind of telekinesis, then—"

"No," I interrupted. Diadem looked at me quizzically at the interruption. "Hematite's Reliquary is supposed to be administered with the chest made of lodestone, and the handle of the key either bolted to the bottom of the chest, or lined with void crystal. Or both."

Diadem shook her head. "That's the challenge Archmage Comet posed to Wintershimmer and Master Star Swirl, but it isn't exactly standard. Comet wasn't known for being a very fair teacher."

"I believe Cherry can do it," I answered. "To explain, Cherry: lodestone is a lesser magical resistor; you can do magic through it, but it requires much stronger exertion, and the more magically complex the spell the more it resists. So with the exception of a few powerful archmagi, it's considered impossible to teleport through lodestone. Void crystal is the same thing on a much, much stronger scale. It actively eats magic, and it's basically impossible to do magic anywhere near it. So for our purposes, you can touch the front of the key but not the handle. And while Celestia's blood is potent enough to work straight through lodestone for most of the spells you can cast, I'd like you to do this using only the raw cantrips we've worked through."

Grayscale blinked heavily at that in disbelief. "Don't you think you're being a bit harsh, Coil? He's still an apprentice."

I shook my head. "Cherry, why don't you tell Grayscale why you want to be a wizard."

"Well, because it feels like a good idea," he offered, prompting me to immediately slap my own hoof into my face. Thankfully, blissfully, unlike how I had grown used to Graargh's social ignorance, Cherry picked up on the fact that I wasn't satisfied with the information in that answer. "Um, I'm special; that's my talent mark. Like, I'm lucky. And I'm supposed to use it to help other ponies. And after I met Morty—er, Master Coil, I had this good good feeling that I was supposed to help him. So that's what I want to do. I want to be like him."

I nodded. "Which is to say: if you want to be a real wizard, who goes out slaying monsters and protecting the populace, you can absolutely beat this challenge with my restrictions."

"I do have an idea," Cherry admitted. "Master, can I use the Animus glyph we practiced? Does that count as a cantrip?"

I raised a brow. "It does... But before you use the blood for that, how are you thinking it will help?"

"Well, I might not know how to open the lock, but the lock itself probably does, right?"

I let out a small laugh, which put a frown on Cherry's face, and I immediately corrected myself. "No, no, Cherry; you didn't do anything wrong. That's a great idea; it won't work without a much more complicated variant of the animus glyph, but what you're proposing is possible. Remember, basic animii are very stupid. I'll teach you a better version next lesson, because that's an excellent use of abstraction."

"Abstraction?" Gale asked.

"Thinking like a wizard," I explained. "Viewing the world in terms of abstract qualities of a thing, and how those can be manipulated, instead of taking the world at its physical face-value."

"I agree," Diadem concurred. "That's a very impressive idea, Cherry."

"Thank you!" Cherry beamed. "But um… oh, that's another idea. Scrying is a cantrip, right?"

I nodded. "It is."

Cherry drew a small basic scrying glyph—lex video upon a circumscribing sigil of hither and thither with three-quarters-ish of a conciliatory adaptation (though I suspect that was less a deliberate choice to maximize the enormous power of Celestia's blood, and more sloppy hoof-writing, given I hadn't taught him anything about adaptations yet). The blood itself soon began to visibly bubble and roil; Grayscale took a small step back in concern, though there was no real danger other than at most a splash of red. Tendrils of dark red reached up from the sigil, and then wrapped together into a sort of helix above the glyph, before the pointed tip of the gathering collapsed in on itself, and what was once a spiral of tendrils became merely an orb. And finally, with a visible ripple, the glossy surface of the head-sized orb of blood went from a vague glossiness to an almost mirror shine. Gazing deeply into it, we watching wizards could observe… the interior of the box.

"I'm impressed you got that to work on your first try," I told Cherry—one reading might regard it as a harsh encouragement, especially when I added "Given your troubles with getting the glyph right when we were practicing earlier."

"I practiced a lot more at home," Cherry answered. When I gave him a concerned look, he added "I had to just use ink; I promise I'm following the rules."

"Ah. Well, good for you, Cherry."

"I have to practice hard if I'm gonna be as good of a wizard as you," he answered, before grabbing onto the orb with his hooves (which sank the barest fraction of an inch into the blood before apparently meeting solid resistance) and dragging it down so that it was hovering just above the floor. Then, pressing inward with the same hooves, he shrunk the ball until the image of the inside of the box, and the key laying on its 'floor' was (presumably) one-to-one scale.

"What's he doing?" Gale whispered to me. "Why make it smaller?"

"I have no idea," I answered, unable to contain my grin as I watched.

Once the size was right, Cherry further pushed the orb down onto the floor, effectively transforming it into a disc, albeit one which still cast the image of the box's interior.

Then, to pretty much everypony watching's shock (and it was at this point I noticed the admittedly grotesque display had gathered a few more watchers from my party), he drove his hoof down onto the image of the key itself. As arcane scholars amongst my readership will no doubt fail to be surprised to hear, this didn't 'pop' the scrying disk. Cherry seemed to be counting on that, however, or at least daring to hope for it. He smiled a bit, and muttered "That's lucky…" to himself, before tucking tongue at the right side of his mouth and pinching it between his lips in focus.

"Did you teach him all of this?"

I shook my head at Gale's question. "The great thing about a young apprentice is that they have no idea why ideas like this shouldn't work."

"He's only like five years younger than us," she observed.

"Yes, but he started magic just a couple weeks ago. He has no idea that he's only getting away with the reshaping because blood is sticky to itself enough to hold a coherent shape, or that once the magic runs out, this is going to be a disgusting mess."

I only noticed that Cherry had very deliberately put his hoof through the depiction of the key in the lock when he began to drag his foreleg through more of Celestia's blood, effectively tracing the shape of the key. Then he removed his hoof, lifted up the disc to hover at about head-height again, and set it aside to hover ominously in the air. The motion revealed that the exact shape and dimensions of the key were now painted in blood on my upper hallway floor, standing out harshly against the polished wooden floorboards.

"Okay… so now, I just need to use a force cantrip and I can make a new key…" Cherry started drawing furiously again.

"Brilliant!" said Diadem.

Grayscale gave a small nod. "I… credit where credit is due, that's quite an elegant solution: just making another key with the same teeth."

Both these comments came too early as to both his own and my embarrassment, Cherry's glyph hoofwriting proved insufficient to invoke the basic cantrip of evocative force three times in a row before, in a huff, he looked up at me. "What am I doing wrong? This worked when we had soup."

I chuckled. "You still have sloppy greater arcs, Cherry. Take a step back, breathe…"

"Oh. Oh!" Cherry slapped a hoof onto his forehead (smearing it with Celestia's blood), and then took about half a step back—not for the purpose of breathing despite my directions, but so that he was far enough away from his glyph that he could create an even arc by holding his foreleg fully extended and only rotating his shoulder, instead of shakily keeping an elegant swipe while manipulating both his fetlock and his knee.

With that motion finally, finally fixed, the sigil began to glow and a distinctly shaky but nevertheless presentable key of blood rose up from the floor, solid not so much because it was frozen as because it was surrounded in a field of magical force that most unicorns, elk, and other horned creatures would call 'telekinesis'. Being from hemomancy instead of a horn, the magical aura around the key was made of the very same blood as the key itself, so to anypony watching who didn't know any better, it looked like there was no aura at all. But when Cherry put the bloody key in the lock and twisted it (with his teeth—an action that made me cringe even despite my pride in my new pupil), the lock audibly clicked, and the lid of the box popped open.

"Bravo, Cherry Tomato," said Diadem. "Congratulations."

A few ponies dared to clap; I was among them. Cherry beamed at the show of approval.

Cutting through the noise, however, was the voice of one pony who had just crested the top of the stairs. "Dear Celestia! What's all this blood everywhere?!" gasped none other than High Castle himself, carrying a pair of long, slender straight-bladed fencing blades. "Did you get started early, Coil?"

"No," said two of my voices in tandem from very different places. One added more quietly "Well done, Cherry."

The other Morty, standing at Gale's side, snatched up one of the blades telekinetically. "Well, since we seem to have the whole party's attention now… Your Majesty, may I have this dance?"

12-4

XII - IV

This Will Be On The Quiz

Gale took not just the remaining of my set of swords, but also the one I had already hefted, holding them both up in front of her eyes in telekinetic grip and observing them with a practiced eye. "These are really nice. Really nice. Perfect balance… the pommel isn't some fucking huge gem like everypony seems to make these days."

"They're the Bane of Topaz." The voice, which turned everypony in the gathering's eyes, belonged to the indefatigably cheerful Chancellor Puddinghead. "Well, one of them is, anyway, but sort of like our couple of Mortys wandering around, it's part of the point that you can't tell."

I felt very out-of-the-loop when virtually every unicorn in my presence (including a few who had wandered closer since the end of Cherry's challenge) winced or recoiled or slightly hung their heads.

"These are named swords?" I asked Gale. "What do they do?"

"They cut stuff," Gale explained. "Not every sword with a name is enchanted."

"Why would you name a mundane hunk of metal?"

"Because one of them killed my great-great-great-ish grandpa." Gale tossed the two blades in the air—letting go of them with her telekinesis entirely—and then magically caught them by their blades to offer both to (one of) me, grips first.

Gasps rang out in the room. I glanced across the faces, trying to figure out what enormous faux pas had been committed, but near as I could tell, Gale hadn't actually done anything wrong.

Gale grinned. "Since they're your swords, I'd usually get first pick. But since you obviously don't know what you're doing, I'll yield the first pick to you."

"Um… alright." I grabbed the one on my right in (candlecorn) telekinesis, finding myself surprised at just how light the blade was. "First blood, or—"

"No!" Gale snapped. "Do you have any idea how cursed that would be? We'll ward them. I—oh, you probably have no idea how to do that… Damn it; I keep assuming you know about fighting."

"Perhaps I can offer Coil some assistance?" High Castle offered, stepping up to my side.

Gale nodded, before turning her attention to casting some spell on her blade.

"I apologize, Coil," Castle whispered beside me. "If I had known this was Topaz' Bane, I would have stopped you before you brought them out."

"Why should that matter, if they aren't even magical?"

"According to legend, the swords are cursed,"the noblestallion replied, as if a non-magical curse even made sense. (If one is being very philosophical, and has a strong grasp of psychology, there is an argument that the idea isn't without merit, but I mean my terms literally here). "When the Low Valleys—that is, the earth pony government—came together to resist King Topaz' attempts to conquer them a few hundred years ago, the earth ponies elected a leader named Apple Pie to oppose us."

"Us?"

"Well, the Diamond Kingdoms back then, but you get my point." As he spoke, Castle wrapped his magical aura around the shaft of my blade (get your mind out of the gutter). "Topaz wasn't exactly the equal of an Amethyst or a Tourmaline, if you catch my meaning, and the war turned sour. After a few embarrassing defeats and Chancellor Pie raiding and salting a number of unicorn farming domains—which were already stretched to their limit without open trade from Amber Field and the earth ponies—the Stable, and even Topaz' own son, pushed for him to accept earth pony independence and make peace. But Topaz refused to give up and live with the dishonor of losing to an army that didn't even have magic at its disposal. So when he marched his army on Amber Field itself, rather than suffering huge losses on both sides in a prolonged siege, Apple Pie offered the king a duel. A unicorn duel. Topaz accepted, thinking there was no way an earth pony could beat him holding a sword in his mouth like a peasant."

I raised a brow. "Apple Pie won?"

"According to legend, he blocked Topaz' sword with the steel of his shoe, and then stomped it out of his grip. By the time the king picked the sword back up, Pie had closed the distance. That's how King Lapis I took the throne."

"Wait, Lapis the first? And Gale's grandpa was Lapis the fourth? This was that recent?"

"Well, the four King Lapises weren't back-to-back. But it wasn't that long ago in the grand scheme of things." His spellwork done, Castle released the sword to me once more. "Be careful; warding the blade makes it even more slippery to magic than normal steel."

"What?"

The question seemed not to register, so Castle simply repeated himself. "The blade will be even more slippery to your telekinesis than steel."

"Steel is supposed to be slippery to magic?"

Castle looked at me like I'd grown a second head and nodded slowly. "That's why swords have grips, coil. And why nobleponies use silver utensils to eat, and commoners prefer pewter even though it's a touch slippery… you are a wizard, aren't you?"

"I guess it never… bothered me before. I do have an unusually strong magical grip."

"Well, maybe you can pull a stunt like Her Majesty and catch a spinning sword by its blade, then. But I wouldn't try it if the sword is coming at your face." Shaking his head for a moment, the young Duke finished his earlier thought thusly. "The swords are said to be cursed to kill unicorn monarchs; in addition to King Topaz, Topaz' Bane was also used to slay the Bloody Queen, Iron Maiden. Hence Her Majesty's insistence to ward the blades instead of going for first blood and risking an accidental cut going too deep: frankly, she's brave to even take you up on this duel."

"Eh, it's superstition," I countered. "I promise, she'll be fine."

"Very well." Castle took a bold step back. "Coil, by tradition, you exchange swords with your opponent after warding them, so if anything goes wrong, you have nopony to blame but yourself. Your Majesty, are you ready?"

Through our talk, Gale had been idly spinning her copy of the blade in the air, apparently getting used to its weight, its shape, and its speed. The address caught her off guard, though even as her body shook in surprise, her weapon never wavered. "Oh, yeah. Sure." She spun the blade around to once more offer the grip to me (this time without throwing and catching it) and I offered her the same courtesy. For just a moment as we traded grips, our magical auras mingled together, and I grinned at the tingling even as Gale flashed me rather forward blinks of her eyelids.

"Ready to get your ass handed to you, Morty?"

"I'm afraid I can't let you do that, Your Majesty. There's a shortage of perfect flanks in the world, and it would be a shame to ruin mine."

"First to three points?" Gale asked with a grin.

"Points?" I asked. Then, when Gale opened her mouth to explain, I thrust forward and struck her shoulder. "And one."

"You little asshole!" Gale dodged a second attack by fully teleporting out of the way of another thrust, landing on my banister and grinding down it on the edges of her hooves (much to Vow's chagrin), before hopping down onto the ground floor. "I was going to go easy on you, but you fucking asked for it."

Now, while I do intend to tell this story from my own perspective (as usual), I should apologize in advance that the narration which follows is a bit corporeally detached.

"That wasn't exactly sporting of you," High Castle observed at my side, as we both watched other-me begin a brisk but hardly rushed approach down the stairs after Gale. "Usually, you get a neutral party to count down or give a signal. Or at least one of you does it aloud, slowly."

"Oh?" I shrugged. "Call it a handicap then. The last time I held a sword, I dropped it through the floor."

"I beg your pardon—through?"

"It was Hurricane's sword; I took it from Gale, though I didn't know who she was at the time." My idle reflections were interrupted by the sound of steel clashing together. "How does one actually do this? I mean, I assume there's some technique beyond 'put the sharp bit in the other pony'?"

"You want a lesson in the middle of the fight?"

When we were finally close enough, I parried a swift overhead slash from Gale's blade—though 'parried' might be a generous term, since I held my sword completely perpendicular to hers, and instead of bouncing off at an angle, they simply pressed against each other for a moment before she finally lifted her blade away deliberately.

"If you're worried I'm using you to cheat, Castle, don't be. If I close my eyes and transfer my thoughts, that body will stand stock still too, and she'll score a point. I just want to learn to appreciate what I'm seeing."

"You are absolutely surreal to talk to," Castle muttered, before gesturing with a hoof. "Okay, see here. There's three primary ways to lose a fencing duel."

I knocked a thrust from Gale aside, and found myself frowning when my sword moving straight toward her was slower than the arc of her sword looping back around to once more separate her body from my blade. She grinned at the sound of the next clash of steel.

"The easiest way to lose a duel is to lose your hoofing. It's an easy trap to fall into to only think of the swords, but there's four moving parts in a duel, and if you stand stock still the whole time, you'll be hit the moment a blade slips past the other's guard. You're especially vulnerable there, since you're the stronger horn, and it can be tempting to try and just force your way forward to win—but that's a swift path to defeat, not victory."

The latter comment there might have started as abstract advice, but it became quickly apparent from the duel we were watching that it was a bit more descriptive than I would have preferred. On the floor, Gale hopped backwards with only a scant backwards glance onto the dining table (sending Vow's rare elkish breads scattering off of their platter, though thankfully not across the floor) even as she guarded against my progressing attacks. My pace was slower, moving forward but letting the gap between us grow rather than try to keep up with her swifter hoofwork. I was surprised each time our blades met that I was proving the stronger duelist, given rather than my (enormous) natural horn's strength, I was using a candlecorn—perfectly capable of casting many spells, but hardly the titans of magic that any practiced horn could bring to bear.

I swung next at Gale's hooves, given her torso was now above where I was most comfortable holding my sword—for non-unicorns, just like a shoulder, a horn has certain places relative to the horn where it's less strenuous to hold things. Gale responded by stomping on the lip of a platter of olive and cheese canapés—simultaneously bringing up the metal platter to block my sword, and flinging a good number of hors d'oeuvres into my face. As I batted away the snacks, a hoof caught a bit of bread on the marble floor, and while I managed not to collapse onto my tail, Gale's blade graced my right cheek in my confusion.

"Since we aren't playing clean, I assume you don't object,"

I dragged a hoof across my eyes, flicked it to dispose of a bit of ooze, and assumed a ready stance again. "Be careful what you wish for."

As the dance began again, High Castle chuckled beside me. "Case in point. The second way to lose is to lose your grip on your sword… that is, to unintentionally lose your grip on your sword."

"Unintentionally? As opposed to what, throwing it?"

"Yes, actually. And then catching it."

"Why?"

"Maybe it isn't true for an esteemed wizard, but most unicorns can throw something faster than they can move it through the air while maintaining continual telekinesis. But also, there is a… well, that."

That was in reference to the battle below; Gale met my blade and twisted hers with a flourish, drawing a sort of spiral pattern around the rigid length (she would laugh, so you might as well indulge yourself) of mine. The motion produced quite a lot of torque on my blade—so much so that, had I held a lesser grip, it might have been ripped from my telekinesis. As it stood, I found both blades much closer to my face and further from hers as we recoiled and crashed together with three more swift strikes and parries in the span of fewer seconds.

In that moment, I had the clever idea to return Gale's ploy her direction. When our blades clashed next, I twisted. And to my immense satisfaction, the motion worked perfectly, ripping Gale's blade away so that her magic sputtered out and the weapon flew through the air over my left shoulder.

I was halfway to tapping her throat when I felt the blade on my neck, and while I considered for a moment that the blow would have bounced on my real neck (given that bit of my neck was covered in transparent silver), I elected not to push the point.

"Two," Gale noted, going so far as to tap away my oncoming blade with the back of her hoof. "I kind of expected better from you."

"Well, let's see if I can't entertain you, then…" The candlecorn who was me removed his jacket, but rather than setting it aside, he draped it over his foreleg not unlike a matador's cape (albeit only trimmed in red). With a flare of my candle-horn strong enough to briefly reveal the flame beneath the half-illusion of my own face, I shifted my hind legs to set myself to balance on only three hooves, and nodded. "We can begin."

Watching from the gallery above, ponies gathered around (other) me.

"What kind of dueling style is this?"

"What did you cast, master?"

"Isn't the jacket kind of cheating?"

That last one was Diadem, and I deigned to answer her question first. "That isn't my jacket. It's one of Vow's I found in a closet. You can tell when I put it back on; it's a little short on the cuffs. I don't know what the spell is any more than you all do. I could offer a guess… but that's hardly as fun as a surprise."

Down below us, Gale rushed at me, clashing her blade into mine with enough force that sparks soared through the air. I stepped back, making only the feeblest of efforts to keep her assault at bay and gladly trading ground for safety.

When Gale moved forward with her own body, hopping down from the table, I struck. Tilting my raised foreleg downward a couple of degrees was a subtle gesture, a minor thing. But when I dipped my hoof, my foe—the Queen of Equestria herself—went flying as if flung sideways across the room. When her shoulder struck the floor, she continued to slide, until her back slammed against the west wall of the room.

My hooves slid too, as the floor got steeper—or rather, as up changed around. But while I lacked Gale's balance, I had the advantage of advance warning, so rather than fumbling my blade, I lashed out at her in her slide. Only a pop of teleportation saved her from the touch of steel, and when she reappeared, she again stumbled before coming to rest shakily on all four hooves… halfway up my wall.

"Hey! You can't cast spells on me!" Gale snapped as she once more readied her blade.

"I haven't," I answered, walking along a structural plaster pillar in Cirran style, halfway embedded in the wall. "Not directly, anyway. I could demonstrate by making the entire room's gravity change, but I only just got the house and it'd be a shame to tear it down—even if it would make your sister happy."

In the gallery, High Castle turned from watching the battle to look at the closer me. "How are you doing that?"

"It's just gravity redirection." I shrugged. "It's not actually a very interesting spell; intricate to cast, but hardly complex."

When Gale lashed out again, I matched my parry with another shift in my foreleg. This time, I didn't go as far as changing the entire orientation of gravity, but I did jerk Gale's legs out from under her. The effect was as Castle had promised, almost. Gale's grip on her sword once again faltered, and I took that momentary advantage to attack. She answered by hurling herself bodily up the wall (which was downhill from our perspectives), sliding on her side until her back hit the ceiling.

I let out a taunting chuckle and continued my assault. The clashing point of our weapons grew closer and closer to her face, and when she started to rise to her hooves, I hung my foreleg fully downwards and shifted gravity so that the ceiling was not just beside us, but below.

Watching from the gallery (now with heads craned) the audience were treated to the sight of Gale scrambling away, jumping and dodging as she tried to buy a spare moment to recollect her balance and her stance, as I pressed forward with no quartet to give. Brilliantly, bravely, she jumped from the ceiling onto the underside of the room's central chandelier. While her sudden approach made the metal ring that held the dangling enchanted crystals (which lit the rom) sway and bob, because the structure itself was heavier than she was (and it still experienced normally oriented gravity), the net effect was not all that different to standing on a floating dock or off-center on a boat.

"Not much good ground there?" I asked.

"Doesn't matter," said Gale answered, panting. "As long as you…" She breathed violently pulling her sword closer than she had intended after mine got past her guard. "...think you're winning."

"Think?"

Gale nodded, and then outright flung her sword at my head. The arc was strange, given I hadn't actually changed gravity on the swords but just our bodies, and so while it might have been intimidating to somepony standing directly below us (and nopony was), it wasn't much threat to me. Satisfied the frame of refrence shift had tricked her, I drove my blade for her heart.

Gale caught the oncoming sword with her hoof. That is, she punched the sword on its bladed edge with the keratin of her hoof, so that even if it hadn't been warded, the cut wouldn't have drawn blood. (Aside to future readers: unless you're Gale's equal in swordplay (you aren't), don't try this with a bare hoof against an un-warded sword. You might block it… but you're more likely to shear your hoof in half.) As I tried to twist my blade, Gale lit her horn—and rather than grab her sword at range, she popped out of existence on the underside of the chandelier altogether. With another pop, the very same second, she reappeared 'up above me', in midair oriented upside down halfway between the floor of the tall foyer of the Mausoleum and its ceiling. There, she snatched her sword not with magic, but in her teeth. To this day, I have no idea how she managed to get her teeth on the grip, spinning as it was through the air.

Gravity pulled her upward so that she fell down upon the crown of my head, and despite the warding of the sword's sharp edges, the force of her body behind the weapon was enough to cleave through the wax that made up my horn.

"Three," Gale said, and then paused in confusion and concern when I didn't reply—staring blankly forward.

Perhaps it should have come as some concern that the severed 'wick' of my horn fell the correct down. But a moment later, with unsurprising inevitability, the Equestrian Queen felt a similar lurch of weightlessness as her hooves left the ceiling and her world reoriented itself as she fell toward the floor two stories below.

Her fall was, mercifully, ended by the embrace of warm forelegs rather than a painful, probably fatal collision between neck and ground.

"Congratulations, Your Majesty," my real body told her, resisting the urge to complain about the enormous pain that my slender shoulders had endured in bracing her impact, despite the aid of subtle telekinesis from my other candlecorn helping to ease the burden. "Well fought." Thinking myself suave, having the mare in my forelegs, I dipped her foreshoulders down and leaned forward in aim for a brief, chaste kiss.

Gale had other ideas. With a hind leg, she swept my own legs out from under me, and it was her turn to catch my weight (given she didn't cheat with telekinesis, I was surprised she was strong enough; though undeniably thin, I was a fair bit larger than her). "Uh-uh," she corrected. "I won, asshole." And then she gave me a kiss that was… shall we say less than chaste.

Perhaps a moment later, a huge pile of loose candle wax slapped with a disgusting slurping noise onto the floor, absolutely obliterating a dining chair that happened to have been placed unfortunately.

"Oh crap," said Gale.

"It's fine. They're not that hard to put back together." I demonstrated a firm lack of abdominal strength when I failed to pull myself upward from the awkward position I held with only one hind leg on the ground, my back resting on Gale's right foreleg, and then rolled off her sideways to get my hooves back under me. "Well… hopefully that made you feel better?"

Gale was taken aback by the question, and broke into a rich laugh against her own better judgment. "Yeah. Yeah, that was a hell of a time."

Up in the gallery, as ponies slowly, tentatively approached to congratulate the Queen for her show in the competition, another of me leaned over to Castle. "Is the third way to lose the other pony just being better?"

"Well, that certainly is a factor," the suitor stallion answered. "But the third classic mistake for beginners is letting the other pony and their weapon get bodily between you and your weapon." Then, clearly not intending the cognitive link but implying it heavily regardless, he lifted a roughly skull-sized wooden mallet we had also found while searching for dueling swords. "Shall I gather a group for a more reasonable game? Croquette?"

Author's Note

12-5 will be delayed until 2/21, due to Valentines plans that will have me away from my keyboard.

12-5

XII - V

An Unexpected Houseguest

Lest anypony think I've gone mad, the game 'Croquet' and the food 'Croquette' were once pronounced (and spelled) the same; hence my transliteration of Castle's question at the tail end of the preceding chapter. But as Gale and the suitors (at least, those present at the party) gathered together for a rousing game, I had to raise a hoof. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to step away. Wizard business. But do help yourself to the yard; Cherry can show you the way."

Gale wore her concern on her face when she stopped with a wooden mallet in her magic. "Wizard business? Do you need me to help you kill some monster or something?"

"No, nothing like that. Just…" I trailed off with a shake of my head. "I promise if I come up with that kind of problem, I'll invite you."

Castle winced, looking between us. "You'd put Her Majesty in danger?"

I couldn't help but chuckle in reply. "Why don't you tell them all about Wintershimmer, Gale?" Then, with a nod, I took leave of my best friend and my ostensible peers.

This time, however, our story must follow me as I depart—or rather, an earlier me departing at a different moment.

You may recall from two chapters ago that I had passed Gale's company off from one of my bodies to another when Vow interrupted us, after her story about why she took offense at my bet with Castle over his eligibility as a suitor (and my nobility).

While Gale walked away, Vow led me through a side door off the main grand foyer and into what was ostensibly the 'servants hall' of the Mausoleum, where chambers like the laundry and the kitchens could be found. At the end of the hall, or at least very near where it turned a harsh corner, there was a servant's door, and through its colored glass window I could see the silhouette of who I guessed was an adult mare.

"What is it, Vow?"

"Professor," he snapped harshly, though notably dropping his falsified accent. "Sir," he added after a moment's delay. "You never know who'll walk through the wrong door looking for the little fillies' room."

"You're still mad at me about the bet?" I observed.

"Livid," he answered flatly. "But that's neither here nor there. The mare said she needed you to protect her."

"What?"

Vow shrugged.

"Did she say from what? Some monster?"

The sound of a snort emerged from Vow's lack of nostrils—not an impudent huff, but a note of subdued amusement. "The worst monster of all. Luna."

I shot the wooden stallion an off-glance. "Are you just being snarky, or—?"

"It's a story for another day. When we're much more confident the house is secure against prying ears. For now, you only need to know that whoever she is, she knows about Luna's… creatures."

"Her undead?"

"They're undead?!" Vow gasped. "I…. when I heard you threatened to fight her in the street, I thought that was about ego, not an ethics issue."

"I'm not sure there's a difference with her," I answered.

"They're terrifyingly powerful; it only took two of them to fell one of my nightmares. Do you know the spell to animate—"

"No," was both my answer, and my stern chastisement. That thought finished, I grabbed hold of the door with my hoof and pulled it open.

The sight of the mare on the other side quite figuratively punched me square in the face. The elegant unicorn with a chalkboard green coat and matching chalk white mane looked at me (under the sharp form of her well defined brow) not with disapproval or authority that I had known, but desperation.

"Morty!"

For those who do not recall the mare by appearance, this was Mrs. Aspirations. Or, I had to assume by the fact that she had come into me in desperation, the changeling Metamorphosis wearing the face of the schoolteacher.

I lit my horn, and at that sign of danger, I noted in my peripheral that Vow took a hesitant half step backwards.

"What are you doing here?" I wasn't outright hostile in my tone, but it was hard not to let a tone of hard feelings slip in.

Metamorphosis winced, and despite being in the private alleyway at the side of my home's grounds with a solid hedge at her back and only a narrow gravel walkway leading in either direction, she stopped to nervously look up and down the path before she spoke. "I need your help. I've been exiled from the Hive. I'm willing to work for you, or use my magic or whatever it takes, but if I can't stay here, they're going to kill me."

I raised a brow and (rather insensitively) asked "The Hive: Is that some sort of city or government, or—"

"Can I come in?" she pleaded. "I think one of the hunters has my scent. I promise I'll explain more inside."

"Master Coil, is something wrong?" asked Vow. "Is she dangerous?"

"Oh, absolutely," I explained, eyes locked on her instead of turning to my companion. Then I stepped out of the way and extended a foreleg to direct her into the hallway. "But so that everypony—every being—has mutual understanding, I'm much more dangerous. Let's step into…" Looking around for a suitably unbusy room nearby, I finally muttered "I guess the laundry is private."

"I…" The hesitation in Vow's voice was obvious, but he concluded with "Of course, Master Coil."

The laundry was a rather barren room, if we're being quite honest. While the house's linens and my wardrobe had been upgraded for the party, there was still at the end of the day really only one set of everything, and due to the party ongoing in the other parts of the house, nearly all said fabric was in use. As a result, when the three of us were gathered with walls and doors separating us from Luna's eyes and ears, I made myself comfortable by overturning a washbasin, giving me a sitting position an extra bit above Metamorphosis' head (even though I was already taller than Aspirations).

"First, can I ask you to drop the disguise? I had a chance to meet the real Mrs. Aspirations, and I'd rather not play the mental game of getting you two confused."

In a burst of green flame, the changeling infiltrator I had seen whilst rescuing Graargh reappeared before us.

Vow didn't fully jump (he had seen Graargh change shape before), but he did take up a hesitant pose in reaction. "You're like the bear cub?"

"I am a changeling," she answered with a nod. "He is too, though unless Morty explained it to him, I doubt he understands it. You're a piece of wood?"

"A golem," I lied with a nod. "Professor Oak. Professor, this is… I'm sorry, I forget your real name."

"Metamorphosis," she reintroduced herself. "You wanted to know about the Hive? It's a… I guess a city isn't a terrible comparison. It's a huge set of tunnels and mostly underground chambers south of here. It's where the Queen lives."

"Ah, you're bees," said Vow.

Metamorphosis shot him a terse glare, only emphasized by her strange, mono-green eyes.

"I'm going to put a pin in asking about your 'queen'..." After a moment, I winced. "Oh, sorry."

"Why?"

"Lepidoptery idiom… you know what, never mind." Vow narrowly suppressed a laugh, and I pressed on before she could ask me what 'lepidoptery' meant, judging by the further confusion on her face. "Why were you exiled? Because of what happened at the school?"

Metamorphosis gave a small nod. "Two of our most important rules are to never let a pony know about our existence, and to kill a pony. We replace you for a time to harvest… er, that is, to gather—"

"Love," I interrupted. "Or maybe emotions in general? Celestia wasn't completely sure about the others, but I did sit down with her and Graargh to figure out how I could best take care of him. So I don't know much about your society or your rules, but on a basic level, I do know you're empathovores." When Metamorphosis raised a brow, I shrugged. "Meaning you derive sustenance from feelings, like some kinds of spirits. Empatha—feelings, or pegasus magic that comes from feelings. Vore—to eat."

"Ah," Metamorphosis nodded. "That's mostly right. But the point is, when Commandant Husk ordered me to kill you, the Queen didn't agree with his justification for breaking our most important rule. When we're short-term replacing ponies for food, Luna's hunters might try to catch us and eat us—" Metamorphosis paused for emphasis, and then seemed surprised that we weren't.

"We know they're undead," I answered. "And all true undead are cannibalistic."

(Lest anypony be curious here about Vow: a true undead refers to an undead created using a corpse and a soul from the same being. There are shortcuts you can use in magic to make dramatically more powerful, more intelligent, and more effective servants creating true undead than the equivalent one produces with a golem body like Vow—and the magic is frankly much easier to perform, so historically it predates my more sophisticated style—but the cost is that, unless the creature is fed the flesh of the living, the benefits to its performance degrade rapidly. This is where the modern image of the shambling, rotting, decrepit zombie* that pervades more modern conceptions of necromancy comes from—especially now that, following Nightmare Moon's usage of undead armies, a stigma on the practice means I'm largely the last Equestrian practitioner of the pale arts.)

"They're undead?" Metamorphosis asked (to which I shot Vow a knowing glance and he let out another muffled snort of humor in reply). "We thought they were just ponies she had transformed or something."

"Well, from a certain point of view…" Metamorphosis didn't find that comment especially funny, so I dropped the thought. "To jump ahead: your 'Queen' thinks that if you were common knowledge, or you killed ponies, you'd have more problems than just the Night Guard hunting you."

The changeling gave a short dip of her chin. "So Husk was… punished, and I was banished—which is basically a death sentence, without the support of the infiltration network to help us avoid the, uh, 'Night Guard'. But since you're willing to protect Graargh, and you let me go instead of letting them eat me, I…" She sheepishly looked down to her hole-riddled forehooves. "I didn't know where else to go. I'm willing to work, or even use my magic for you. But I need your help. I don't think there's anywhere else I can go that's safe."

"I see." I nodded. "You can stay the night here, at least. In the morning, I'll bring Celestia here—" that made Metamorphosis frown and shrink back on herself, but I pressed forward regardless "—and assuming nothing new comes from her knowledge of changelings, we have more than enough space to host you as long as you need to."

"What?" Vow asked. "Master Coil, isn't that a little too trusting?" When I flashed a disapproving glance his way, he provided a justification that I suspect from his tone and pseudo-expression was entirely for Metamorphosis benefit. "What if the Night Guard discovers she's here and breaks in? You're already not on Luna's good side."

"They won't," Metamorphosis explained. When we both looked to her in confusion, we saw a mare in obvious relief, if still in a hint of limbo. "When changelings use our magic, it leaves behind a scent. We use it to communicate, but the Night Guard can also smell it. So if one of our infiltrators harvests or changes form too often in the same place… well, that's how we get caught. But your house smells completely like our magic already because—"

"That's why you wanted Graargh!" I interrupted with the momentum of a 'eureka'. "He hid your magic."

"To a point… but also the other way around, vice-versa. You—and Hurricane—dragging the grub around caused the Night Guard to stumble onto the trail of two of our infiltrators by random bad luck."

"You haven't replaced somepony like him, have you?" asked Vow.

Metamorphosis shrugged. "Only the Commandants know who each infiltrator is replacing; that way if Luna catches one of us and reads our minds, she still can't expose an entire cell. But if you want me to put your mind at ease, Professor, it's way too high risk to replace somepony like Hurricane or Typhoon or Star Swirl and risk the infiltrator getting killed or captured. There's plenty of young lovers and happy old couples and parents we can replace for a few weeks to harvest without risking getting struck by lightning or turned into a cat." (That was accompanied by a sly glance my way.) "We aren't interested in overthrowing your government or waging war. We're just trying to survive."

(Lest the reader forget the extent to which Metamorphosis was lying to me: while she was and would continue to prove cunning enough to know Chrysalis had something big planned, the elder parasite herself had removed the former infiltrator from her court prior to anything resembling an explanation. Which is to say the above was, from her perspective, largely true. Ish.)

"Professor, are any of the guest bedrooms made up?"

Vow nodded. "I took the liberty of preparing two extra rooms in case you decided to enjoy the company of more than one of our guests this evening." Then, tersely, he added "I would have much preferred that to gambling."

I rolled my eyes. "Go back and attend to the party then. I'll take things from here."

"Of course, sir," Vow replied. "The three rooms closest to the stairs on the third floor should all work for her." With that, the wooden stallion slipped out of the room. As he did, I closed my eyes for a few seconds—a long enough pause that when I opened them again, Metamorphosis was looking at me with her head cocked.

"You alright?"

"Fine, why? Oh! You mean the pause? I was talking to my other selves."

"I… there's more of you?"

"Three at the moment," I replied. "One of them will be along shortly, and then this body needs to go find Celestia. I apologize for keeping you in here for the moment, but you've come at a bit of a busy time; I'm hosting a housewarming party. I—actually, are you hungry?" Just a moment after asking that, I winced. "Sorry; that was probably rude."

"Another leopard-whatever saying I'm missing?"

"No," I replied. "While I'm willing to let you live here at least for the time being, I hope it isn't a stretch to understand that I don't love you. And since that's what you eat…"

I trailed off because Metamorphosis began laughing. When it continued long enough that I donned a frown, she did her best to wave off my concerns with a translucent insectoid wing. "You didn't say anything wrong, Morty—is it still okay to call you Morty?" I nodded. "We do eat conventional food as well. We wouldn't be very good at blending into the population if we couldn't eat pony food. Love gives us magic. But our bodies do use some of that magic up just living, so we will still starve to death without it." Concluding the last of the small chuckles that pervaded those comments, she smiled (drawing quite a bit of attention to a pair of what struck me as not especially insect-like fangs). "I would love something to eat, if you're offering. I'll need some love too, if you're comfortable with… well, will you humor me? This may be awkward."

"If you're suggesting we sleep together, I hardly know you."

Metamorphosis chuckled. "If you're offering, I wouldn't mind. That's not really a concern for changelings. But that isn't what I meant right now. You're hot for the Queen, right?"

"I don't know if 'hot for' is the terminology I'd use, but—" Metamorphosis was engulfed in green flame, and then before me stood a perfect physical recreation of Gale. I emphasize a perfect physical recreation because to my eye, it was already obvious Metamorphosis wasn't Gale just at a glance from the way that she carried herself and from her manestyle and so forth. This 'Gale' was devoid of any fancy dress or royal outfit, but she still wore her mane and tail styled and arranged as though she were going to court—whereas I knew the real mare to adopt either state, but to never ever straddle the fence between Gale and Queen Platinum III.

I elected not to comment on this failure, though, and instead watched as 'Gale' opened her mouth and inhaled—and then proceeded to gag and wince and wrinkle her muzzle until at last she burst into flames and resumed her natural insect form. "What is that? You said you were eighteen?"

"Thereabouts…" I answered in confusion. "Is something wrong?"

Metamorphosis opened her fanged mouth to answer, and then closed it abruptly and closed her own eyes in thought—and judging by the way she turned her head and shrunk her shoulders, no small measure of hesitation as well. Finally, though, she spoke up. "She's your first love, isn't she?" After a nod, she sighed. "There's no gentle way to say this, but… Love is like wine. I mean, it doesn't actually taste like wine; different kinds of love are salty or sweet or savory in their own way. But like wine, love gets better with development."

"Oh, you mean it tastes bad because I've only known Gale for a few months?"

"Partly," Metamorphosis answered, trying desperately not to make direct eye contact. "It also depends on the pony the love is coming from, and… Look, I'll just be honest, and I'm sorry and I promise I'm not trying to insult you, but there were schoolyard crushes in the classroom that had more depth than how you view the Queen."

Despite the changeling's many placative offerings, I couldn't help but feel more than a bit offended. "Are you suggesting I'm shallow, and I'm only after her body?"

"No, no! Hive no, nothing like that. Honestly, I wish. Just plain lust isn't healthy for us in the long term, but it tastes a lot better than a first crush from somepony who's never been in a healthy relationship before."

"I—what? Gale and I are great—"

"I'm sure you're very good friends," Metamorphosis answered. "But the flavor doesn't lie, Morty. I'm sorry. I, um… maybe I can help?"

"You know what? Let's just get you to your bedroom. Turn into me."

"You?"

I rolled my eyes. "There's already three of me wandering around, nopony's gonna question a secret fourth one. Follow me."

* The term 'zombie' stems from a benevolent practice in zebra medical alchemy that was misused when it made the jump to southeastern Equestria at Platinum's Landing. When the term is used correctly, a 'zombie' refers to a still living, alchemically hypnotized or mind-controlled being, not an undead at all. But because of the visual and behavioral similarity of their unfocused, disjointed movement with 'the hungry dead' (that is, those not recently fed with the flesh of the living), the two ideas became conflated. Rather than convey this level of nuance, however, I know that many modern textbooks and instructional treatises claim that zombies simply 'do not exist'. Which, while wrong, at least avoids the lack of nuance in terminology.

12-6

XII - VI

A Tale From Dream Valley

I want you, reader, to understand something important before you continue reading. What you are about to read is the first of what I am inclined to call a 'danger chapter'. By this term, I don't mean that the story you are about to read is internally magically dangerous to you (such knowledge does exist, in such works as The Princess in Yellow, but that is another Tale). Rather, the danger is this: even with the trust that I or Celestia or whoever has given you to even hold or read this book, misusing the knowledge you are about to gain will earn you my personal attention, and I suspect Celestia's as well, in very much the same sense that Wintershimmer had our shared attention, or that Queen Chrysalis shortly would.

While I told you in a past chapter that the candlecorns wearing my identity would cease their masquerade if they left the Mausoleum, the same restriction also applied to my physical body (because, as Diadem had inferred, which body was 'real' was largely immaterial to the effect). Thus, after I ensured Metamorphosis was 'at home' in her room (and discreetly informed Cherry what had come to pass, and that he had my blessing to turn to Diadem if anything untoward happened) I took my leave of Gale and the other suitors, set the two candlecorns in some side room nopony was likely to peek into, and set out for the Royal Palace, and Celestia's Solarium.

Much as was usual in those days, I found Celestia surrounded by lesser nobleponies and religious zealots trying to earn her favor or her blessing or even just her attention, and stubbornly refusing to take "I am not a god" for an answer. Fortunately, having (however briefly) killed Lord Halo in open court meant that I had a reputation amongst these ponies in particular, and their ostentatious white and gold parted before my black and red like a mythical sea of blood.

"Celestia," I greeted her back, seated as she was to look pointedly away from the masses—given how much she obviously hated the attention, I still didn't fully understand why she put up with them. Regardless, greeting her by her given name without a title (the audacity!) earned me gasps and glares of derision from those present.

"Morty?!" Celestia's ears leapt up on her head and her crestfallen shoulders rose once more into her usual posture. "What brings you here? Not that you aren't welcome, of course; I just thought you were hosting a party today."

"Something came up." I glanced around. "A subject you've generally wanted to keep between you, me, and Graargh."

"Ah. Is there something wrong with him?"

"No, no. Not Graargh. Just following up on a different acquaintance from the school. One I hadn't expected to see again, if you take my meaning."

Celestia's head fully swiveled around (almost like an owl; the fact she took advantage of the full borderline unnatural physique of her magical form and broke the illusion of constant grace that pervaded her movements was perhaps the most telling sign she took my words with shock, even moreso than the widening of her visible eye or the pinching up of her wings on her shoulders).

"Do we need to rescue somepony?"

"No, no," I tried to wave a hoof to placate her worries. "I came because I needed more information from you. But this time, instead of anatomy and physiology, I wanted to talk about politics. Maybe history?"

"Oh." Celestia's expression fell; you'd be forgiven for thinking she had been itching for a fight, which I briefly considered myself at the time. But having now known her for most of a millennium, I recognize the expression she wore was the rarest of all for the nigh-immortal alicorn: shame. "Come here," she told me, quietly, and she raised a wing to offer me a place to sit directly beside her. When I indulged her, she wrapped her warm, strong feathers over my shoulder and then lit her horn.

The lurch of teleportation had long since stopped making me feel ill, or even unsettled, but the sudden thinning of the air did disrupt my constitution momentarily. I sucked in a deep breath, and found my lungs rebelling at the chill. "Ah!" The other disorientating factor was that, though Celestia had teleported us while we were both sitting, her aim wasn't quite good enough to put our hindquarters back onto smooth ground, and so whilst I fell a solid foot and a half onto my tail, she gracefully (and purely magically, without use of her wings) descended to land standing on her hooves.

"Oh, I'm sorry; I should have warned you. I know I'm not the steadiest teleporter."

"The teleport—" I paused to suck in a breath. "—was fine. Just the air. Where are we?"

Even as I asked the question, I took a look around. We were on a mountaintop somewhere; that much was obvious even just from the thin air, to say nothing of the yawning maw of a cavern stretching into gray stone before us. I did take note that we were below the mountain's snowcap, but only just; had we climbed a (quite sheer) cliff some forty feet, we would have begun to see the first bits of frost still surviving the summer sun.

Celestia did not answer my question aloud. Instead, she directed me backwards with a wing. When I turned, I beheld a decently sized flat platform of rock (the same one above which we had appeared) that ended in a more-or-less sheer stone cliff. Off to my left, a series of small pools babbled and bubbled and steamed—an obvious natural hot spring.

Beyond the cliff, the mountain looked down on the X-crossing rivers of Everfree City and the miles and miles of fields and small villages that stretched out from the Equestrian capital in all directions. The city looked so small from this high up and this far, yet it also had such a vibrancy to it—looking back, I am struck by the majesty and the perspective afforded by such a view.

My younger self let out a gasp and remarked on something very different. "You teleported us sixty miles?"

"I don't intend to brag, Morty, but it's actually a fair bit farther than that. It's just brute force, I'm afraid, not something I can teach you."

"Where are we?"

"The Mountain of Dawn. But more specifically, for a long time, this was my home." That comment was accompanied by a tweak of Celestia's horn toward the cavern mouth now behind me. "For a long time, I erased the memory of anypony who came up here."

"You can erase memories?"

Celestia chuckled. "Morty, sometimes talking to you makes it very hard not to come off bragging. I dabble in a lot of kinds of magic. I find it fascinating to explore and learn. Sometimes, it proves to be useful as well. Such as keeping ponies from swarming you, calling you a goddess and demanding your blessing."

"So why do you put up with it now? I know you said you tolerate the church, but that doesn't mean you have to entertain them swarming you, does it?"

What followed was the sound of a very long, very beleaguered sigh. "Those… sessions… have been my efforts to rectify the rough edges of 'my' church's dogma into something genuinely beneficial to ponykind. Fixing things like the root cause of your incident with Count Halo. Unfortunately, I'm learning that, short of appearing in glory in a golden sunbeam and dictating truth from authority, it is incredibly hard even for me to persuade the powers that be that they may need to change their interpretation of tradition or canon. Some days, I wonder if they'd reject my requests even if I did make a show of it." Celestia shook her head to cast aside her doubts. "But I didn't bring you here to listen to me complain. I promise it's safe to speak plainly here. One of the changelings came to you?"

"Mrs. Aspirations," I explained. "Or rather, her real name is Metamorphosis. She says she was exiled from 'the Hive' because of what happened, and she needed me to hide her from the Night Guard."

"Ah." Celestia nodded. "And you want my advice?"

"I certainly wouldn't turn it down. But I also want to know more about the changelings—not just the magic and the love like you taught Graargh and I, but their society. Metamorphosis mentioned a queen who seemed like a potential problem a wizard ought to be aware of."

"She is… she isn't a problem for ponykind, but she is a problem for Luna and I. And by extension, possibly for you. She…" Celestia let the words trail off, and her gaze wandered away from me. "Morty, I'm going to trust you and tell you a story. Before I do, though, I have a few rules."

"Okay," I said hesitantly, not because I didn't trust Celestia, but because a wizard has a certain instinct around agreeing to not-yet-specified rules.

"First, don't interrupt me. I'll let you know when we can pause for questions, but this is a…" Celestia let out a small sigh. "This is a hard story for me to tell, and one I'm not proud of. I'll answer whatever questions you might have afterwards. But most importantly, you must never, never tell anypony else. Do I make myself clear?"

"Of course."

"I have your oath?

I raised a brow. "Do you want it in blood? If so, we'll want to use yours. But I don't mind."

Celestia chuckled and shook her head. "I trust you, Morty, or I wouldn't tell you this at all. I just needed to emphasize the point. This isn't 'unless you think it's important' or 'unless you trust the other pony'. You won't repeat this to Gale, you won't repeat this to Graargh, you won't share this with anypony."

I raised a brow. "Um… alright, understood. And I'm flattered. But… have you really not told this story to anypony else?"

Celestia shrugged. "Hurricane knows some of it; and I would trust him with all of it if he asked; I just haven't had reason to. And if I'm being honest, I wouldn't want to burden him with it. The poor stallion's had enough exposure to my past for one lifetime."

I have her blessing to record this story here (because what follows, despite its magnitude, is not yet the most dangerous secret in this tome), but remember my warning above. Her tale proceeded like this:

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

North of River Rock, a way west of Krennotets—that's the big volcano where I understand you met Clover the Clever—there's a place called Dream Valley. Before the windigos, I think there was a unicorn town there, but now it's just as abandoned as the rest of the old Diamond Kingdoms. But when I was a foal a long time ago; give-or-take seven thousand years, there was a village there. My home.

I was born a unicorn filly. No, I wasn't always like this; I used to be able to fit through doorways comfortably. My best friends were another unicorn named Chrysanthemum, and of course Luna, our pegasus friend. And to answer the obvious question, no; we don't have the same parents. But when you've stuck with somepony for seven thousand years, just 'friends' doesn't capture that kind of bond.

Luna and Chrysanthemum and I were troublemakers, I have to admit. It was dangerous even going out past the edge of the village at night. You see, in those days pony society consisted of a few villages at best; we didn't span huge parts of the world or have anything you could call a country, to say nothing of military or guards, or even wizards the way you understand them. What we did have were 'heroes'. And our biggest heroes were my grandmother, Twilight, and Luna's mom Firefly, though there were some others we'll get to.

Before Luna or I were born, Tirek—yes, 'the Centaur' of Tartarus, that Tirek—started foalnapping ponies and transforming them to create an army and bring about eternal night so he could conquer the world.

I… don't actually know how eternal night would help that.

Look, the point is, Morty, my grandmother and Luna's mom and some of their friends defeated Tirek and saved Dream Valley—and probably the world. Actually, you might know about that; have you heard of Midnight Castle? The ruined obsidian castle off the southern coast of the Diamond Kingdoms? That was Tirek's castle, once.

Jump ahead a few decades and the three of us fillies were enamored with those stories. We always used to sneak out of the village and try to go on adventures pretending we'd fight off Tirek. We'd try to get our talent marks being that kind of heroes, and most of the time we'd get ourselves in trouble and Spike or Megan would have to rescue us.

Ah, sorry; Spike is a dragon. And Megan was…

(Here, Celestia struggled for a moment to find words.)

…she was a human friend of ours. And a mentor; she was a good deal older than us. Oh, of course you wouldn't know; a human is a sort of tall, furless monkey. A lot taller than a pony; only just shorter than me now. They used to be very common back then; they had dozens of kingdoms and empires scattered around the world… they're not extinct, but they live in a different world now.

Anyway, on one of these little runaways, we stumbled onto a huge stone plate in the ground with weird carvings on it. Chrysanthemum identified them as magic runes, but she only got as far as reading 'Leave this place or—' before we were attacked by a scorpio. That's a kind of astrological creature like an ursa major, but shaped like a scorpion, and—oh, of course you know. My apologies.

Of course, that made it obvious why we were supposed to leave, so we didn't keep reading, but with how fast its claws were, it was just as obvious we couldn't just run away. Luna might have been able to fly, and Chrysanthemum could teleport enough to get herself away, but I was stuck, and they stayed to try and help me. We threw rocks at it, and ran in circles, and everything we could think of. But at the end of the day, we were three fillies fighting a star beast. We didn't stand a chance.

After what felt like a long time tiring ourselves out without really getting anywhere, the fight ended in what feels like a very silly way. I tripped on a rock. The scorpio saw its opening and stabbed at me with its stinger. Chrysanthemum was close enough that the only thing she could think to do was try to tackle me out of the way. And she took the blow instead.

(Here, again, Celestia paused, and though her face remained resolute, I watched her swallow down some emotion in the interest of her storytelling.)

The scorpio's stinger was strong enough that it cracked the stone plinth we'd discovered. It pinned Chrysanthemum, straight through her torso. But from underneath the stone, we heard some… (Celestia visibly shuddered) …laughter. And this voice spoke up from under the stone. It asked "Do you want help?"

With our friend dying in front of us and the monster still very angry, Luna and I didn't stop to put together why that voice might be a bad thing, or that it might have been what the writings were actually warning us about. We weren't wizards; we weren't even as old as you or Gale. So I shouted out "Yes! Help us!"

What happened next was… strange. This smoke leaked out of the crack, but it colored in a checkerboard pattern of bright lime green and pink squares. It wrapped around the scorpio and we started to hear this noise like a mouse squeaking, or—do you know what 'rubber' is?

(I confirmed I had heard of rubber—a special kind of tree sap that is famously alchemically neutral, and can be prepared to create a sort of watertight fabric-like substance. But I'd rarely actually held the stuff, as I was terrible with alchemy.)

Well, I suppose 'squeaking like a mouse' is the best description I can give you of the sound then. But it started to turn transparent and shiny and wherever there were knots, it was like its strangely smooth carapace was tied in a knot. And when the mist was done, a sudden wind that smelled like cinnamon apples rose up and the scorpio just… blew away. And in its place, the checkerboard smoke swirled up into a small tornado and then sort of congealed, and in a flash of fireworks—which were very scary to Luna and I, because nopony had invented them yet—there appeared this strange stallion. He was gray, with a black mane that had streaks of gray and white through it, and he had one yellow eye—not the color of the iris like Wintershimmer, but his sclera were yellow instead of white—but the most important thing about him was that he was an alicorn. Which, like fireworks, wasn't something Luna or I had ever encountered before; we didn't even have the word 'alicorn' to describe him.

This stallion didn't even explain himself; he just rushed over to Chrysanthemum's side and started working magic to help her. He was partway through when Spike came rushing out of the woods with his sword raised, demanding to know what was going on.

I suppose I should tell you: Spike was, and still is, a dragon about my height. He… actually, have you met Lord Krenn? When you went to meet Clover in the dragon lands?

(I nodded.)

Krenn is Spike.

(I pictured the strangely dignified old dragon as Celestia spoke: a dark purple colored, almost properly black scaled drake leaning on a steel rod as a walking stick due to his completely missing right leg and mangled left wing.)

'Krenn' is an Equinization of a dragon word that means 'crooked' or 'broken' or something like that. At the time, he looked mostly the same as you'd have seen him, except he wasn't missing his leg or his wing yet, and he carried a sword instead of a walking stick. The other difference is he wasn't as… restrained as he is these days. So when the alicorn from under the stone said he was "removing her heart" (meaning Chrysanthemum, of course), Krenn took that as a threat, rushed at the stallion, and lopped his head clean off.

You can imagine all of our surprise when the head didn't actually fall on the ground. Instead, it started orbiting Spike, making jokes and small talk. I distinctly remember "I know folks say I don't have a good head on my shoulders, but this is a bit ridiculous, isn't it, Mr. Dragon?"
While he was taunting Spike the alicorn's body went right on working on Chrysanthemum, and because Spike obviously didn't trust him (and he had said he wanted to take out her heart), Luna and I ran over to try and pull him away from her.

He got very mad at that, and said if his efforts weren't appreciated he'd leave us to deal with the poison in her veins. He finished what he was doing for just a moment, reached up to Chrysanthemum's mane and pulled out a long green gossamer ribbon that wasn't there before, and tied it around her barrel, sort of like the sash on your jacket. His last warning was that when we figured out we couldn't help her any further, he'd be waiting. Then he vanished in a burst of confetti and… I think clams or oysters or something? Some kind of shellfish.

I know that sounds ridiculous; bear with me.

Spike carried Chrysanthemum back to Dream Valley by wing, so by the time Luna and I got back after them, my grandma was already looking at her; back then, there wasn't a distinction between an alchemist and a doctor and a wizard. Instead, Spike and Megan and Luna's aunt Firefly were waiting for us. I think they were going to chew us out for what happened, but we were so worried about our friend and we felt so bad already that they didn't really do anything beyond telling us to stay in the village.

When my grandmother came out of our hut, she told us she didn't know how long Chrysanthemum had left, but there was too much poison in her system, and we all needed to say our goodbyes. Luna and I went in to see her, and I begged for her forgiveness, but she told me what happened wasn't my fault.

But then the next morning came, and she was still alive. And the day after that. Not getting any better—she couldn't stand up from her bed, she could barely eat, barely talk for more than a few minutes at a time—but she didn't get any worse either. Every time we visited her, she talked about the pain. She often asked my grandmother for medicine to put her to sleep, just to stop the pain. So when Luna and I talked after a third day, we decided to go find the strange 'pegacorn'—like I said, we didn't have the word 'alicorn', and we were still fillies. Normally, I would have pushed back on breaking the adults' rules after what happened, but I still felt guilty about Chrysanthemum, so I went along with her.

Together, the two of us went to the only place we could think to start looking: back at the big stone plinth. And sure enough, he was there: the strange alicorn stallion. He seemed happy to see us, even; he sang as we showed up, and visible music notes came out of his mouth, which turned into chairs for us.

I won't make you sit through all the questions we thought to ask as fillies; to say again, we weren't wizards, or heroes, or anything like you. We had no idea what we were dealing with, we were just worried about our friend.

Firstly, the alicorn said his name was Discord.

(Celestia paused heavily here, watching me. I eventually asked her if she needed to stop her story.)

No, I admit I was just curious if that name meant anything to you. I don't suppose even Wintershimmer would know it though.

Discord told us that while he couldn't fully heal Chrysanthemum, he could ease her pain and get her back on her hooves again. However, he had a price: he wanted Tirek's bag.

I suppose I should explain: famously, when Megan and my grandma and her friends had faced down Tirek at the Castle of Midnight, he had this magic bag full of… well, some strange kind of magic. Grandma called it a 'rainbow of darkness', which I guess describes how it looked pretty well, but I have no idea to this day what it actually was. I do know a bit about the bag though… actually, it's in the cave there. I'll show you in a bit. The point is, even with what little we knew, Luna and I knew that was probably a bad thing to give to a stranger, given what we'd heard Tirek did with it.

Unfortunately, Discord was very convincing to two little fillies who felt guilty about getting their friend hurt. Luna and I stole the bag that very same night, and we brought it back to him. Then Discord sent us home and told us Chrysanthemum would be better before the end of the night.

He told the truth, but only because the sun didn't rise the next morning. The moon was literally holding it back. And when the sun did finally force its way up, we spent the entire day in a dark red haze due to an eclipse as the moon traced the sun across the sky. Between that, our old heroes knowing Tirek had done something similar, and the fact that Chrysanthemum miraculously got up out of bed stiff and weakened and still in quite a lot of pain in her chest but otherwise healed, it didn't take long to figure out the bag was missing. I briefly tried to lie about what we'd done, but when I told the truth, I'm sure you can guess we were in a lot of trouble.

Luna and I were grounded, forbidden from leaving the village or from seeing each other to even play in town. Spike and Megan left to try and figure out what was going on with the sky and Discord, and to try and get Tirek's bag back. That was an awful summer; it felt like it took days to pass, and with what was happening in the sky, maybe it did.

All of summer passed, and the beginning of autumn too. But then, one sunny afternoon, somepony in the village saw a bunch of shadows flying toward us in the sky. Dozens, maybe two hundred huge creatures. They were the first griffons, and they descended on our unsuspecting village with spears and axes demanding to know where Megan and Spike were. We had no idea, obviously, but when we said so…

(A shiver settled over Celestia's form, and she closed her eyes for three long inhales and exhales.)

Luna's aunt, Firefly, was the first one they killed. One little griffon, who the others called 'Maggot', protested that they weren't told to kill us, only to find the two their master wanted. But he was thrown aside—literally, violently. And then they fell on us. Luna and Chrysanthemum and I ran, but the griffons were faster. My grandmother teleported us away with her magic.

That was the last I ever saw of her.

(Again, Celestia paused.)

There were enough griffons around that we knew we couldn't just run out of the village into the woods; the fields right around the village were too open. But there was an apple orchard on the edge of the village that belonged to one of my grandmother's old friends, and they had a basement we thought would be good to hide in. But we didn't get inside completely unseen.

The griffon who found us was the runt, 'Maggot'. We were terrified, and I stood up to him, to try and fight him, but he told us he wouldn't hurt us. Then he helped us hide; just in time too, as a bigger griffon came in after him looking for us. Maggot lied that there was nopony down in the basement, and the other griffon left us alone. So we hid in the dark, for hours, until we started to hear the crackling of fire and smell smoke above us.

We huddled up by the basement door, trying desperately not to cough and peeking the doors open both to see if griffons were watching and to take turns gulping down fresh air; Chrysanthemum thought that way that even if the farmhouse collapsed down on the basement, at least we wouldn't be directly under it, since it was one of those basement doors that sticks out the side of the foundation. We kept waiting for the griffons to leave—and then, shouting and screaming in fury, we heard a familiar voice: Discord himself.

We peeked out and were shocked: Discord hadn't appeared as an alicorn this time. Instead, he was a griffon, brown but mottled with gray specks and black and white feathers that matched his mane in his pony form. And he was big; as much bigger than the griffons as he had been bigger than an adult pony as an alicorn. Which, I guess I should clarify: not as big as my current form, but not dissimilar to Luna's. Even in that different shape, we couldn't have mistaken his voice though.

Discord shouted that he didn't want us killed, or the village burned. He said he wanted chaos, and that there's no good chaos in death. He asked if they had at least learned where the dragon and the human—Spike and Megan—were, the griffons said they didn't know. Discord called them all failures. The leader of the griffons, or at least the biggest one besides Discord himself, took a swipe at his throat. But instead of blood, a bunch of corn kernels poured out, and then started popping violently like popcorn in all sorts of unnatural colors. Discord didn't seem bothered, any more than he had when Spike tried to attack him with his sword. He just turned to the griffon, reached out a talon, and poked him on the tip of the beak. And without a word or a glow of magic, the other griffon started unspooling into a pile of griffon-colored yarn. Then Discord twisted him up into a… well, not a ball of yarn you'd knit with, but basically a huge knot, and explained to the yarn that it would still be more chaotic like that than a corpse was. Then he threw the yarn, and snapped fingers, and something like half of the griffons immediately gave into catlike instinct and started chasing the ball to bat at it and play with it like animals—even in the middle of the village being on fire.

Finally, Discord asked if any of the griffons had left any ponies alive. And though most of the griffons said no, Maggot stepped forward and told Discord we were still alive.

At that, we tried to run, but we didn't get very far. Discord teleported in front of us on the road that led away from the center of town, through the orchard, taking on his alicorn form in the process. He greeted us each by name and smiled. "I'm sorry about all this; really, I am. I didn't mean for anypony to get hurt. Maybe a little terror, a little desperation; that's always good for some chaos. But I never wanted anypony dead. That isn't my style. After all, I helped Chrysanthemum, didn't I?" We weren't in the mood to be very talkative after what happened, but he kept going on about how sorry he was and how important life was to 'good chaos' as though that meant anything to us at the time. Finally, Chrysanthemum snapped and told him even if he was sorry it was still all his fault for sending the griffons in the first place, and we'd never help him with anything. To which Discord just laughed and said "Maybe not willingly." But he believed us when we said we didn't know where Spike and Meghan were, and he gave us directions to a town he thought would be friendly to the three of us (home to a band of warrior ponies who called themselves the 'Big Brothers', but that's a story for another day), and then he just left us, walking back over to the griffons and transforming into a griffon as he did.

Discord told the griffons that because of what they'd done, he was going to punish them by continuing to meddle with their forms, and that only Maggot—a name even he used—would be spared that fate. He shooed Maggot off vaguely in our direction, and then started snapping at griffons—turning them to stone or coating them in caramel or a dozen other things that got them to stop moving. And then, when they were all gone, he lifted a wing and they all began to hover in the air. One last snap sent out a shockwave that put out the last fires in our home, but it also knocked over whatever was left of the buildings in Dream Valley. In the same moment, Discord and all the griffons disappeared. All they left behind were ashes and rubble.

What happened next in our journeys is a long story. One I don't mind telling you, Morty, but one we don't have time for right now. Suffice it to say we brought Maggot along with us, and in our travels we eventually ran into Spike and Megan, who were looking for a way to defeat Discord, who they had learned was some kind of spirit of chaos rather than a real alicorn or pony. We decided to join them, despite their attempts to make us settle down somewhere; we had just as much reason to want to defeat Discord as they did, after all.

Along the way, we also met an elk doe named Valdria, who had been traveling the world looking for a way to grow antlers so that she could do magic—because in those days, only male elk, stags, had antlers at all, and does were… well, not bald, but you take my point.

In our journeys, Chrysanthemum struggled. Like I said, though Discord had healed her, she was still in pain in her chest, beneath the gossamer green ribbon he'd tied around her. She understandably started to grow short with us when we pressed on in our quest or when we had to exert ourselves; I can't blame her, nor can I say it was her fault, but the tension started to build day after day.

Finally, we found our answer: a set of magical relics—seeds of a crystal tree that represented harmony, and could counteract Discord's chaos magic. It took us ages to find the six elements: Generosity, Mirth, Kindness, Loyalty, Honesty, and Magic.

(At this, I couldn't help but scoff; when Celestia glanced at me with a frown, I could think of nothing else to do but raise a hoof, at which point I asked "Firstly, were these objects that represented moral virtues, or do you literally mean some kind of magical representation of those virtues. And secondly: magic? How is that supposed to be a moral character quality or whatever?")

You sound like Chrysanthemum. The short answer is that the 'magic' it's referring to isn't arcana, or even the abstract manipulation of mana like you described when I asked you what magic was over dinner a few weeks ago. In this regard, actually, Wintershimmer's definition of magic might suit us best. Magic, as I understand it, is a spark of something special that can't be clearly labeled. All the generosity and kindness, and (Celestia sighed) honesty and openness in the world won't necessarily make a group of well-meaning creatures like each other. There's something else special needed to. You might as easily call it 'chemistry', in the theatrical sense, but that wasn't an Equiish word seven thousand years ago, so 'magic' was the best we had.

And, in fact, that brings up an important point. As we traveled, Chrysanthemum lacked the 'magic' of friendship that Luna and I had with our other companions. I don't know why; it feels unfair to blame her misfortune on a short temper from pain, especially when she got hurt saving my life. But when we came to the last element, there were seven of us traveling together, and only six elements—ah, right, you'd asked what form they took. The elements were gemstones; about hoof-sized, that changed shape based on whoever was using them.

In our travels, in order, Luna embraced Loyalty, Maggot embodied and was chosen by Kindness, Valdria's pursuit of antlers led her to Magic, Spike earned Generosity at the cost of his wing, and I took Honesty. Mirth was the last, and by that point, even though Megan actively tried to give it to Chrysanthemum, it was obviously never going to bond with her. Megan was the leader of our group, even as the last one without an element to draw magical power from; she inspired us, she lifted us up when we were hurting and encouraged us to press onward. Whenever Chrysanthemum's sour mood dampened our spirits, she was the one undoing that damage. So Chrysanthemum left, defeated, and turned her back on us before we went to face Discord.

I'm sure it will disappoint you, so I promise I can tell you later if you like, but for now I'll skip the details of our battle with Discord as well. Suffice it to say we triumphed, and had to choose to do with the shapeshifter. As much as we had our reasons for anger toward him, we also had our small gratitudes; he was Maggot's 'father' after all, and he had saved Chrysanthemum. He'd never meant to kill anypony, at least if we believed him—and as Honesty, my friends trusted me when I said I did. He had simply misused his power over the world—ah, and I should mention, in our adventures he acquired more power than just control of the sun and the moon—for his games of chaos. So instead of imprisoning him or slaying him, we simply stripped him of his powers over the world and let him go.

In the end, the Elements took six… sparks, we call them, from Discord. The power to move the sun and the moon, as I doubt surprises you, came to Luna and I, transforming us into alicorns and earning us our marks. Spike took control over the movements of the earth—what I think Star Swirl and Diadem call 'tectonics', though I admit it's a field of study I haven't pursued much myself, so I might be misusing that word. Power over the winds went to Maggot, who had by that point decided he hated that name and scrambled around the letters to make 'Ottgam'.

(Celestia paused to look at me, waiting for a reaction, and then chuckled when I raised a brow.)

I apologize; Hurricane had a rather different reaction to that part of my story. 'Ottgam' is Emperor Magnus' given name.

(After that clarification, I did have a reaction for what Gale had told me of the bane of Cirra's existence and, perhaps, the personal archenemy of her father)

That is just one reason I made you swear never to repeat this story. I know you can imagine the damage it would do to admit he was once our friend.

Valdria and Megan's powers were… more abstract. Valdria gained the ability to… not create life, per se, but to encourage its growth, or to deny it. And Megan, conversely, took the most dangerous and most frightening power, which we entrusted her as a sign of our respect for her restraint and self-control: rot, or entropy. The ability to wear things down, to make them lesser. With malice and misuse, the ability to kill.

These powers also gave us the nigh-immortality and magical strength ponykind knows Luna and I for now. Though, as you learned after our confrontation in the Crystal Union, we're far from omnipotent or truly immortal. But as we took on those forms, we also inevitably left Chrysanthemum behind. We went on with our lives; I had a small family of my own, we tried to rebuild pony society, and all the while poor bitter Chrysanthemum grew old and we stayed young—not just that, but we grew larger and stronger, less like ponies and more like the 'gods' Luna insists we are.

So Chrysanthemum set out on her own quest, looking for a way to use magic to emulate, or best, our powers. Luna and I tried to help her, of course, tried to make her more comfortable and to do what we could for her, but by then it was never going to be enough. She traveled all across the world as we knew it; she even went into Tartarus. And eventually, she devised a spell which she believed would make her the most beautiful, most desirable, and most powerful mare anypony had ever seen, and to let her feed on that love to live forever.

When she cast it, the magic was so horrifying, and her own screaming so awful that Luna and I couldn't help but notice. We watched the gossamer ribbon she still wore from Discord peel off, revealing a hole in her belly that stretched up to a cavity where her heart should have been. Then her whole coat, and skin, started flaking off, and underneath was that black chitin like you saw on the changelings in the schoolhouse. Holes drilled themselves through her forelegs, wings cracked through her skin and started thrashing. Her teeth fell out to make way for razor sharp fangs. All the while, we couldn't even get close to comfort her or stop the spell; the green fire around her resisted our magic.

When it was done, and we tried to help her, she swatted our help away. She didn't need us, didn't want us.

I haven't spoken to her much since, but I know she still blames me for what happened all those years ago. I don't know that I deserve as much blame as she casts, but I do understand her struggles, and I can hardly call myself blameless in what happened.

She calls herself 'Chrysalis' instead of Chrysanthemum now—and if you ever meet her, don't call her Chrysanthemum, Morty. She will attack you over it. She has become a ruthless, hungry, and vengeful creature. And while she is powerful—at least in pure strength, more than a match for Luna or I, if she is well fed—the real threat she poses is her cunning for how to use her subordinates to lie and infiltrate.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

"...So to return to your original question: I would never tell you to turn away a creature in need and desperate for help. But compassion doesn't require blind optimism; if she, or anyone around you, says something too radical to be true, or makes some claim that seems to turn the world on its head, you must resist the urge to act rashly. Beware of claims of urgency, where you might be prevented from seeking counsel, whether you take it from me or your other friends. I do have one unique benefit to you in that, as we learned from Graargh, Chrysalis' infiltrators cannot replicate my size or the magic of my mane. So I give you my word that my door is always open to you. However, as we discussed with Graargh, I would urge you to keep this matter quiet for the time being. In the past, Luna and I made the mistake of spreading news of this threat widely, and the paranoia and distrust between neighbors did more damage than the changelings' own schemes ever could have. I'll trust you if you believe Gale or Typhoon or anypony else needs to be brought into our circle, though especially for Gale, perhaps it's best to spare her yet another problem to be thinking about."

I offered a short nod. "Assuming Chrysalis herself doesn't show up, I'm pretty confident I can deal with the little changelings, now that I know more about them."

Celestia looked down at me gently. "Just don't let them use overconfidence to catch you off-guard. Or worse, try and turn your strength against your friends. I told you all of that so that if she ever tries to get to me through you, at least she won't be able to say I've kept secrets from you. That is the truth, in all the harsh light it paints me." With a short pause, she added "That's the story I have for you. So if you had questions, you may ask them."

I nodded. "Oh my… um, what happened to Megan and her, uh, godhood spark thing?"

"Discord stole the spark back, and banished all humans to another world. We defeated him to take it back, and we even found a way to the other world through a magical mirror, but by then age had caught up with Megan. We gave the spark to a boar sow who helped us defeat him that second time. But in the years since, another boar killed her in her sleep, and ever since the spark has been stolen down a line of the strongest boar through battle or assassination. The current warchief is a boar named Khagan who is particularly ruthless with it; more than willing to literally rot away his enemies with its power when they so much as speak against him."

If you should ever meet Khagan, dear reader… well, my advice is rather not to meet Khagan. He might be the least of the six 'gods', but he is also the most willing to use his powers for violence, and they are difficult even for me to survive.

"So, wait, the same Emperor Magnus who tried to kill all the pegasi embodied kindness?"

Celestia nodded. "Between Discord's tampering and our own personal failures, we all lost our connections with our elements, save Megan—that was why Discord cast her into the other world—and Luna. Discord's manipulations not only brought out Spike's greed, but also cursed all dragons with an obsession for gold and gems. Magnus' fury and sorrow at Megan's fate turned him to an obsession with war and strength. Valdria lost her wonder for magic—the magic of friendship, not arcana, although the same is true for both—by trying to study it and understand it in a desperate search for a sixth new friend who could replace Megan."

"And you lost Honesty?" I asked. "How? You seem perfectly forthright to me."

My question was answered with a hung head and a very heavy sigh. "Today is not the day for that story. And if you can spare me retelling it at all, I would prefer not to. But if you need to hear it, I will tell you. Just not today."

"That's alright," I reassured her. "As long as I don't run into whatever horrifying spirit you left lying around after you solved that problem. Is this 'Discord' creature still around?"

Celestia chuckled. "In a manner of speaking, but you don't need to worry about him. I'd be more concerned about Chrysalis."

I nodded. "Well, with that in mind, I suppose I ought to get back to Metamorphosis. Thanks, Celestia."

"Of course," she answered with a soft smile. "It's good to talk to you, Morty. Do you have thoughts on what our next lesson should be?"

"Next week we're going up to Union City to clean up Wintershimmer's vaults, remember?"

"Ah, right." Something briefly flashed over Celestia's face, a glimmer of an idea I was too young and she too skilled at subtle deceit for me to analyze. "Well, back to Everfree, then?"

And with feathers over my back, we returned.

13-1 One Egg, al Détente

XIII

One Egg, al Détente

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

XIII - I

A Full House: Emperors Full of Lords

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

Tsar Cyclone Stormblade sat on the broken Diamond Throne, staring at a ledger he held in the flat of his good wing, and the act made him want to cry. It wasn't that he was bored; it was that he was functionally talentless with the wall of inscrutable numbers and dates and tiny sputtering bits of words, and that Maelstrom hadn't been. Every moment of failure, every passing struggle, made him long for the son he'd lost.

With his other wing lame, he was forced to raise a hoof to his face to adjust his reading glasses—he hadn't even known he needed the things while Maelstrom was alive, he spent so little time on reports that weren't delivered aloud. The pair in question had even been Maelstrom's, albeit refitted to accommodate the massive difference in size of skull between father and son.

When the misshapen iron doors of his conquered throne room groaned open, he looked up and then had to re-crane his neck in order not to have the more distant part of his vision distorted into oblivions by the glass.

Sudden pain. Breathlessness. Before he had more than a moment to adjust himself, he was assaulted. Blissfully, a six year old earth pony colt can't do much damage with a headbutt, even aimed poorly enough to briefly steal the breath from the bulky behemoth that Cyclone was. After the dent in his solar plexus popped back from the blow, he sucked in a deep breath.
"Good morning, Dad!"

The foal in question was the very same colt Artorius had rescued from the fenrir that attacked River Rock in Cyclone's absence. Cyclone had named him Dewpoint. The colt still had no memory of his former name or family, and he needed to be called something. And if Gale could be a Stormblade and have a weather name as a unicorn, why not this earth pony colt?

"Good morning, Dew," said Cyclone, setting down his paperwork and patting the colt on the head with a hoof. "What are you doing up here? Not interested in playing with your brothers and sisters?"

"Ah, I am afraid I am responsible for that…" That second voice belonged to the second, much slower entrant: the old, bespectacled griffon who seemed to go only by his occupation as 'the apothecary'. "This little one, he came to me complaining about his knee. And I… well, you understand I would not want to take any action without consulting you, of course." It didn't take an especially cunning ability to read expressions to tell that the griffon was nervous about being in Cyclone's presence.

Cyclone raised a brow, and then looked down at his newest foal. "You know we have Legion medici, don't you, Dewpoint?"

"I, um… well, Sandstorm said we weren't supposed to bother the soldier ponies. And I heard this griffon was a doctor…"

Cyclone's stoic face held for a very long moment before he let out a single snort that suggested amusement. "So what is wrong with your leg?"

"It hurts when I bend it," said Dewpoint. "Not a lot, but—"

"If I may," cut in the Apothecary, and then painfully waited for a very long moment until Cyclone realized the interruption wasn't rhetorical, at which point he nodded. The apothecary gave a small, awkward smile. "Dewpoint's right rear femur was fractured during the battle with the fenrir." The old griffon adjusted his own spectacles. Slowly, he approached the Diamond Throne. "And it fused misaligned. Being honest, I do not know how it was not causing him pain sooner. It has been nearly three weeks."

Cyclone winced; an early start on a lifetime of war had taught him the pain of such wounds many times. "How do you know this, griffon?"

"I…" The apothecary hesitated visibly. "I have lived a very long life, Emperor Zyklon." (I never learned why the griffon's accent came across so strongly in Cyclone's name, but it was overpowering there). "In some part of that life, I confess, I served Emperor Magnus. And in that duty, I learned… rather a great deal about medicine not only for my kind, but for pegasi as well."

It would have been very smart for the Apothecary not to smile in that moment, but he did. He thought he was being friendly.

Cyclone had never felt quite so threatened, so off put, as he did by the griffon's grin.

"I imagine it would be very bad if I re-set the colt's leg without having, you would say 'consulted' his father, yes? A very bad look, I would think, if you first heard of the trouble when he was screaming. And Artorius tells me your fire is quite hot."

"I appreciate you bringing the issue to my attention," Cyclone agreed. "I will arrange for one of our own to treat him."

"Of course," agreed the apothecary. "I would not want to impose."

The old griffon moved to leave, but froze when Cyclone uttered a single syllable. "Wait."

"Emperor?" the apothecary asked, his side still turned to Cyclone as he had frozen midway through turning toward the door.

"I am curious. Why don't you use a name?"

"I…" The apothecary winced. "I… Well, you are hosting us, there is no point playing secrets." This was a lie of staggering proportions. Turning fully back to Cyclone, the doctor pressed forward. "Do you know what it is to be 'Oathsworn'?"

Cyclone nodded, frowning slightly behind his beard, wrongly thinking it hadn't been noticed. "Emperor Magnus' elites. The griffon equivalent of the Praetorian Guard."

The apothecary nodded. "That is what Magnus allowed to be known across Gryphus. The truth is that, but also as Cirra would say, the other face of a coin… that is the idiom, yes?" Cyclone gave another small nod, and the Apothecary pressed on. "Your gods and goddesses judge you when you die based on a code of good and evil, yes? Morals are what carry your… what remains after death—up to the Great Skies? For griffons, Magnus judges us by our honor. And the honor he values most is honor in battle. Valhalla is hard to earn when you are small, and of middling health, and a runt. And even harder to earn when you are kind."

"Kind?" Dewpoint asked.

The apothecary took a deep breath, and then hesitantly approached the Diamond Throne as he answered the question. "When I was young, I was apprenticed to another apothecary. He taught me that there are two kinds of pain. Some pain is useful—such as, I am sorry to say, you will have to experience soon to heal your leg, little one. And some pain is not. So when there was a battle with the Cirrans near our village—and Emperor, this was more than two hundred years ago, not anything like your father's war—I went out to help to heal the wounded." Here, the apothecary hesitated. "I… had never seen death before. It made me… you would say 'noxious', I think? Queasy? I was not brave. But I had my little herb pouch, and schnapps and poppy milk to take off the pain. I went from warrior to warrior, and I helped them. Until I came to a soldier who had wingblades through his belly. He would not recover. The little blades, you know, they cut so much more cruelly than a sword."

The apothecary took off his glasses, then took a deep breath, and began to polish them on the end of his leading feathers. "I know that Cirrans give mercy to their hopeless with a steel spike, but Magnus… he prefers that a soldier who knows they are doomed to death put the last of their breaths to use. I had my schnapps and my poppy milk to dull his pain… but to what end? He had half a chance-measure to die before he even reached the battle lines again."

"Half a chance-measure?" Dewpoint asked, but Cyclone silenced the foal with a heavy hoof on his shoulder, unburdening the griffon's story.

"You gave him a merciful death?" The red pegasus asked in his harsh, almost ursine tone.

The apothecary nodded. "And it was noticed. One of Magnus' heralds came to me a few months later. On pain of death, I followed him to Angenholt. I climbed the mount of the gods. I met Magnus. He told me, in no uncertain terms, that I was barred from the great glory of Valhalla. But he also gave me hope. I could give up my name, and all the glory I would ever bring to my family by my life. I could become Oathsworn. All the glory of my deeds would go to Magnus' fame, his power. But if I won enough, I might yet see the great hall."

"Emperor Magnus' magic took away your name?"

The apothecary chuckled. "No, no. I still honor my oaths."

"Even though you're in rebellion against him?" Cyclone pressed.

"You… I think will not be happy to hear this, but what you are in need of understanding is that Magnus does not judge the dead by their loyalty to him." The griffon's Equiish, it seemed, was strained by his hesitance to deliver his thought to Cyclone; the words that he normally paused between to phrase in passable grammar instead spilled out in fits and spurts. "Emperor Ottgam Magnus of Gryphus is a… he would say a different essence than the Magnus, the God of the Winds. I have no doubt he will let Artorius into Valhalla when his day comes, for one easy example. Nor do I doubt he would have taken your father or Iron Rain or Cirra's other great heroes, when they passed—were they griffons. So I live, and I continue my work such as it is. And though in my old age, I have no hope of winning glory in battle again, I keep my oath. I have a few names I am permitted to use, but they are not the name of my birth. 'Fear of Death' would be the Equiish, I think, and the like. Mocking names. The sort of name you would not curse your children with. So I prefer to be called for my work."

"I see." Cyclone answered in an almost sagely tone.

Dewpoint looked up at his newly adoptive father. "Can he help my leg?"

Cyclone shifted uneasily for a moment, but then shrugged. "I… suppose one of the griffons already saved you." Then he fixed the apothecary with a stern, though not unduly cruel, look. "I trust you understand that there will be consequences if he comes to harm."

The griffon nodded. "Setting a bone in one so small is not a life-threatening procedure. I will give him something for pain—milk of the poppy would be risky for one so young, but I have other, gentler methods. We will talk, little Dewpoint, and you will focus on talking to me so that you do not think about what I am doing. Then I will bind the leg and you will remain in bed for some days while it heals." Something ominous crept into the apothecary's voice at the proposal that they talk, but it blended into his curious broken Equiish and his accent enough that Cyclone (who had only met the curious old griffon in passing whilst talking to Aela) passed it off as just an eccentricity.

The old griffon then looked once more up from the child to meet Cyclone's gaze. "Emperor, may I ask you one other thing?"

"Hmm?"

"I am told your magic is very strong. Artorius told me that you burned the traitor Legate so hot that even her bones were turned to ash. Is that true? And, if I may ask, how did you learn such fire?"

Cyclone's general frown developed in the direction of a scowl, though it didn't quite go all the way. "You understand how that question sounds, coming from a griffon?"

Weathered feathers were raised in a placative gesture. "Of course. If you do not trust me to speak on it, I will not pry; it is only curiosity. There were not many ponies who ever learned what we would call aeromancy. In Dioda, at least among ponies, I had thought it was a closely kept secret by the mercenaries of Nyx—and I know that was why Magnus saw to that city's razing personally."

Cyclone let out a short snort, and gave a small shrug. "Father and a unicorn named 'Star Swirl' re-discovered our magic. As for me, I learned from another pony; just like everypony else in the Legion. My teacher was a mare named Summer Celsus."

"Summer lived?!" Cyclone had, at the very edge of his imagination, been prepared for such a response. He knew, if only academically, that Summer had come from a well-known family in Cirra, and that she had a (perhaps well-deserved) reputation of ignominy during the Red Cloud War for the slaughter of a group of griffon prisoners. But he had never, not in a thousand years, considered the possibility of the griffon replying with glee. "Did Lady Rain also survive? Or…" Almost immediately, shame flickered over the old griffon's expression, and with considerable effort, he tamped down his glee. "Forgive me my emotions."

With a wave of his red wing, Cyclone dispensed the requested mercy. "I will. Provided you never utter Summer's name on Cirra's soil again." The apothecary winced, but nodded. "You may take your leave."

And so he did, with Dewpoint following closely after.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

Had the apothecary dallied for perhaps a few minutes more, or had Cyclone humored his question about Iron Rain's survival, he might have stumbled into a rather more direct answer. As it stood, however, fate (or the random divergence of timelines) had other plans.

Not five minutes after the Apothecary and Dewpoint departed, the throne room doors opened again, and Cyclone momentarily had to fumble with his fallen son's glasses to refocus his view on the more distant faces.

What he saw, at least, was a salve for his burning heart.

"Blizzard? And… No, it couldn't be, could it?" Cyclone broke into an outright grin.

For his display of happiness, Iron Rain offered him a very rude gesture—one which required flexibility that belied her age. Afterwards, Tempest followed with a certain timidity—the very same distrust he had exhibited when he accompanied Gale and I to first meet his infamous uncle.

"Hello, Father," said Blizzard, only to be struck utterly mute when the goliath stallion hurled himself out of his throne, darted across the throne room (dragging his lame wing on the carpet as he did) and finally wrapped his daughter in a hug. "Oh. Um…"

"I've missed you, Blizzard," said Cyclone. "I was so worried. Were you okay in…" Cyclone cut himself off by glancing up at the throne room doors. "Guards, close those. And if the griffons come, tell them I am busy and send them away."

"Vero domine," said one of the stallions, and the pair dragged the heavy doors shut.

Once they settled closed, Blizzard took a step back out of her father's embrace to look into Cyclone's eyes, and she was staggered to see that though they remained dry, they wavered with emotion. "Everfree was fine, Father. Grandfather was extremely welcoming. And I got to meet Miss Rain and Pathfinder, and Aunt Typhoon. Really, everypony was great." With a wince, she added "Everypony except Mom…"

"I… see," said Cyclone. "Do you mean you didn't find her, or—"

"She knows," interrupted Rain, before grumbling "No use listening to you two beat around the bush about secrets you both already know."

Blizzard looked between her elders, and then asked "Wait, you knew, Dad? When Morty tried to talk to her before I left—?"

Cyclone interrupted her with a nod. "When Father and Celestia stopped here on their way back to Dioda, looking for Luna, your mother was with them. It was clear they hated each other; that is part of why I was afraid Father and the others in Everfree would reject you." Then turning to Rain, he dipped his head in gratitude. "I'm glad I was wrong."

"You should know two things," said Rain, coldly. "She's here with me delivering our answer from Hurricane, but she's not staying. I will kill you before I let you keep her here, and if I've gotten old enough that you win, Hurricane wanted me to let you know he'd send Gale's little unicorn colt-toy… which you're supposed to understand is a threat, somehow, even if I don't really get it."

Cyclone's eye twitched. "I see."

"Second, I'm not here for you. I'm here as a favor to Hurricane. We aren't friends, and this doesn't mean I forgive you."

"I understand," Cyclone answered. "I… honestly, I hadn't expected Father could convince you to come at all, Prel… what should I call you now?"

Rain rolled her eye. "Do I look like I care, Cyclone?"

Cyclone shook his head. "Not for our sake. For the griffons."

"Griffons?" Rain asked, muzzle wrinkling and wings rising even as her ears dipped back. "Your letter only mentioned the one; are your forces already in combat?!"

Cyclone shook his head firmly. "They're peaceful; these ones at least. They came after I sent Sirocco. I doubt they could put up much of a fight even if they wanted to; they have two hundred nineteen civilians but only four combatants."

"Don't discount a fighting age griffon just because they aren't trained," Rain warned.

Again, Cyclone waved away her concern; this time, with his wing. "At most sixty more could be trained. Most are too young, or too old, or crippled from the Red Cloud War."

That tiny number put curiosity on both Rain and Tempest's faces, but neither chose to voice a thought, so Cyclone continued. "Our story has to be that you've been living in… let's say Amber Field. But if I called you back, you'll have a rank in my Legion, even if it's honorary."

At least some of Rain's fatigue faded with the practical question. "Well, what do you have open? I assume you've got an Imperator?"

Cyclone nodded. "My daughter, Sirocco. I assume you met her. Is she well?"

"Stormblades," Rain growled. "I told Hurricane he was an idiot to give you the Praetorian guard, but at least that was mostly a field combat posting. This is ridiculous. Imperator is an administrative position. And she's, what, eighteen?" After a moment of that irritation, she concluded "She's fine. Hurricane wanted her help pulling political strings… I'd bet a thousand deneighrii she'll be working for the Dawn before this is over."

Cyclone rubbed the bridge of his muzzle. "I'm glad she's safe." Then, the same feathers that had touched his muzzle removed the reading glasses from his face, and he beheld them for a long moment. "I have an opening for a Praetorian Prelate," he said, after a very long silence.

"You do?" Blizzard asked. "Did Maelstrom do something to be demoted?"

The titanic red stallion had a hard time swallowing after his daughter's question; it could be seen even behind his thick black beard. "Maelstrom passed away, Blizzard."

Fires burned and popped and crackled in a few of the fireplaces; it was the only sound in the room. Cyclone took a tentative step forward, and then pulled his daughter tight against his chest with one wing. Blizzard made no noise when she cried, but one could see it in the way her body convulsed at dealing with the thought. "Since I didn't think I'd get help like Rain, I left Artorius—the original griffon—in Maelstrom's care so I could go get Thunder Hawk—he's another old soldier. But the other griffons arrived while I was gone. And when the food got short with all those mouths to feed, Legate Wrest led an uprising to kill them. I'm told Maelstrom could have stood aside and let her kill them, but instead he stood up for them."

"Wrest… killed Maelstrom?" Blizzard managed between gasps choking on air.

Cyclone patted his wing on her back. "Yes."

"I…" Wrinkling up her face, Blizzard pulled away. "I need to…"

"Whatever you need," Cyclone answered, stepping back himself. "I'm sorry, Blizzard."

Blizzard said nothing more, turning to leave the throne room by one of its side doors.

In the heavy absence, Cyclone was surprised to feel a wing on his shoulder, and even moreso when he turned to look into the face of Iron Rain and found sympathy, in spite of her words mere moments earlier. "I'm sorry, Cyclone. It's hard to lose a foal."

"I—" Cyclone winced at what had come to mind in reply. "Thank you, Rain."

"If you need to go to her," Rain offered, "I can keep myself busy."

Cyclone pondered that for a moment, and then shook his head. "I do not think there is anything I could say that would help. And there is a lot I could say that would make it worse. We will talk when she is ready, but I will not force her." With a swallow, the grim-faced stallion adjusted himself, picked up his limp wing from the floor and folded it with a hoof against his side with a small brace he wore over his shoulder, and finally strode back to his seat. "Also, I need to be here when my other guests arrive."

"Other guests?" asked Rain.

The formidable beard on Cyclone's chin seemed to quiver in anticipation despite the subtlety and control in his nod. "Archmage Clover and a delegation from the dragons. I'm glad you came, but I'm not in the habit of sitting in the throne day-in and day-out. It isn't the most comfortable seat anymore."

"Seems like you have nopony to blame but yourself for that," muttered Rain.

It was at this point that Tempest, who had thus far blended fully into the background of the throne room, finally overcame his fear of his uncle and spoke up. "Um, are there other chairs in the room somewhere? Or a cushion? Or a blanket?"

The corner of Cyclone's mouth wrapped up in a subtle show of amusement; then he opened it fully and shouted "Castellan!"

Not terribly long later, the two guards manning the warped and burnt doors pushed open a small gap, through which a middle-aged pegasus mare missing an ear and wearing a prosthetic hoof wandered in with a notable limp. "You called?"

"Castellan, this is my nephew Tempest. I'm sure you know Iron Rain, if only by reputation. Rain, Tempest, this is my Auditoris, Castellan. She'll arrange anything you need during your stay. Castellan, bring up some seating for our guests."

"These guests, sir?" she asked. "Or the dragons? Cause I don't know I can offer much more than a big carpet—"

Cyclone interrupted her with his good wing. "The dragons joining us are not much larger than Artorius. Two of the couches from the sitting rooms in the north hall will be enough. Also, send up the food and drink and have the gifts ready. I expect the rest of our guests shortly." Castellan dipped her head in acknowledgement and turned to carry out the order without another word.

"You have enough food to spare on hosting?" Rain asked with a frown. "Your letter said you were starving."

"We are," he agreed. "What we have left I can trickle out at half rations over the next… maybe month or so, or I can spend it on this meeting and hope I can win Krenn's sympathies."

Rain scoffed. "I hope you have better luck than your father."

"As do I." Cyclone nodded. "Before the dragons get here, we should finish getting our stories straight. Rain, I don't care where we say you've been enjoying retirement, but I think it's best we let the griffons believe Pathfinder is dead. Some of these griffons are old enough that they may remember him."

Rain scowled momentarily, and the thing that stood out to Cyclone was that (for once) her ire didn't seem to be directed at him. "There are very few griffons who would remember Pathfinder. But we will be cautious, like you say."

"I also—"

Cyclone was interrupted by the hammering of a hoof on the chamber's warped doors. After not but a moment, the door groaned its way open a crack, and the helmeted head of one of the throne room guards peeked in. "My Emperor, they are here."

Cyclone nodded. "Send them in."

In the ensuing moments, the throne room got very crowded indeed. After the partially melted doors opened fully, the first figure to enter was the not-especially imposing figure of the young dragon lord Torch. Since Torch is still alive at the time of writing, and still dragon lord, I should remind readers that the behemoth figure you may have seen was not his shape at the time; Torch in the era of early Equestria was a seemingly off-balance adolescent drake. He was still twice the height of most stallions on his hind legs (which is to say, only a little taller than Cyclone, and notably shorter than Celestia), but those hind legs seemed gangly and wimpy compared to the musculature of his torso and his biceps, rippling beneath scales that were then a more vibrant blue than the sort of gray they hold today. Torch wore a crown of rubies as a mark of office, and carried on his person the Bloodstone Scepter as a mark of his authority.

Following after Torch was the far older but not much larger dragon 'god', Lord Krenn, who (confusingly) had never held the title of 'dragon lord', even though virtually all dragons referred to him by the honorific of 'lord'. Not much had changed about Krenn since I met him on the road to face Clover; not only had he not regrown his missing right hind leg or the webbing of his left wing, but his dark purple scales were even still covered in volcanic soot that left him seeming almost charcoal gray. He limped heavily on his perfectly plumb steel rod that served as his crutch or staff, and yet despite this state he seemed much more balanced and controlled than his counterpart in Torch.

After Torch, much to the gathered ponies' surprise, came Artorius and Aela. The former griffon with his sleek 'bald' head, would have looked quite the sight for his formidable strength, were it not for the bandages still covering his various cuts and wounds from the Battle of the Short Hallway—wounds which would have crippled a pony for life, and which while healing on a griffon gifted with natural regeneration, still took a very long time to fully close up. Aela attracted much less attention, both thanks to her lesser size and what seemed a deliberate choice in the way she carried herself, despite her equally bold white-feathered head.

Finally, but certainly not least, came Archmage Clover the Clever. I will remind readers that, despite the load of drivel you may have seen in the pageant, Clover was not some financially bereft peasant in sackcloth. The olive green mare wore a pair of gilt-framed nez-pence glasses and a rich ultramarine robe of the sort I am inclined to despise, trailing on the ground behind her where it might get tripped on in a fight. (Credit where credit is due, given her magical 'luck' I suspect tripping was less of a concern for Clover than for other archmagi in history.) However, I do not want the description of her attire to miss the fact that she looked a mess. Even compared to when I had dueled her, Clover looked haggard, with sagging bags beneath her eyes and streaks of gray growing more obvious in her frazzled mane.

"Tsar Cyclone," Krenn greeted, the first to speak, not bowing but offering a brief tip of his head. "Thank you for hosting us."

"He asked for us," Torch grumbled. "Why thank him? Let's conduct our business and get back to somewhere warm."

Krenn shook his head with dry amusement that not-especially subtly masked frustration. "Patience, Torch. Appearances need keeping." Then he nodded his head to Rain and Tempest. "I am Krenn; the other dragons call me 'Lord', but I do not care if you use the title. This is the reigning dragon lord, Torch. And while I assume the ponies know, for the benefit of the griffons present, this is Archmage Clover the Clever of Equestria."

Rain and Tempest winced. Cyclone, however, showed remarkable deceptive tact, given his general appearance of a brutish behemoth. "Archmage Clover, there's no point using that title anymore. I know when you left for the mountains, there were still a few ponies in your little city, but I had to bring them here to the capital to protect them from the vargr. Equestria is, I am afraid, just empty houses and snow now."

Clover was, true to her title, very clever; she didn't even glance at the griffons present as she answered "I'm sorry to hear that. Does that make me the Archmage of River Rock?"

"It does," Cyclone answered.

Dragon lord Torch was clearly about to say something, but a gentle touch on his shoulder from Krenn silenced the infinitely younger dragon. Celestia and Luna's old guardian even aligned his long, serpentine neck so that his head was beside Torch's to whisper some clarification in the other dragon's ear.

Cyclone elected to distract from this correction by speaking up himself. "Lord Krenn, Lord Torch, Archmage; these two griffons are some of our guests. Aela, an… acquaintance of my late father, and her son Artorius. My new companions here are my nephew Tempest, and Iron Rain, who will be acting as my right hoof—"

Artorius took a bold step forward with eyes wide in awe. "Princess Rain?! You live! It is such an honor to meet you! I…" Artorius let his words trail off when his mother's taloned arm closed on his shoulder. "Ahem; I forget myself; my apologies to the court, Emperor Cyclone."

Cyclone didn't even speak in response; he just waved off the comment with his good wing and then sighed. "Rain, it seems I only needed to give your introduction to the dragons."

"No, you didn't," Rain muttered back. "Well, maybe the young one. But I've met Krenn before."

"We've met?" Krenn asked. "A part of me suspected you had a familiar face."

Rain nodded. "I was at Treasonfang Pass with Hurricane, when we signed our treaty."

Artorius, it seemed, could not help himself. "You signed a treaty at a place called Treasonfang?"

Torch scoffed at the comment, folding his arms across his chest. "The name comes from an egg-song; it's not cursed or anything."

Seeing Artorius' confused expression, Clover stepped forward to add "An 'egg-song' is like a nursery rhyme, um, Mister Artorius? When a dragon mother is warming an egg, it is tradition to sing to the child inside, even if the words are nonsense and the tone is the point."

"Ah," said Artorius, then glanced to Rain. "So you and Emperor Hurricane signed a peace with the dragons there?"

Cyclone growled in growing impatience, until Rain gently placed a wingtip on his foreleg and shot him a meaningful one-eyed glance. Before even she had a chance to speak, though, it was Dragon Lord Torch who spoke up. "The last Dragon Lord wanted a bigger hoard, and he heard the unicorns had loads of gold and gems hidden away. And with the long winter setting in, he thought it'd be easy pickings. Idiot."

That last comment put an unusually fierce show of emotion on the normally mildly-displeased but placid Lord Krenn's expression, though the elder dragon did not actually voice his concerns.

Rain picked up the rather abrupt end of Torch's story. "Hurricane had the legion serving as mercenaries for the unicorns at the time, in exchange for food. So we fought back the other Dragon Lord's army. Hurricane didn't want another genocide like the Red Cloud War, so the minute Lord Krenn offered to broker a peace, we accepted." Rain nodded to Krenn.

"Did Grandfather kill the other dragon lord?" Tempest asked.

"No," Rain answered. "Lord Krenn, what happened to Scathe?"

Darkness fell across Krenn's expression. "Word of our peace was not spread quickly enough to your crystalline kin."

"Given they were at war with the Diamond Kingdoms for literally centuries, that hardly seems surprising," offered Clover.

"So a wizard from the crystals came alone to Krennotets, killed Lord Scathe, and took his body as a trophy and a warning to other dragons. His skull and his spine, grotesquely transformed into nothing more than a walking stick." Krenn took a heavy step forward, letting his metal rod clang on the throne room floor. "You ask for aid before Clover's work on the curse of the dragons is completed, Emperor Cyclone? Then that is my price. I want the remains of my son returned to me, and I want the head of Wintershimmer the Complacent."

"Your son…" whispered Artorius and Tempest, more or less in sync; then the latter spoke up. "Um… I don't know what's left of Wintershimmer's body; I think Luna's… um… anyway, he's already dead."

Krenn's head swiveled to the young stallion, one brow raised. "Hmm… Emperor Cyclone, we will have to discuss this further in more… quiet company. But for now, arrange for the staff and I will bring fire from beneath the earth."

Quietly, under his breath, Artorius asked his mother "And? What would he do if he doesn't get what he wants?"

13-2

XIII - II

Fruit of the Vignette

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

It was once remarked by an esteemed member of our species that 'Diplomacy is the art of letting someone else have your way.' However, in my experience, diplomacy is best represented in the achievement of the mythical pegasus Aeolus, who it is said gave to Roamulus (the semi-fictitious founder of the Cirran Empire) a series of enchanted bags in which he had captured the four winds. For you see, diplomacy is the art of getting all your windbags in one room, where they can't bother other, more useful ponies.

Shortly after the arrival of the dragons, with so many words to say between so many parties, the stallion whom history remembers as Tsar Tsyklon arranged to disperse the gathered masses. Overtly, this was because there were too many beings who actually wanted to speak in the room. More subtly, this was because there was a very real risk with so many in the room that the secret of Equestria's existence (as more than just a frozen renaming of a random city north of River Rock) would spill out to the griffons.

Cyclone divided his guests and allies thusly:

In order to distract the griffons present, Aela and Artorius were… shall we say inflicted upon the venerable Cirran veteran, Iron Rain? Though Aela went quietly, Artorius insisted on returning briefly to the griffons' collective quarters in the castle to retrieve something—a thought which made Rain briefly, quietly, check that in addition to the massive iron 'zweihufer' she carried on her back, she also had her trusty throwing knife secreted in the crook of her wing.

With the griffons out of the way, Cyclone dispatched Tempest to attend to Clover—directly tasking him not with any deception (given Clover had more than earned the tyrant's trust), but rather with the straightforward task of explaining to the long-distant archmage of all the events that had transpired in Equestria and River Rock alike in her absence amongst the dragons.

That left Krenn and Torch to Cyclone's personal attention, as had originally been his intention anyway.

What Cyclone did not know is that there was a fourth such gathering in his cruelly won castle. And it was that fourth gathering which would decide the course of Equestrian history for centuries to come.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

"Princess Rain…" Aela whispered to herself in awe as Rain chose a room (literally at random, though she gave no indication of this fact) off one of Burning Hearth's many corridors in which to host the two griffons.

With a nod to one of Cyclone's guards accompanying them, Rain ordered "See the other one… Artorius—?" Aela nodded. "Make sure he gets here once he gets whatever he's looking for."

"Of course, ma'am," said the pegasus.

The room Rain had randomly chosen had once been the quarters of the elder Queen Platinum's hoofmaiden, Marigold—not that anypony present had any way of knowing that bit of trivia. What was apparent, however, was that they were a bit of an odd choice for a detente between griffons and pegasi; the only seating in the chamber consisted of a stool and the wooden frame of Marigold's bed.

"Do you… want to find a different room?" Aela asked.

Rain grunted in response, wandering over to the stool, sweeping off a layer of dust from its seat, and then slowly lowering herself onto it. The motion sent dust and cobwebs fluttering from a nearby vanity desk, the ostensible purpose for the existence of the stool in the chamber in the first place. "I don't have a damn clue where a better room in this place would be."

"You don't live here?" Then Aela shook her head. "No, of course not; otherwise you would have been around when we had to fight that other pony… Wrest."

Rain huffed in curmudgeonly frustration. "Do you wish I was? Ponies don't live to be three-hundred like you griffons. I'm retired. And even when Hurricane was around, I didn't get down here much."

"Down here?"

Rain nodded idly. "We built a sky-city, Cloudsdale. But it…" She sighed, both in genuine wistfulness and to buy time to think up a suitable lie. Eventually, the veteran mare decided that, since she was never one for clever lies and politics, the best play was to stay as close to the truth as possible, while still concealing Equestria. "We went to war with the unicorns when the food got too scarce." She felt the lie go rough over her tongue; the 'we' felt bitter given all the lives she'd taken, but a bitter pill was still a pill. "That's why Cyclone sits on the Diamond Throne now, and not a unicorn."

"Cirra manet," Aela answered with a quiet frown—an idiom that translates to 'Cirra survives'.

Rain nodded sagely, and answered. "Nihil erit post Legionem. You were with the canii, weren't you? Given you and your son have Cirran names?"

Aela sighed. "I was. Up until Emperor August gave the order to kill all griffons in Cirra, obviously."

That comment made Rain hang her head, and she muttered "Imbecile…" under her breath. "Were you at Stratopolis, then?"

The hen firmly shook her white head. "I was wounded at the siege of Nyx; I missed most of the war. Small blessings… I don't want to sound rude and not ask in turn, but I'm pretty sure every griffon in Dioda knows the story of Iron Rain." Aela had obviously meant the words as a compliment, and she found herself struck with surprise when Iron Rain tiredly rolled her sole remaining eye. "Did I say something wrong?"

"By 'my story', do you mean how I lost my eye?"

"That, and the Battle of Altus. I met Yngvilde once; I can't imagine what it must have been like facing her down."

"No. You can't." Rain broke gaze with Aela, let out a slow sigh, and rolled her neck as if the slight popping of her vertebrae represented a break in the tension of the sitting room. For Aela, however, it did not.

After a very heavy silence, the hen spoke up again, perhaps inelegant in her change of the topic. "I've been wondering, if you don't mind: I heard it's always winter here, but I never got a chance to ask Maelstrom why."

While the pivot was inelegant, Rain was no connoisseur of segue and so lost some further tension. "It's a long story, but I'll try and make it as short as I can. Have you ever heard of the strange monsters that live in the jungles of the Striped Tribe?"

Aela shrugged. "Our apothecary fought an Adze once, and I've heard about the giant snakes and eels, but I've never actually seen anything."

The comment was answered with a small shrug from Rain. "You'll still get the point. The creatures here are even stranger than those. So much so that the unicorns who were native to this land developed a special group of ponies called 'wizards' whose only job was killing them."

"Wizards? What a strange word. Wiz-ard."

Rain nodded. "They're odd ponies. Clover that you met in there is one of them, although she might be the most normal one I've ever met. But the point is, they fight monsters that a standard legionary—or even a Legion—isn't equipped to handle. Monsters that take over your mind or trick you or trap you. Monsters that aren't solid, that you can't fight without magic. Some of the worst of those monsters were called Windigos, creatures that feed on anger and hatred, and use it to create ice."

"Hatred?" Aela asked. "Of us?"

Rain chuckled. "No. Us, and the unicorns, and the earth ponies. The unicorns and the earth ponies had been living here since Roamulus founded Cirra. Adding a whole new tribe broke centuries of tradition and history. I think the worst of it was that, from the moment we showed up—even broken and hungry as we were—they knew that if it came to war, we'd win. The unicorn spells and earth pony crossbows can't shoot as high as we can fly, and it takes them weeks—sometimes months, if it's crossing mountains or rivers—to march as far as a Legion can fly in a single day. So as the hate festered, the windigos fed, and it started getting colder and colder. And when the food started to get scarce, fighting broke out.

"So you went to war, like you said." Aela nodded. "But you have magic now, don't you? Why didn't you hunt down the windigos? Or the wizards?"

Rain shook her head. "Well, we didn't know they even existed until later. Hurricane…"

What Aela assumed was a mournful pause was actually full of frantic thinking as Rain rushed through what lie was best to deliver.

"You're right that we have magic, but out of all the legions, there are maybe twenty ponies who are any good with it. Hurricane and his foals, my late husband, a couple others—"

"Foals?" Aela asked.

"Cyclone had a younger sister, Typhoon. She was killed by the unicorns; that was what actually started the war. Before that, Hurricane had been pushing not to go to war. August's mistakes were always on his mind. In the cold, not many ponies had the magic to stay warm and scout; really, only Cyclone, and my old friend Summer, and Hurricane himself had enough fire magic. Hurricane didn't trust Summer, and he wasn't willing to send his son out and risk never hearing from him again, so he flew off on his own to try and find where the snow ended. His plan was to just push our sky city away from the snow and see if that solved things. The windigos stopped him. He killed two, but the third took his life. But more importantly, he was gone when Typhoon died. By the time his Auditoris limped back, Cyclone had already won the war."

"That fast?"

"Remember, they don't fly," Rain explained, as the door opened to reveal Artorius' sizeable form. "Imagine if you didn't have to get past Nimbus to fly on Stratopolis."

"I doubt Cirra would have lasted very long at all, if any of the stories I have heard are true," said Artorius with an unabashed grin, stepping fully into the room. What he carried in one arm left Iron Rain's jaw hanging slackened. Her eye beheld the lacquered red shield with its intimidating single spike, something she had last laid eyes on some half a century earlier, hundreds if not thousands of miles away in a land she knew she would never see again.

"Dad's shield…" she whispered, rising from the squeaky stool slowly. "How do you have this? I thought Magnus took it when Nimbus fell." (Non-pegasus readers should note that the fall of Nimbus, being a Cirran sky-city, utilized both meanings of the word 'fall'.)

Artorius offered a shrug, and then winced halfway through the motion—a sign of lingering wounds from the Battle of the Short Hallway. "I mean no offense, Lady Rain. I know it must weigh on you to see the shield in a griffon's talons, but I swear on my honor as a knight—"

The tercel's mother let out a sigh. "Artorius, speak plainly."

Artorius hung his head. "Um, yes. I am sorry. Here." Stiffly, he extended the shield in one hand. (Rain raised the brow above her eye at that small feat; the shield was enormously heavy, requiring years of training to be hefted by the wings of even the formidable ponies of the House of Rain.) "I took it from a Herald of Magnus. But it belongs in your hands."

"Hooves," Aela corrected her son, before nodding to Rain. "But he's right. I admit, I only brought it along because it's a damn good shield, and before August ordered our deaths, the Canii were shock troops. Now that we know you're alive though, it's better you have it."

"Well, I…" Rain gingerly took the shield in her wings, and stumbled slightly with its weight before she got it closer to her torso. Tentatively, almost hesitantly, she turned the shield over and slipped her left wing into the leather straps that allowed a legionary to hold it. They were loose, most recently fitted to a griffon's larger wings, but that was easy enough to fix with a bit of fiddling with the buckles. Her mind was elsewhere, remembering her foalhood a lifetime ago struggling with the shield's weight in the huge open throne room of the palace of Nimbus. Her father, Lord Winter Rain, had been there, and his trusted lictor, Downburst, watching the eleven year old filly insist she was strong enough to use the shield, just because she was finally tall enough to put her wing in the straps while its curved, tower-like face was standing upright.

"Thank you," she said finally.

"You do not need to thank us," said Artorius (stiffly). "All that matters is that it was right." Then, his eyes broke gaze with Rain for a moment, and sheepishly he asked. "But… Can I ask you for a favor?"

"What do you want?"

"I want to learn magic," said Artorius. "To be a better knight, and help more griffons—or ponies. But there are very few griffons who know much of magic. I've learned all I can from Tapfer, but sorrow and mist aren't in my nature."

Rain grunted. "Kid, you're coming to the wrong pony. I'm not exactly flinging fire and ice from my wingtips."

"But you killed Magnus' daughter!" Artorius protested. "And you wounded Magnus himself! I've heard the stories! Surely you're the mightiest of the pegasi!"

At that, Rain's expression soured, if only slightly. "Just like Gale… I'm sorry to break it to you, Artorius, but those stories aren't honest. It took four of us to kill Yngvilde, and I wasn't the pony whose magic got the job done. I just held the blade to finish the job. And I don't talk about Magnus." With a shake of her head, she concluded "Also, I'm old as dirt. I'll have grandfoals soon. And I haven't been in a real fight in going-on twenty years. But you did get my shield back to me, so if that's what you really want, I'll find some time to show you a trick or two." Rubbing her temple with the wing not stuck in her father's shield, she added "But if you mention fighting Magnus again, we're done. Understand?"

Artorius gave a firm nod. "You have my word."

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

Clover the Clever knew her way through Burning Hearth Castle much better than anypony else in the little diplomatic gathering, Cyclone and his family included, so it was no surprise that when Cyclone had sent Tempest off with her to explain the situation at hoof, she very quickly took the lead.

"Look at how you've grown up, Tempest," the archmage noted almost as soon as the door separating the duo from the rest of the group had closed. "Are you growing out a beard, or…?"

"I wish," Tempest muttered. "It isn't worth the weight bringing a shaving kit when Mom sends me out to the back end of nowhere. But Wallflower hates it."

"Your marefriend?" Clover asked. "I can't believe you're old enough to date. I feel like the last time I talked to you, I could still pick you up with my magic."

Tempest cocked his head. "Can't you still? I heard Diadem picked up whole loaded wagons to build her school instead of using a crane."

The olive green wizard couldn't help but chuckle. "In terms of sheer brute strength, Diadem has me, and I'd bet even Master Star Swirl beat. I could probably still pick you up, Tempest, but only just. Now I'm curious, though; tell me about this mare who won the heart of Commander Hurricane's grandson."

"Oh, for the love of…" Tempest rubbed his brow. "You really want to know?"

"There isn't exactly a lot of juicy gossip in the dragon lands. And, as hard as I tried not to, I spent enough time around Platinum when I was your age that some appreciation of that kind of thing did rub off on me." With a harsh glance over her glasses, she concluded "Double-entendre not intended."

"Hey, I'm not Gale," Tempest answered, a comment to which Clover raised a brow. But the sky blue scout continued on before she could press him. "Wallflower and I aren't actually together; we're just friends. She's dating an earth pony mare, and her parents are kind of… Ante legionem kinda ponies, if you take my meaning. So I let her bring me home once to meet them. The problem is, word got around from them, so now I can only really date when I'm outside Everfree or everypony thinks I'm cheating on her."

"Wait, do they object to her dating a mare, or an earth pony?"

"Both, because they want grandfoals to join the Legion. But mostly the earth pony part." Tempest shrugged. "Just don't tell anypony, okay?"

"Who would I tell?" Clover asked in reply, before adding "That's very sweet of you, Tempest. I promise your secret is safe with me. How about your family?"

Clover accompanied the thought by gesturing with a hoof through one of the castle's many seemingly identical doorways, and then beginning a slow climb up a spiral staircase.

"Where are we going, anyway?"

"Master Star Swirl's study. Or, I guess technically my study now, but… I dunno, I guess I'll always think of it as his." Clover shrugged. "The point is, the door's magically locked so I doubt Cyclone rearranged the furniture to different rooms like he did to every other room in this place."

"That's what you're mad about?" Tempest asked quietly.

Clover shook her head and huffed through her nostrils. "If I let myself be mad about what he did, I'll start asking myself if it's worth it spending three years of my life choking on volcano ash and eating meat to help the ponies who are left here, and… look, let's talk about something else. I was asking about your family, right? How is Typhoon these days? And Hurricane?"

"Mom never really changes; all business, all the time. Even when she's with Frostfall, she never really lets up. Grandpa's… well, up until Sirocco showed up with Uncle's letter, I would have said he was just getting older and curmudgeonlier."

"More curmudgeonly," Clover corrected.

"Right." Behind the unicorn mare, Tempest rolled his eyes. "Anyway, now he and Sirocco are trying to get food sent here in the short term, but without going through Gale and Puddinghead."

"Ah, yes; I can imagine that would be a political non-starter… Wait, did you say Gale and Puddinghead?"

"Ah, right." Tempest paused for a moment as Clover led him out of the spiral staircase and along a stub of a hallway (more like a waiting room, given its pairs of couches) and toward a pair of dark hardwood doors filigreed with a curling, vaguely arboreal pattern of silver. "A couple months ago, Gale became Queen."

"What!? What happened to Platinum?!"

Tempest jumped back when the wizard whirled on him, and frantically, he waved his wings in the air between them. "Nothing! Nothing! She's fine!" After Clover's worries faded, Tempest took a moment to breathe, and watched as Clover adjusted her glasses. "Platinum said it was because she never got the chance to rule while her dad was still alive, and she wanted Gale to have a better transition into rule."

Clover waited for a very long, contemplative moment. Then, showing a bit of the cunning that earned her epithet, she asked "She said?"

Tempest nodded hesitantly. "I don't know what is going on, but she's been up to some stuff in quiet. Especially with Morty of all ponies."

"Morty… meaning Mortal Coil? Wintershimmer's apprentice?"

"Celestia's, now, but yeah." Tempest sighed at the mention of me.

"Ah." Clover turned back to the door, lit her horn, and fired a single bolt of magic directly into the groove between the doors. As ripples of her mint-shaded mana flowed across the silver, the doors creaked and groaned before finally beginning to laboriously swing open. "Well, hardly an issue for today, but I'll need to remember to grease the hinges. After you, Tempest."

Star Swirl's private quarters were in every conceivable way the opposite of Wintershimmer's; where Wintershimmer's quarters were utilitarian and sparse and entirely practical, Star Swirl's quarters were richly decorated, well furnished, and non-trivially chaotic. Bookshelves surrounded a tall cylindrical chamber wrapped with spiraling mezzanines—a pony on the ground floor could go up a set of stairs to one gallery, walk in nearly a full circle, and then ascend another set of stairs just above the first—to go up three floors until finally they reached the highest level of the chamber, just below an ornate skylight (which still projected a little light, despite being largely covered in snow). Tiny diamonds hovered in the air, rushing over to the guests to illuminate their surroundings even further. Little golem creatures ('cherubs'—a kind of gargoyle styled like infant alicorns, if one is being technical) flitted back and forth tending to the room's many now quite overgrown plants. Curved couches and tables adapted to the space.

Perhaps most notably, though, most of the books and artifacts in the room had been moved to Everfree following Cyclone's rebellion, so despite all the aforementioned features, most of the bookshelves were empty, as were the majority of the tables and workspaces.

"Woah," Tempest muttered nevertheless.

"You should have seen it when I was your age. This was the quarters of the Court Mage of the Diamond Kingdoms for almost seven hundred years. Now it's mostly just a nice place to rest when I stop in River Rock. Grab a couch or a chair, and tell me what happened with Morty. I assume Star Swirl and Celestia dealt with whatever Wintershimmer was up to?"

"I think Celestia helped, but it was mostly Morty and Gale."

"I think I must have misheard you there," said Clover (without any of the delay that is appropriate for such a comment). "It sounded like you said an apprentice unicorn and the Queen of Equestria beat Wintershimmer the Complacent."

"Ugh, you sound like Morty." (I do take offense, Tempest, even after all these years)

Clover had the audacity to teleport herself across the room so she could flop on her back onto a couch, which she then sunk into with a sigh of satisfaction before continuing "I can understand if you don't understand why that sounds insane. But even Master Star Swirl was afraid of Wintershimmer."

Tempest shrugged. "Look, I don't do this whole 'wizard' thing. All I know is Morty apparently died during the fight—"

"Oh no!"

"Not like that; he's fine. He brought himself back or something. But it bought Gale enough time to teleport up on Wintershimmer and cut off his horn with grandpa's sword."

"Gale can teleport?"

"She bothered Diadem until she taught her," Tempest answered (I apologize on his late soul's behalf for the horror that is the subject ambiguity in that sentence.) "If you want any more detail than that, you're better off talking to Morty. Just be prepared to sit through how great he is."

"Well, I'm glad he found some stability. He was in a terrible state when we fought. Celestia's tutelage should be good for him." Folding her forelegs over her chest in what, on a younger mare, would probably have been interpreted as a rather seductive pose (and something I'm certain Tempest interpreted that way, even if I'm equally certain Clover was actually just trying to get comfortable), the archmage pressed on. "I take it from what Cyclone said that the existence of Equestria is being hidden from the griffons?"

Tempest offered a small nod, unable to keep his eyes from wandering over the mare in front of him. "Um, yeah. Grandpa says these ones are probably honest about fighting Magnus, but even still, Magnus might come after them. And if he does, I guess the idea is that we let him think this is all that's left of Cirra."

"That sounds unusually selfless of Cyclone. Not sure it would actually fool Magnus, if he really is like the sisters, but I suppose it's worth the attempt to avert war. I do still wonder if we wouldn't be better off establishing some kind of diplomatic contact, though."

Tempest shook his head. "I mean, I don't know about this myself, but from what Grandpa says about meeting him, Magnus doesn't care about diplomacy. He likes war. Or something."

"Dangerous," said Clover, though whether she meant the comment in reference to Magnus, or to Hurricane's interpretation of the griffon god, one could only guess.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

Cyclone sat back in the Diamond Throne and idly adjusted his crippled wing as he waited for a few long moments after the doors out of the room had shut, ensuring his words would not be overheard by griffon meatuses (that is, ear-holes).

"What are you waiting for, pony?" Torch demanded when his patience ran thin, well before Cyclone's or Krenn's had. "Did you drag us all the way here just to waste our time? Krenn told you what he wants. What more is there?"

Cyclone sighed. "Dragon Lord, I'm sorry if this business offends you. I truly only needed to speak to Lord Krenn and my archmage."

"Your archmage?" Torch let out a low growl. "Do you think I'm an idiot?"

"If that upsets you, then I do," Krenn noted idly. "Sit down and shut up, Torch. You might learn something."

"You dare address your Lord—"

Krenn struck his iron staff on the stone floor just once, but the threat that blow implied was enough to silence Torch.

"Winning the Gauntlet of Fire proves you're strong and quick, not that you're a good leader. You're still a child, Torch. And while I prefer a young dragon to rule over a wyrm like me, set in our ways and our mistakes, we are here to get back what remains of your predecessor—my son—from the ponies. If you jeopardize those negotiations, it will not bother me to host another Gauntlet over your bones."

Cyclone cleared his throat gently, and waited for Krenn's slitted eyes to meet his gaze. "I will do what I can to get your son's remains, but it may take us a few weeks. You are welcome to stay here, so that I can keep you informed, and so that you can take possession of them when they arrive. But I am afraid I do not have weeks to wait with griffon mouths to feed."

Krenn cocked his serpentine head. "I know the earth ponies were the best farmers, but surely you understand: even if I heat the earth to melt some of the snow and give you fields, crops will not simply grow overnight."

"I know how plants work," Cyclone grumbled. "My point is that I had hoped to offer another trade in the meantime. We respect one anothers borders, so I would never send hunters across the mountains into the dragon lands. Even if I did, it is a long flight for a pony to cross the volcanic wastes to the fertile grounds on the coast, and even farther to fly back with any meat or fruit to eat. But a dragon can carry a great deal, and the cold and the heat don't bother you the way they do us. So I hoped I might make a trade for you. Gold and jewels for food."

Krenn chuckled. "You're mistaken, Tsar Cyclone. It's very good that I brought Lord Torch here."

Cyclone raised a brow. "You don't value gold? I thought all dragons had a hoard."

That question earned a sigh from the charcoal colored wyrm. "Every dragon has a hoard, but not every dragon hoards gold. My lust for gold is what let the demon curse our race in the first place; that is what Clover is trying to help me undo. So no, you cannot tempt me with gold and jewels and glittering things. I do not take offense at the first offer, but I will if you offer a second time." Glancing to his side, he added "But I won't begrudge Torch a hoard. It will be good for him to learn to temper his greed and gain the strength of size without losing his mind."

"What?" Cyclone asked.

This time, it was Torch who answered. "Huge dragons aren't always old. It takes hundreds, even thousands of years, for a dragon to grow as big as we get. But if you build up your hoard, you can get that size and strength and power—" even the way Torch pronounced the word seemed laden with greed. "—as early as you like. But the more you build your hoard, the more it consumes your mind. Lots of dragons have died because they let their hoard get too big and tried to steal from an even bigger, older dragon. The old guy here usually does a lot of the work convincing hatchlings to calm down if they get a couple too many coins… or putting them down if he can't get through to them."

"It is my burden," Krenn ominously agreed.

"I see," was all Cyclone replied, before taking a moment to adjust his posture on the throne. "Well, Lord Torch, are you willing to trade with me?"

"Depends on how much gold you've got?"

"Three wagons," said Cyclone. "Everything the unicorns left behind when they left. And unlike food, I believe I can get more if we need to extend our deal."

Torch greedily rubbed his claws together and smiled. "Well, thanks for dragging me along."

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

Blizzard finally emerged from her bedroom after a long hour of silent mourning. The fur below her eyes was matted with tears, and her wings and head hung heavy in grief; much more than Sirocco, Maelstrom had been the closest of her half-siblings. But there was no point hiding, so she set about finding her way back to her father and Rain and Tempest, to see how she could help.

Her path might well have gone right back to where her father and the dragons were talking, had she not overheard a strongly accented voice while walking down the hallway that connected the private rooms of the royal family—that is, the rooms Cyclone had claimed for himself and his progeny.

"Now, Herr Dewpoint, this is schnapps. Do you know what that is?"

"My name isn't 'hair', it's just Dewpoint," said a much younger, quieter voice in reply.

"Ahaha, no, in mein tongue, 'herr' means… well, it is like 'sir', you understand? It is how you be polite to someone to who you do not have another title to say. I—Who is there at the door? Come in, but do not be a stranger."

Blizzard hadn't even realized she was eavesdropping, but when the shrilly masculine voice called out to her, she found herself heeding it without a second thought. Behind the door lay a small room full of cupboards and shelves centered around a workbench; Blizzard had heard once that one of the old kings or queens practiced carpentry as a hobby and the room was a chamber for that.

Now, it had been converted into a makeshift doctor's quarters, with tools and herbs and a small pot filled with recently boiled water set along the flat surfaces in meticulous spacing.

On the workbench in the center of the room was a brown and gray earth pony colt, quite young, and standing over him, a speckled gray and white griffon decorated by a pair of spectacles, holding a flask aloft.

"Oh, I, um…" Blizzard swallowed in nervousness at the scene.

"Do not be timid, little one," said the apothecary (or rather, the Apothecary, though the capitalization was unknown to Blizzard). "Come here, I will not hurt you. You are distraught, I can see that; are you hurt?"

Blizzard shook his head. "I, um… I just heard about my brother."

"Your brother? You… ah." With a nod, the apothecary took a deep breath. "You are one of the Haysar's kinder, yes? I… well, we griffons are all very grateful for what Maelstrom did for us, but I am very sorry for his loss. Um… have you met this little one?"

The colt shook his head. "I'm Dewpoint. Are you my big sister now?"

"Am I…?" Blizzard seemed lost in the question. "Father adopted you?"

"Maelstrom did, in your father's absence," the Apothecary explained. "This little one was on the wrong side of a big, bad volf; a… what do you call it?"

"A fenrir," Dewpoint explained. "Mister… 'hair' Artorius saved me."

The Apothecary chuckled. "Yes, he did. But unfortunately, you did get hurt some, no? Your leg cracked, and unfortunately it needs to be set." Nodding to Blizzard, he added "Which is what is happening here. I am the Apothecary, you see."

"Oh," was all Blizzard said, at first. Then, after a moment, it occurred to her to say "I'm Blizzard."

"Ah," said the Apothecary, "It is good to meet you, Blizzard. Are you a legionary too, since you are grown?"

Blizzard shook her head firmly. "I, um… I mostly take care of the foals. Sometimes, I carry messages for Father. I don't fight."

"A kindred spirit." The apothecary smiled. "Actually, if you are good with the foals, perhaps it is to be good luck you are here. Setting a bone, it is not a fun thing to do, and even if I am a healer, I am also a griffon. Would you, perhaps, be able to help me make sure this little one is calm and as comfortable as we can make him?"

"Alright," Blizzard agreed, stepping into the room properly and moving over to Dewpoint's side. "I don't know a lot about healing, but I'll do what I can." Utilizing her long practiced skill, Blizzard pushed aside all thought of her own grief and donned a hard, comfortable face for Dewpoint's sake. "It's nice to meet you, Dewpoint."

"You too, big sister!" Dewpoint answered enthusiastically. "Do you know what 'snaps' is?"

"Schnapps," the Apothecary corrected. "It is not mein accent; the schnuh noise is important."

"Oh," said Dewpoint. "That's a funny word, 'schnapps'."

"I've never heard of them," Blizzard noted. "Some kind of potion?"

The apothecary chuckled. "It is liquor from fruit. Peaches in this case."

With heavy concern in her voice, Blizzard asked the old griffon. "You're going to give him liquor?"

"I was not able to bring willow bark with me when we fled Dioda, and milk of the poppy is very dangerous for little griffons, and ponies especially. But do not worry; liquor is bad for the little ones, yes, but one time will not hurt. I have used it many times. Most often, they just fall asleep." Yanking the cork from his flask (in those days, threaded screw caps were rare things indeed), he offered the receptacle to Dewpoint. "Be careful; it is sweet, but it will feel like it burns. Sip slowly at first."

But Dewpoint seemed completely unbothered by his first experience with alcohol, drinking down three swallows so quickly that both Blizzard and the Apothecary had to lunge in to pull the flask away from him.

"Goodness, little one… I do worry a little bit for you," said the Apothecary. "You take to the bottle too well, I think."

"Well, earth ponies do have the other half of griffon magic," Blizzard offered.

The apothecary cocked his head. "Hmm?"

"The faster healing, and strength, and… well, I've heard earth ponies are more resistant to alcohol. Like griffons."

"Ah. So this little one, he will not be able to make fire, or wind, or what have you?" The apothecary tutted once.

"No," Blizzard agreed.

Seemingly idly, without even looking up from Dewpoint, the Apothecary asked "Can you?"

"Me?"

"Make ice or fire or what have you, I mean?" the Apothecary clarified, seemingly making small talk. "I know the little griffons, and our Artorius especially—though he is very large, he is I think very little inside—they are forever delighted by the little tricks. Dewpoint here might think it fun to see one, if you can."

"Oh, um… I can make a little ice," Blizzard agreed. "I'm nowhere near as good as Father or Grandfather though."

"Well, no, I hope not; I would not want you to kill either of us," the old griffon joked. "The water there in the pot, it is okay if you take a bit with the ladle. But do not touch it with your body; it must stay clean."

Dewpoint sat up to watch as Blizzard ladled out a little water into a wooden cup the apothecary had at hoof (or rather, claw). Then, gently raising her wing and closing her eyes, she left the still quite present thoughts of Maelstrom's passing come flooding back.

The sound of wood cracking, and the crinkling of a vein opening in deep ice burst within the room. "Mein kaiser!" the Apothecary gasped, and Dewpoint likewise let out a scream, albeit devoid of words.

Blizzard opened her eyes to find that the wooden cup had completely exploded, and the water inside had taken the form of a cluster of outward pointing icicles, in a shape like the head of a morning star or a flail. A few of the spikes had impaled bits of the broken cup, while the rest of the wood lay in splinters on the table.

"Oh my…" Blizzard whispered to herself.

"That was awesome!" Dewdrop added.

"I… am sorry," the Apothecary noted, daring to put a wing on Blizzard's shoulder. "I should have thought, after hearing about your brother." Then, with a swallow, he added somewhat jovially "But it seems you are less unlike your father and your grandfather than you think? Can I ask you a personal question, Blizzard?"

"I, um… if it's about Maelstrom, I'd rather not."

"Oh, no, no. Just a curiosity of mine," the Apothecary turned away from Blizzard for a moment and told Dewdrop. "Watch my talon." Then, raising a single talon, he waved it back and forth before the colt, who followed it quite deftly with his eyes. "Good. Blizzard, who was your mother?"

"My mother?"

"I, and griffons who live long enough to know such things, wonder if magic comes from ones parents. You are from a very strong father-line, yes, but I wonder if you also have strength from the other side. It is just curiosity, you do not have to tell me; I just—"

"Her name was Summer."

Abruptly, the Apothecary lost all interest in Dewpoint. "Aestas Celsus? The Summer of Iron Rain's Rainstorm?"

"I, um… yeah? I think so." Blizzard sheepishly nodded even as she agreed.

"But… Forgive me, I should say: there are not very many Cirrans whose names we griffons still remember. I had expected your mother might have belonged to a gens like the Rains of Nimbus or something, but…"

"No. I guess miss Rain is my godmother, sort of. I can introduce you if you'd like."

If he weren't already white from his snowy owl head, the Apothecary would surely have turned flush white. "Iron Rain is alive? Iron Rain is here?"

"Yeah, Father asked her to come back to River Rock after what happened; why? Do you want to meet her?"

"Nein, nein… Sorry, no, no…" It didn't escape Blizzard's notice that the first denial of the old griffon was very nearly snapped at her in anger. Or desperation. "Better not to. I did not fight your ancestors, Blizzard; like we said, we are both not fighters. But… there was a time I served Magnus, and it is better we not create problems when tensions are already high, you understand?" When Blizzard nodded, the Apothecary wasted no time in adding "Lady Rain's name is famous for all griffons; second only to your grandfather. That is why I was surprised; that is all."

Neither adult noticed the way Dewpoint's ears perked through that discussion.

"But to return, I think, to what you before had said. Was Summer not the same age as your grandfather, Hurricane Haysar? That is a… you would say 'scandal', I think, no?"

"It's a long story," Blizzard replied. "I'd rather not…"

"Of course, of course," the Apothecary replied. "I do not mean to pry. Oh, and I am being a bad doctor, no? My own little curiosities, and I have ignored mein patient."

But when both griffon and pegasus glanced to Dewpoint, they found him asleep.

"That was fast," said Blizzard. "I wish I could get the other ones to sleep that easily sometimes."

"Like magic, schnapps. So 'potion' perhaps is more right than you know. But, like we said, it is not good for little ones too often. Now, gentle; we do not want to wake him. But hold his shoulders, please. He may wake with a start from the pain. I will hold the leg."

For all the qualities of the Apothecary that might worry a reader, he was at least a capable healer, and under his gentle touch, not only was Dewpoint's leg set and fixed with a split, but the little colt slept through the procedure with barely more than a slight shift.

"Thank you, Blizzard," said the Apothecary, when their shared work was done.

Blizzard smiled. "You're the doctor. Or, apothecary, I guess. I just held him."

"Perhaps," said the Apothecary. "But you have the manner of a healer. I think you put him at ease better than I could. I will carry him to bed; no doubt your Father would like your company."

"It was nice to meet you, um… Oh, I didn't get your name."

"I am just the Apothecary," the old griffon replied. "It is a long story; I may tell you another time, Blizzard, if you would like."

"I think I'd like that." With a smile, Blizzard left the room.

The Apothecary then went back to tending to his tools and implements, packing away his kit and tidying the room before he set about carrying Dewpoint back. Had he turned away from the shelves and toward the workbench, he might have seen Dewpoint's eyes shoot open, and the foal silently sit upright.

13-3

XIII - III

Yet More Talking

or, as a wittier author might put it -

The Calm Before Several Storms

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

"Well, apart from Jade and Cookie… Wintershimmer notwithstanding, obviously, the next most important pony in the Crystal Union is Commander Silhouette. Chancellor, could you pass the potatoes? They're delectable."

As Puddinghead leaned across the table with the plate in question in his hooves, Commander Typhoon cocked her head and sent a red lock of her tricolor mane falling across the opposite side of her forehead. "I never got to meet my crystal counterpart after what happened with Wintershimmer. And I don't recall a crystal warlord named Silhouette. What's she like?"

"Well, she wasn't somepony you got to fight back in the Compact Lands," I explained, somewhat proficiently using my hooves to transfer a potato onto my plate. "She's our age."

"You wouldn't have any trouble taking her in a fight, if it came to that," Gale added with a chuckle.

"You fought her?"

"Yeah, in Lubuck." The queen of the unicorns leaned back in her seat, indulging a very generous swig of earth pony whisky, and then looking up across the table to stare over Typhoon's shoulder with obvious concern. "What in the…" She looked down at her glass, and then up again. "I haven't even finished my first glass; do the rest of you—"

"Yeah, I see it too," I cut in, standing up and even daring to light my horn at the swirling maelstrom of magic that appeared in the air of the parlor. "I have no idea what it is though."

As three of the four of us were making ready for some kind of magical violence, Chancellor Puddinghead lunged between us and the portal, waving his forelegs frantically. "No, no! It's okay!"

"You know what this is?" Typhoon asked tersely.

Puddinghead shook his head. "Nope! But I've got a good feeling about it. And my horoscope today said 'You will be reunited with an old friend.' Let's see who it is."

I couldn't help but stare at the earth pony in unabashed confusion. "Chancellor, we're literally talking about taking you up to see Smart Cookie tomorrow. Isn't that—"

A voice from within the whirlwind cut me off. "The image should be coming together momentarily; I'm sorry, this was a lot more useful before it got broken." The voice was familiar to me, though it didn't quite ring a bell.

A much heavier, gruffer, and more masculine voice followed. "I didn't do this, did I?"

"No; Archmage Comet broke it when she was an apprentice around a hundred years ago. Which I guess is fine; if it weren't broken, we probably would have dragged it to Everfree and—" Through the swirling of the starry blue and mint green, we began to see a face to put to the voice: Archmage Clover the Clever, hovering in the air life-size above Chancellor Puddinghead's parlor carpet. "Ah! Hello, everypony. I'm so sorry for interrupting. I… my goodness, Morty, you're sharing dinner in high places since we last talked."

"Archmage." I folded my foreleg to give a formal bow. "The, uh, Triumvirate?" (Gale gave me an encouraging nod. "They just wanted my insight on the state of the Crystal Union, since we're all flying north tomorrow. Chancellor Puddinghead was kind enough to host us since the Commander has… justifiable objections to my house."

"Are you that bad of a decorator?" Clover joked.

Ever the straight mare, Typhoon bluntly cut to the point. "Platinum gave him Vow's house."

"Ah. Well—"

"Ty?" A second pony stepped into view (or rather, what took the form of a single stride in River Rock led to him fading into magical view in Everfree) beside Clover, and when he did, Typhoon let out a small gasp.

"Cyclone? Is that… really you?"

Cyclone showed an uncharacteristic good humor with his sister when he answered "Is it the beard?"

"Yeah, probably. Did it do something for one of your marefriends?"

Cyclone rolled his eyes. "No, but it keeps my face warm."

Clover the Clever let out a very pointed cough. "Ahem. Much as I don't want to interrupt this little family reunion, Electrum's Orb wasn't magically easy to use even when it was in one piece."

"Electrum's Orb is broken?" I asked. When Typhoon and Puddinghead glanced my way for clarification, I offered briefly "It's a crystal ball an old unicorn king made. The best one in the world. I'm assuming that's what you were saying when the spell was coming together, that Archmage Comet broke it?"

"Oh, you heard that? I thought we hadn't made the connection yet. Yes, she managed to shear about a third of it off while she was exploring whether it was possible to cast her dueling spells through a scrying focus. 'Scry and die', I believe, was the title our grand-master proposed for the theoretical thesis, had it worked."

I was the only one who laughed, so I take some hope in writing this down that you, dear reader, will also appreciate Archmage Comet's grim humor.

"Anyway," Clover continued, "I didn't just dig this old relic out of the secret vaults here in River Rock just for some fun chit-chat. Morty, do you know what became of Wintershimmer's staff?"

I nodded. "It's in my house right now; we're taking it up to the Crystal Union tomorrow, since some of the locks on Wintershimmer's vaults use it as a key."

"We need it," said Cyclone bluntly.

At that, I couldn't help but frown. "Setting aside how ominous that sounds, is this another case of Star Swirl trying to take my inheritance away from me?"

"Another?" asked Clover.

I let out a small sigh. "I suppose you have no way of knowing. Star Swirl and I have an ongoing disagreement about some of Wintershimmer's research. What do you need the staff for? I trust there's a good reason?"

Clover nodded. "It's made from the remains of Lord Krenn's son. He'd like to lay it to rest."

"Well, that's a pretty damn good reason," Gale admitted.

"It is," I agreed, grudgingly.

Cyclone spoke slowly as if I weren't his intellectual superior when he explained "Krenn offered an 'advance' of some of his magic, even though Clover hasn't yet broken the dragons' curse, if we return the bones."

(I will here remind the reader that I was not present for the earlier exchange at Hurricane's villa when Sirocco delivered Cyclone's letter.)

I took a long slow breath to remind myself this wasn't some scheme by Star Swirl (which wasn't hard for my rational brain to accept, given he'd handed me the staff only a few days before, but went down harder for my more emotional self), and then dipped my head. "Once I'm done with it in the Union, I'll get a sky carriage to fly me out to River Rock; Commander Typhoon, I assume I can borrow a couple pegasi for the trip?"

To my shock, both Typhoon and Cyclone firmly shook their heads. It was the sister of the pair who spoke first. "I can't have the Legion supporting Cyclone."

"Even to feed the innocent ponies—" Gale silenced herself when Typhoon shot her a look, and though the glance wasn't lost on me, what it implied certainly was.

"It's a tricky problem," Puddinghead agreed, looking at Gale with some insight hidden behind his eyes. "For all three of us; you've probably got it worst, Gale, since he killed your grandpa, but there's a lot of ponies my and Typhoon's age who still remember the uprising."

"How about Celestia?" I asked. When all the heads, both in distant River Rock and present in Puddinghead's home turned to me, I couldn't help but look a bit sheepish. "Look, I get it's kind of weird to ask the mare who moves the sun to play chauffeur; it's even weirder for me since she's my mentor. But we all know she'd be more than happy to help if it meant helping the ponies in River Rock."

A chorus of quiet and grudging affirmations sounded around the room, until they were cut through like… well, rather like a gigantic enchanted flaming blade the size and rough shape of a boat oar. Cyclone, the owner of the voice, said simply "That isn't a good idea."

Gale slapped a hoof on the dining table. "You're fucking joking, right? You don't trust Aunt Celestia?"

Typhoon shook her head. "I think he may have a point, Gale."

"Okay, seriously, what?" Gale's question was answered with a glance I missed at the time, where Typhoon flicked the eye beneath her scarred eyelid in my direction without turning her head. Gale's nostrils flared in frustration, and her ears fell half-back, but she didn't speak up in my defense, given both I and Puddinghead were in the room. "Fine."

"If you send Blizzard to Lubuck or Platinum's Landing, my soldiers can get Morty that far to hand the staff off," Typhoon suggested, before glancing to Puddinghead and adding "If he sends somepony else he trusts for the purpose of an escort, I'm sure we can look the other way for a day if they cross the strait."

This was, I have to admit, a clever lie for the mare whose talents normally lay in war over subterfuge; she obviously meant Tempest (or perhaps Rain), but didn't want to admit their presence in River Rock to the earth pony politician (or me) in the room.

"Yeah, that's fine. We'll keep it between us," Puddinghead agreed. "But don't push it, Cyclone. And don't send anypony famous."

"I have a few soldiers young enough not to be subject to my exile," he answered (managing not to wink at Typhoon that he'd gotten the message). "So you won't need to make an exception. But the kindness is appreciated."

"This is a bad idea," I cut into the pleasantries. "The staff isn't just some dead bones; I don't know exactly what Wintershimmer did to it, but having somepony who doesn't know their way around magic carry it puts them in considerable danger. I'm definitely not putting Blizzard in that kind of a situation. It really is best if I bring it to River Rock myself. If you seriously don't trust Celestia for whatever stupid reason—and I want to emphasize the word 'stupid' there, Cyclone, given you're asking us to trust you over her—then we can meet in Lubuck or wherever and I can swap carriages."

Clover chuckled. "I'm going to save us all a bit of trouble, I think. Morty, do you trust me to handle the staff?"

I couldn't help but raise my brow at the question. "You certainly have the talent. But I would think you have better things to do than to come all this way."

Clover shook her head. "Quite the opposite. I need to consult with Master Star Swirl on some of my research for breaking the dragons' curse anyway; honestly, I've just been putting off coming back to Everfree because it's such a long trip, I didn't want to make it for something small."

"Well," said Puddinghead with a smile. "Now that Cookie is back on his hooves, we can call it a trip to Re-Union City!"

"Smart Cookie is better? That's fantastic news! Did Wintershimmer finally… ah."

"Please don't start him on this," muttered Gale.

I ignored her. "He was technically dead," I explained briefly. "Wintershimmer snuck his soul past Celestia and Luna—into the Summer Lands at least, rather than Tartarus—as a way to test his ability to possess multiple bodies at range via… reverse-seance, I guess you'd call it? Rather unfortunate means of testing, but I'm only just beginning to scratch at all the applications. But, uh, in the immediate term I was able to heal Cookie. Obviously, he's been in a coma for twenty years so he's probably still going to be building up his strength for the next couple of years, but since he's an earth pony, he should make a full recovery and still have plenty of life ahead of him."

"I would love to hear more, but again, tiring spell," Clover offered with a smile, gently cutting me off at an elegant point in my explanation. "I'll plan on having some of Cyclone's forces give me a ride to Union City; I assume like with the other plan, that won't be a problem no matter who winds up in the harnesses?"

Typhoon offered a firm nod. "Technically we can't enforce the exile in Crystal territory anyway."

"Hmm," said Cyclone (more a grunt than a pensive utterance), but when he earned a harsh glance from Puddinghead, he waved his good wing to diffuse the situation. "I'm only thinking about making trade and acquiring food less painful for the ponies in my care, not causing a scene myself, Chancellor."

"Good," said Puddinghead with unusual harshness, before jumping into a jovial tone. "Then I'll arrange for Hurricane and Pan Sea and Platty to join us!"

"Just be careful, Clover," warned Gale. "You're not exactly in Dad's good graces."

"Oh? Why not, Your Majesty? My congratulations, by the way."

"Thanks," Gale muttered half-heartedly. "He hates the play. A lot."

"Well, thank you for the warning," said Clover. "When should I plan to arrive?"

"Queen Jade is hosting us for a week starting tomorrow," said Typhoon. "So leave as soon as you can today, and we'll expect you in a couple of days by air."

"Sounds like a plan," said Clover. "We can all talk more there."

"One more thing before you let go," said Cyclone urgently. "Typhoon, tell Father: 'plural'."

"Plural?" Typhoon frowned, and then something like horror flashed over her eyes. Gale let out a quiet gasp. "You… what does that change?"

"For you—all of you—nothing. I might be a blunt hoof at politics, but I know I'm toxic to all three of you. Don't concern yourselves. For me, it changes the urgency of food, but 'Morty' has already given me your generosity by providing the staff Lord Krenn is asking for. That will be enough; I'll make do." With a sigh, he added "It's good to see your face again after all these years, Typhoon."

"Bye, Cy," Typhoon answered, almost wistfully.

Clover chose that moment to close the scrying spell.

"Well, that was some fucking useful magic. Can you do that, Morty?"

"Not without Electrum's Orb," I answered, before indulging a bite of a potato skin filled with molten cheese and butter. "Ah, these are fantastic. Um, can I just rip the bandage off here: plural what, exactly?"

"You trust me, right Morty?" asked Gale. I, unsurprisingly, nodded. "Dad feels bad for Cy because River Rock is starving, so he's calling in some favors to get food for them in the short term."

"Gale!" Typhoon hissed.

Gale rolled her eyes. "Come on, Ty; it's not like Puddinghead and Morty weren't going to ask questions. If I just said 'it's a family thing', Puddinghead especially would fucking have to look into it, because that sounds shady as hell and he'd be right to worry we were going behind his back. I trust Morty, and I know Puddinghead's a good enough stallion that if we're honest, he won't cause problems for us—especially if he's willing to make an exception in the exile to help get food over anyway."

Then she looked between the earth pony chancellor and I, and took a sip of her whisky before continuing. "Cyclone asked for our help with a quiet message a while ago, and we agreed that Ty and I couldn't do anything, but since Dad's retired he decided to try and help as best he could off-the-books. So our understanding, that I trust you two will follow, is that we didn't hear anything, and if something does go wrong Dad has to take care of himself."

"Oh no," I couldn't help but sarcastically remark. "Commander Hurricane has to take care of himself."

"Exactly," Gale agreed. "So what Cyclone and Ty are talking about with the most unsubtle fucking codeword ever is that River Rock needs that food a little more urgently than Dad thought. So Puddinghead, all I'm going to ask is, if you or anypony you're dealing with runs into Dad acting a little weird, do him a favor and look the other way."

Puddinghead nodded. "Of course, Gale. Thanks for being open with us. Nice not to have to play spies all the time; your Mom liked that game too much, in my opinion."

From there, our dinner progressed on mostly as it would have without the interruption.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

"Where in Helheim have you been?!" Aela snapped as one of the doors off the short hallway finally swung open, revealing a very nervous looking apothecary. "I sent Tsume for you two hours ago!"

"Iron Rain is here," the old griffon hissed, before glancing over his shoulder with fear that bordered on paranoia, and then violently pulling the door shut behind him.

Though most of the griffons had taken up residence in the cells of Burning Hearth (albeit with the doors unlocked to allow them comfort and the ability to mingle), Aela's quarters were made in one of the guard rooms, serving to give her 'council' some privacy. At that moment, beside herself and the apothecary the only such trusted griffon was Tapfer, who sat with his broken-off beak held silent if not ever truly 'shut'.

"I know," Aela answered. "I had the pleasure of talking with the mare. She seemed quite happy when Artorius gave her back her family's shield. She even agreed to teach him some magic. Why?"

Here, the apothecary nervously adjusted his glasses. "Iron Rain will recognize me."

"Oh," whispered Tapfer, and the concern in the syllable spoke wonders.

Aela frowned. "You crossed paths with her in the war? Hopefully she has forgotten you over forty-some-odd years."

The Apothecary shook his head. "I don't think you understand, my lady. I was at Altus. Magnus had given my talents to Yngvilde."

"You didn't…" Aela whispered.

The old tercel shook his head. "I am afraid I did." Fully removing his spectacles, the griffon continued "Though I doubt she sees it this way, I am the reason she found the magic that she needed to kill Yngvilde. She and… Pfadfinder. My masterpiece. I cannot describe how happy I am that Frau Rain is still alive, but I am afraid that my past is now putting us all in danger."

Aela nodded. "Then we shall keep you quiet."

"Will that be enough?" the apothecary himself asked. "If you need me to leave… I have lived a very long life already, Aela."

The leader of the griffons shook her bald white head. "You are the only apothecary we have. And I doubt there are any ponies left who know medicine for our kind, let alone who would be willing to perform it if they did. So I'll tell you the same thing I tell Artorius when he gets it in his head to do something suicidal: a sacrifice is only noble if the only life you're sacrificing is your own. I trust that, unlike with Artorius, I won't have to repeat myself with you?"

"Surely not," the apothecary answered. "You make a compelling point."

"Good. Until I tell you otherwise, you're confined to quarters here. Your apprentice will convey requests for medicine to the ponies from now on."

"I… I thought you had heard; Þögn did not survive the flight from Dioda."

Guilt flashed over Aela's face, and her beak opened for a moment only to click shut with some force. Finally, finding some words, she said "I am so sorry. I thought I had tallied the lost when we were welcomed in."

"Ah, no; it was more recent. The exhaustion and the cold made her sick; many of us are still ill from those deadly hunters. She was recovering until the rebel ponies forced us to flee to the stone fortress. She died two days ago."

Aela dipped her head. "At least perhaps now that Cyclone Haysar is back, we will have peace."

"I would not count on it," answered the apothecary. "We may have blankets and some straw but we are still confined to a dungeon with bad air and cold stones. And there is very little medicine can do to make up for empty bellies."

"You can't be suggesting we leave again? Or fight Cyclone?"

"That is an answer for our leader, and not an old doctor, to give. I only want to make sure you understand: we are not yet safe just because we are out of the storm."

Interlude XI - Aftermath of a Brawl

Interlude XI

In the Aftermath of A Brawl

Verko's was a genuine cantina; the real deal. You could tell a couple of ways. Instead of being ironic, the band on the cramped stage against the far wall was actually that bad. There were no menus, nor signs above the bar. No one—not nopony, for the place rarely saw ponies for patrons—ordered drinks with clever puns for names, and you could count yourself a good friend of the reptilian bartender if you could convince her to make you a drink with two whole ingredients. Instead, you read your poison of choice off the wall behind her: names like 'Glorm' and 'Kapzacin' and 'Nic-o-nyde', which were technically transliterateable into phonetic Equiish only in the same sense that, in the course of falling from a balcony to your impending death over one of Canterlot's cliffs, you would be eligible to receive a speeding ticket. And if you couldn't read the labels on the bottles in Suidan or Saddle Arabian or Cephalid, you probably weren't wanted in Verko's at all.

Sunset Shimmer wasn't quite ready for the fish creatures, lizardfolk, and other odd species of Klugetown—almost all of whom were more dangerous than the average unicorn—to wince and shrink back at her silhouette in the doorway. With a violent twang the band cut off their music abruptly. The bartender reached beneath the bar and produced a blade that could be described as a rusty khopesh, though I suspect it had once been straight-bladed, or at least less curved. All was silent.

"Is this because of you?" Sunset whispered to her only companion in that moment, Tempest Shadow.

Tempest shook her head. "I don't have this kind of a reputation. Especially not now that the Storm King is gone."

From across the bar, a voice finally spoke up in harsh, unfamiliar Equiish. "We donut serve ponies here. Getaway!"

"Well, that's a little racist," Sunset observed mostly to herself.

Tempest took the job of actually answering the address from the bartender. "We heard you were already serving a pony. We're here to see him, not to start trouble."

"Ponies is trouble. You kind broke three tables. Not serve anymore."

"I never got the sense Caballeron was the kind to start a fight like that," Sunset observed to her companion, before telling the bartender "We'll pay for whatever damages Dr. Caballeron caused. We're looking for him too; we just want to ask some questions and we'll be on our way."

"Not 'him'," the bartender answered. "But you pay, I will let you talk whoever you want. Just don't cause trouble."

"Not him?" Sunset asked. "You mean a mare broke your tables?"

The bartender violently held up two scaled fingers. "Two, uh, 'mare'. You pay up, I will tell more."

Every eye in the room followed Sunset and Tempest up to the bar, where Sunset withdrew a small back of golden bits from her pocket dimension and tossed a few on the table.

"Pony money," the bartender said derisively, but after biting into a bit to make sure it was at least mostly real gold, she swept it into her palm nonetheless. "Last night, there was a wing-pony, with black band in her hair. And big one. I thought it was a 'him' at first. No wing, no horn."

"An earth pony and a pegasus with a hairband, huh?" Sunset scratched her chin, and then glanced to Tempest, who shrugged. "Okay. Do you remember what they wanted?"

"They whisper," the bartender answered. "I… my rule is not listen."

"You made us pay for that?" Tempest accompanied the question by slamming a hoof on the bar.

The bartender raised a hairless brow, unimpressed. "You ask." Then, reaching out and gently shooing the offending hoof off the bar as if sweeping away dust or dirt, she continued "Whispers not go well. Big mare grab him pony, break his shoulder. Then fight start. End… quickly."

"The mares died?"

The bartender chuckled at the idea. "They not dead. Other pony hires: some dead.""

"The ponies killed Caballeron's workers?" Sunset seemed far more shocked by this idea than Tempest.

"Only big one," the bartender explained. "Him pony shout for help. Big pony pick up table they sitting at, break it over leopard's neck."

Tempest glanced around the room, and then her brow raised. "I find that a little hard to believe."

"How so?" Sunset asked, trying to follow her fellow mare's gaze. Around the room were dozens of ratty wooden tables, though most of the seats were in little booths carved in arches out of the sandstone walls of the room, with benches and tables likewise carved from the room's walls themselves. After a short moment more of parsing, reality struck Sunset: one of the booths was missing its stone table completely.

"How much do you think that weighs? Can you even pick a table like that up with your horn?" Tempest asked.

Sunset just shrugged.

In her head, from the amulet around her neck, a voice rather like mine suggested "I'd eyeball two or three hundred pounds. You could probably lift it. Swing it around, though; that's a whole different question."

The bartender shook her scaled head in the silence. "Well, you see damage. Believe or not, not matter to me. There big dust cloud. I not see much, except wing pony fly back, chased by griffon and gazelle. Wing pony throw bottle, both fall asleep after cough in big cloud. Then big pony tackle through table by saha… uh, shark person. He bite her leg, but she break him arm, then ribs, then use teeth to bite other guard head—Tybalt, a tall cat. When he keep fighting, she stomp on shark skull, and bit off other guard head with it."

"Damn…" Tempest muttered.

"He-pony try to escape; they chase. I not think he get away, even if not broke leg. Big pony very fast."

"And I'm guessing you didn't ask where they went?"

The bartender shrugged.

Tempest frowned. "Well, ponies are rare enough in Klugetown, somepony will have seen where they walked. But it won't be a fast way to find a trail."

"I can think of a better way."

Sunset couldn't help but frown at Mentor's voice, but before answering it, she said "Thanks for the information," to the bartender, and then stepped over into the awkwardly table-less booth Caballeron's crew had apparently left behind. Then, at last, she made a show of lifting the Mentor Medallion in her telekinesis, if only to give Tempest the courtesy of knowing who she was talking to. "So, what's your idea?"

Mentor answered with a heavy, tired sigh. "Do you really need me to hold your hoof on this? You have a name and, if you believe the Tilian through that awful excuse for Equiish, you also have a severed head."

"What? How is that… you mean seance Caballeron's guard? I don't know how to seance a tiger or whatever."

"The bartender might mean an Abyssian. There's a few around here in Klugetown," Tempest noted, following along with her half of the conversation. "If that helps," she muttered a moment later.

"Ah; alright, that's fair if this is an 'I don't know how to do that' and not an 'I didn't think of the obvious solution'. For your amusement, sapient cats and sapient birds' souls go to Magnus for judgement, so there is the risk you need to seance into Valhalla. And if that's the answer, we're up a creek, because that's fancier magic than I got to hold onto when I got split off from the rest of Morty. However, since this pony was a two-bit crook working for a crooked archeologist, and he apparently went out like a mook, I wouldn't rate his odds great of having 'lived a life of honor'. And for a second fun fact: Griffon, one-'l' Hel is the same place as Tartarus."

"Ah," said Sunset, and then lit up her horn. "Okay, so we're looking for Tybalt in Tartarus."

"Wait, wait! Is this your first seance to Tartarus?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Get something to lift your spirits when you're done. I usually suggest chocolate, but given the circumstances… What's your preferred libation?"

"I can't drink! I'm not old enough!"

"Really, you look like you're at least past twenty five."

"Aren't you secretly like forty-something?"

"Oh, um… hehe…" Sunset, horn still glowing, chuckled and scratched at the back of her neck. "Sorry, used to the other side of the mirror. Um, Tempest, can you get me a drink while I cast this spell? Something not that strong, and sweeter if you can."

Tempest skeptically glanced toward the bar. "I'll try, but if you're imagining a paper umbrella, I wouldn't get your hopes up."

As Tempest stepped away from the booth, Sunset reached back to the back of her neck and found the cord of her soul, before plunging her magic into the 'blood sea' that was the living perception of the Between. Using my preferred method of seance, it was only a matter of summoning up a sufficiently unpleasant memory to then plunge her magic into the distinct unpleasantness of Tartarus—and out of respect for my fellow student of Celestia, I won't record her memory of choice here.

"Tybalt," she muttered to herself. "Tybalt, Tybalt, Ty—"

"What in the—wait, am I alive?! Hah! Hahah! I made it out! Yes, yes, I—!" Sunset opened her eyes just in time to see the spectral form of the bipedal cat observe his translucent forepaws and for his expression to collapse. "Ah, fuck." Then, a moment after following the faint arcane glow connecting his ethereal form to Sunset's horn, he added "And another pony. Fuck."

"Nice to meet you too," Sunset replied, coming across more than a touch sarcastically thanks to what I have in the years since my youth come to call a 'Tartaran hangover'. "I'm not with the ponies who killed you. In fact, we're trying to find them so we can stop them, probably. Or at least talk to your old boss, Dr. Caballeron. Can you help us?"

"If I do, what are you gonna do for me?"

"I… well, actually, I dunno. What do you want? You have some family we can help, or something, or—"

"You think I was working out of a bar for some pony digging in the dust because I had a family I cared about, cabrón?"

"Doesn't that mean a male goat?"

"He's cursing at you."

Mentor's clarification proved useful if only because the soul of the dead cat scornfully shook his head. "I want out of hell; you have freaky horn magic. You hook me up, I tell you what you want to know."

"I don't know if I can actually do that." Sunset glanced down at Mentor. "Can I?"

"Even if I knew how, I wouldn't. Going behind Celestia's back is one thing; going behind Magnus' would be an international incident. Look, still alive ponies' lives are at stake, and he's already in Tartarus anyway, right? Just override his free will for a couple seconds, get your answer, and let's get going before we lose what stale lead we have."

"I'm not going to steal his free will! First murder, now slavery; what kind of a hero are you supposed to be?!"

"It's not slavery, it's at worst being the bad guard in a good-guard bad-guard routine!" Mentor sighed heavily enough that Sunset swore she could hear his non-existent nostrils flare.

"Who are you talking to, crazy pony? Where is that voice coming from?"

"Oh, you can hear me? That's fun."

Sunset's frustration built to an audible groan. "Mentor, can I offer to disperse him? That was one of your compromises with Solemn Vow, right?"

"Hmm? Oh, you want to know how to disperse a soul? That's super easy; just blast an unwinding surge into him like you're dispelling an enchantment by brute force. The more entropy, the better."

"You're going to kill me? Can I even die again?" Taking a step back (his legs merging into the bench seat opposite Sunset), the dead cat waved his forelimbs frantically. "Hold on, let's talk about this."

Sunset nodded. "Sorry; didn't mean to scare you. I can't bring you back to life, and I can't get you into a better afterlife. But instead of whatever you were going through in Tartarus, I can disperse your soul—just give you total nothingness. No feeling, no pain."

"Well, it'll hurt for a second or two, if we're being honest."

"Not helping," Sunset grumbled, before addressing Tybalt. "Do we have a deal?"

"Um… if I say no, how long does that last? Hell? And what comes after it?"

Sunset shrugged and looked down at her neck. Mentor took the cue. "Well, assuming nothing decides you look tasty, your soul slowly erodes from whatever particular environment you were experiencing in your particular circle of Tartarus. The flensing winds or the fire or whatever chip away at you until the little fragments of who you once were are fine enough to and unburdened enough to merge back into the sort of 'sea' of soul-stuff that makes up the universe on a magical level. Really, Tartarus is just a big, painful sieve. But you have probably even odds that some spirit or 'demon' or whatever you wanna call it decides partway through the process that what's left of your soul is better spent being added to its magical power and 'body'. Then what's left of you becomes, I dunno, Tirek's left nipple or something. But either way, 'you' stop existing eventually and become part of something bigger. Sunset's just offering to skip you past the slow painful part and get you to the ultimate end faster."

Tybalt stared down at Sunset's neck, but apparently didn't put together that the Mentor Medallion could be speaking to him without a mouth. "I'm gonna ask again, who's the other voice I'm hearing?"

"He's just… a friend."

"I'm gonna call bullshit on that, Miss Pony. Maybe Mr Ghost wants to speak for himself?" The irony of the speaker was lost on none save Tybalt himself, but Mentor humored him nonetheless.

"I met him in a field of grain,
And oer the gilded stalks,
I watched the sun glint off his scythe
That fated equinox.

"His face was pallid like a skull,
He wore a cloak of black,
And grim was his demeanor
With the world upon his back."

"Your name is a poem?"

Mentor sighed. "Illiterates. I'm a magic necklace, but I used to moonlight as Death. You don't want me to explain more. It would be… bad for you."

Tybalt blanched—as much as he could, given being colored mostly by Sunset's magic. "Understood. Alright, um, I'll take your deal." He drew a (as usual, unnecessary) breath, and then proceeded. "We were digging up a weird pony tomb in the canyons out west of town; have been for the past couple months. The other ponies apparently thought there was some kind of bell in it, and they wanted it. The boss either didn't know about a bell, or he didn't want to let on that he knew. I never saw anything but stone and paintings on the walls, but he's the one who figured out the tomb would be there in the first place, and he's pretty tight-lipped about that sort of thing. When he told them to get lost, the small one—the pegasus—claimed she was some kind of Equestrian spy or something… which, I mean, I didn't believe her because a real spy wouldn't just admit that, right? But the boss had a different problem; he said if she really was working for your big princess, she wouldn't be with other mare."

"He knew her? The earth pony mare?"

"It didn't seem like they knew each other personally," Tybalt answered. "More like by reputation. I never got a name, but the boss did say 'Celestia doesn't know me by name'. So whoever she is, it sounds like she's got enemies in high places."

"Anything else you can tell us about them?" Mentor asked. "Identifying features? Equipment? They wouldn't happen to have smelled like living corpses?"

"Hah, no. Actually, I'd bet twenty chips the pegasus uses whisper salt, if the scratch in her voice was anything to go by. She was sort of blue, and she wore a vest with a hell of a lot of pockets. The big one was pretty boring looking, beyond just being big. She was kinda off-white. Oh, she was missing the tip of one of her ears."

"Ring any bells? Any fun headlines springing to mind?"

"I haven't exactly been around Canterlot much recently, Mentor," Sunset answered. "Thanks, Tybalt; last question: how do we get to the dig site?"

"Ah; that's easy. If you go up to Chasm Street, and then start going down the scaffolding—"

"What's Chasm Street?" Sunset asked.

The abyssian ghost rolled his feline eyes. "Klugetown isn't the kind of place to have a creative city council to name streets after famous people. You can't miss Chasm Street, on account of it drops into a chasm. So like I was saying, you go down the scaffolding to the bottom of the canyon, and then you just hug the right wall whenever it forks. The place will be on the left, on the 'inside' of the canyon, but it's got a big carved stone doors. Super obvious. It was a pain in the ass to open, though."

"Maybe some doors shouldn't be opened…" Mentor noted cryptically, though he couldn't keep a straight 'face' after the comment for long before letting out a muffled chuckle. "Any lethal booby traps or cryptic warnings etched on the doors we ought to be worried about?"

"You're joking, right?" Sunset asked.

"You literally got me off of Daring Do's neck, Sunset."

"Oh, you stole the amulet from the 'Daring' bitch? Shoulda said so upfront; I'd have trusted you way faster." Tybalt chuckled, but then shook his head. "But no, if there's anything like that, we haven't gotten far enough in to find it. The boss is real slow with these excavations. Despite what Daring says, he is a real archaeologist." After a deep breath, Tybalt concluded. "So… I guess that's the end of me, then?"

"If that's still what you want," Sunset answered with a nod. "Um… Right, you said you didn't have any family or anything, so you wouldn't have a message. I guess… goodbye?"

"She's new to the psychopomp thing."

"She's a mental case?"

"What? No; a 'psychopomp' is a being who guides souls to their final resting places. I just meant she doesn't have a very good graveside manner yet. We're working on it. Go ahead and close your eyes; in theory this will sting for a moment, but then it'll all be over. Sunset, in your own time."

"Right… just gotta disperse an immortal soul. Forever."

"Do you want me to drive?"

"No! I—" Sunset hesitated even in her words, and heavily swallowed back the rest of the thought before speaking much more slowly and calmly. "I can do this."

"Good. You're doing a good thing, Sunset. You—" Mentor was cut off there not by another speaker, but by Sunset very abruptly following the directions she'd been given. In a rather sudden display of sparks, Tybalt ceased to be. "Well done."

"Still feels… weird."

A warm hoof on Sunset's shoulder made her jump, but she looked up into a gentle smile from Tempest Shadow. "Here's your drink. I don't promise it's good, but it should go down easy."

"Thanks," said Sunset, and drank from the offered mug like it was water. Her whole body shivered at the alcohol, and she struggled to swallow it, but the offering went down. "So we need to—"

"I heard," Tempest said. "Doesn't take that long to order a drink. I'm guessing on what the necklace had to say, but since the Abyssian did most of the talking, it wasn't hard to follow. Are you good to head out?"

Sunset nodded. "Sure, I'm… I'm fine. Let's go."

As they left the cantina, Tempests noted "I hope Stalliongrad and Somna-whatever are having as much luck as we are."

"With how long it took us to find this place, they might already be done."

"Ugh; look, I already said I'm sorry, okay? I never actually spent enough time here to learn all the streets." Tempest let out a groan as Sunset chuckled to herself. "You're not going to let me live this down, are you? It was like a five minute detour!"

Interlude XII - An Ugly Smug

Interlude XII

An Ugly Smug

As it so happened, Red Ink and Somnambula had a dramatically more direct investigation into the mysterious hippogryph crime lord they had been tasked to find than Sunset and Tempest had for their respective pursuit. After a brief stop to talk to an Abyssian informant named 'Capper Dapperpaws' (an acquaintance of Tempest's from a prior misadventure), the duo were pointed toward a tall rectangular windmill barely scraping a head of clearance above the other tall, flat-surfaced rectangular wooden shanty-skyscrapers that made up the dusty city of Klugetown.

The building was, as strange as this sounds for the cut-throat capitalism of the crime-ridden backwater, a public utility: the mill's main shaft both pulled up buckets of fresh water from a subterranean aquifer (albeit on rusty, oft-jamming chains), and also gave power to two heavy millstones. One the locals fed with dry yams, producing a sort of orange-grey (or sometimes purple-grey) yam meal that was then combined with water to produce a kind of porridge reminiscent of the poi favored by the denizens of the islands Equestria knows as the Siren Archipelago. The other served a similar function for bones—both those of creatures whose meat was eaten by Klugetowns carnivorous denizens, but also mined from gigantic skeletons of megafauna left jutting out of the sandy rocks of the Bone-Dry Desert (a cartographic crime which ought to have come with a prison sentence). The bone produced a surprisingly savoury bread (albeit one which perhaps pushes up against the threshold of carnivory…), but was also the basis for Klugetown's cement industry.

As amusing as that long diatribe might be purely for an understanding of life in Klugetown, I record it for a more practical purpose.

It took Capper relatively little effort to get in touch with a particularly orb-shaped member of the hippogryph's gang, and from there to arrange a meeting. Thus, in the early evening hours, as the sun had begun to cast a wide orange stripe on the horizon, half our heroes in Somnambula and Ink went to the uppermost floor of the aforementioned mill (where the shaft from the blades of the windmill shot in horizontally before reorienting its torque by means of a pair of orthogonally mounted massive rusty iron gears).

Ink and Somnambula chose to fly up the outside of the building and enter via the same hole that allowed that driveshaft to pass (the gap being wide enough for them to pass quite comfortably, albeit only one at a time). When they did, they found a cluster of six of Klugetown's denizens waiting for them in the not-quite-dark shadows, surrounded by huge barrels of grease and oil and crates of spare gears and beams to maintain the structure. Only one of the figures was a hippogryph, and he smiled around his beak as he stepped forward. Not a friendly smile, but not a predatory smile either; his was the smile of someone who wanted very badly to sell you a used wagon at a competitive price point—a comparison made only the more obvious as he stepped forward into a ray of sunlight slipping into the shadowy room by a dark window, sat down on his flanks, and clasped his own talons together as if he were manipulating something particularly slippery.

"Ah, Mr. Krovyuh!" Ink slightly winced at the butchery of his birth name, and the hippogryph obviously noticed, rushing into his next thought. "I admit, your associate doesn't come with quite the same reputation, but nevertheless, miss, welcome to Klugetown. Welcome, both of you. Please, uh, I know the windmill isn't the most comfortable but do make yourselves at home as much as you like. And please, please, hear me out before you get too involved in asking questions the, uh, Stalliongradi way. I promise, I'm more than willing to tell you whatever you need to know, and then get out of your way. Yam wine?"

I should stress the… colt? Tercel? I've never really known with hippogryphs; we'll go with 'tercel' since in this story, the crook's face was far more important than what lay between his legs. Trying that sentence again, I should stress that the tercel barely paused for so much as the span of a blink in between those words. And while birds don't sweat, the creases in his forced brow made it painfully obvious that behind his forced happiness act, he was terrified out of his mind.

Ink raised a brow. "Yams are like potatoes, right? Wouldn't they make a vodka or something?"

"Uh, I… well—Yes, I suppose that would be true. It's interesting, actually, the history; but, let's be honest, that's not why you're here. Should I cut to the chase?"

Somnambula fully cocked her head. "You know why we're here, Mister…"

"Oh, I'm so sorry." Grinning even wider, the hippogryph lifted his left talon to offer it for a shake, only to pull his eyes off of Somnambula, meet Ink's gaze, visibly shudder, and recoil back. "Um, perhaps best not. But, uh, my name's Flin."

"Nice to meet you, Flin. I'm Somnambula. And you seem to already know Mr. Ink, or at least you've heard of him."

"Ink?" Flin swallowed. "Is, um, is that what you go by when you're speaking Equiish? I would have guessed the Demon of Stalliongrad wouldn't have to change his name for anypony—"

Ink scoffed. "Ah. You've heard those stories." Then, with a shake of his head, he explained "I go by 'Red Ink' because I got tired of hearing everypony butcher my real name." The emphasis on the word 'butcher' made Flin recoil and shrink from the much smaller stallion (Flin, being a roughly average hippogryph, would have been bigger than even an average pony stallion, let alone one as slight as Ink). "And no, we're not here for Tempest Shadow. She came here with us."

"Tempest… the Storm King's captain?" Flin frowned in confusion. "Wait, are you not here for Soldier On?"

There was, Somnambula would later tell me, suddenly less water in the air, and though Red Ink did not burst into literal flames, the effect on the temperature was much the same. Somnambula's lips cracked and bled. The yam wine Flin had offered quickly found its way down Flin's throat, only for the flask to be discarded in favor of a hastily retrieved canteen.

Were it not for the very observable change in the local weather, Ink would have seemed to a viewer not to have changed in mood at all. Amusingly, for all his proclivity toward wincing at poor pronunciation or minor slights, in that much deeper moment his expression did not so much as shudder. Calmly, but with bladed intensity, he asked "She's here?"

Flin's throat bobbed. "I swear, she's not with me. I… um… that is, I figured because we have the little gang, when I heard you wanted to talk, I… well, I figured you'd assumed I would be working with her—but I swear, I swear, we don't get involved in that kind of thing. I just heard word on the street she was here. And—look, we know our way around Klugetown; we can help you find her, so you know you can believe me, right?"

Somnambula leaned over toward Ink, though she didn't particularly lower her voice. "You were warning me this was going to be dangerous? They're shaking like little kids."

"Gang scum learn fast when they're out of their depth, or they don't live long," Ink answered, not even pretending to lower his voice, though it seemed less like he was actively making a point to insult Flin and his shadowed colleagues, and more like his mind was elsewhere. Forcing a heavy breath, he continued "Let's finish here quickly and get Sunset and Tempest back to the ship."

"I can fly and warn them," Somnambula offered. "Or help them, if there's a fight."

Ink shook his head. "If we meet Stoikaja, you and Sunset need to get away as fast as possible. Tempest carries herself well enough she might not be dead weight if it comes to that." After a moment of silence following that thought, the red stallion noted "Don't tell her I said that."

Somnambula chuckled, though there was a worry to the humor. "What's so scary about this 'Stoy-kuh-jah' Soldier On mare, anyway? I know you said she killed your brother, so I get why you wouldn't like her."

"You haven't heard of her?" Flin asked, and then as Somnambula watched, he nervously glanced to Ink again, as if looking for some permission to continue the thought. Ink said nothing, but the slightest shrug of a shoulder would prove enough permission for the tercel to continue. "She almost killed your princess—the new one, uh… it's Luna, right?"

Ink rolled his eyes. "She's been back for years. Yes, it's Luna."

A little resistance, notable only in that it surprised Somnambula, appeared in Flin's voice when he answered "She's not my Princess," before turning back to the other guest. "Rumor is she's the most wanted mare in the world. Your friend, Mr. Ink, has had a price on her head for as long as I've been alive. And… well… after what happened to Luna, Celestia blew that out of the water." In a conspiratorial stage whisper with talons to his beak, he explained "One hundred million bits. And that's just for information if it leads to catching her. I've heard a joke that if you actually brought her back to Canterlot, Celestia would give you the whole mountain."

Ink sighed. "We're not here for Stoikaja. We're here for your tattoo."

"I… wait, what?" Flin briefly glanced to his own flank, and then turned to sit with his right side slightly further away from the outsiders. "What are you talking about?"

"Flin," said Somnambula, "we know you have a magic tattoo that makes you more cunning. You might not know this, but it has part of the soul of a very old pony in it, and we're trying to put him back together. So, please, can we do this nicely? We can pay you, if that helps."

Something about Flin changed before Ink and Somnambula's eyes. Or, to be more accurate, an enormous number of small things changed. Little aspects of his posture corrected themselves, his shoulders rolling forward, his back straightening, his hands stopping that pathetic wringing. His smile fell into something dramatically less insincere and frighteningly more confident.

Most noticeable, though, was the seven pointed star that literally slid under his skin until it came to rest framing his left eye.

"Well… if that's what brings you here, perhaps we should talk with all our cards on the table." Flin looked around the room at the other assembled figures. Ink tensed, ready for an attack, but none came. Instead, the hippogryph said "All of you, go."

"What? We're not leaving you!" said a reptilian thug in the corner.

A fishlike gruff voice followed. "Yeah, Flin. Ravine Street won't leave you. We—"

"I'll be fine," Flin interrupted. "One way or another. But I can't watch out for you all."

The confidence in those words was enough to get the desired reaction. One by one, the other members of Flin's group left him alone with Red Ink and Somnmabula in the maintenance room at the top of the windmill.

"I don't want a fight," said Ink.

Flin chuckled. "Well, that's good. Door's behind you then. Good talk."

Somnambula sighed. "This is really important, Flin. He's my friend. And Princess Celestia's."

"Even if I believe all that," said Flin. "Which I don't, because your prissy pony princess would never stoop to using a blunt tool like 'Mr. Ink' directly—even then, I wouldn't give this up."

Ink was, perhaps, a bit dumbstruck, and his ensuing blunt threat came off less intimidating and more curious. "Look, you are not too stupid to get this. We are getting this tattoo. If 'no deal' were option, I would not be here. If you don't take us buying it, I don't mind beating your scrawny hollow bones, and I would expect taking that chance from somepony who thinks I am just some short buff pony. But you know who I am… you think you are, how do you say, flame-retardant? Is your shampoo asbestos-scented, maybe?"

"Huh, your accent gets worse when you're confused. I wouldn't have guessed." Flin glanced idly around the room. "I'm not too worried about fire. See, this room's absolutely slathered in old grease and oil."

A single dark red brow rose on Ink's face. "Okay, I know Equiish is stupid language. I will explain. 'Flammable' and 'inflammable' mean same thing. Grease and oil make it worse, not better." When Flin made a show of rubbing his temple with a feather, Ink frowned. "Oh, not that? Then… You do understand that my own fire doesn't hurt me?"

"No. But it'll sweep down the windmill. To the rooms where decades of flour and bonemeal powder have been ground into the floorboards, and there's even more in bags against the walls. And around all that flour, there's people. A very specific category of people, in fact: civilians. In case you aren't familiar with that word between all your foal murdering—" (Somnambula assumed that was an idle jab until she saw Ink wince) "—and burning down random apartment buildings in Baltimare, a 'civilian' is somepony who doesn't fight. And in addition to being civilians, there's something these people aren't, Mr. 'Ink':" (the name was accompanied by sarcastic feather-quotes from Flin). "Namely, these people aren't Equestrians. And while Klugetown is sort of political 'nowhere', I'm sure Equestria's old friends like Queen Chrysalis and the Prince of Saddle Arabia, and the Council of Eels, not to mention my own beloved Queen Novo, would have some strong words for the mare you say 'sent you'." With a grin, Flin continued "Words like Cassus Belli and Coalition and Extradition."

"I liked it better when you were afraid of me," Ink muttered, making a show of rolling his neck and getting more than a few satisfying pops out of the motion. "Alright. So instead of money or a favor, you want me to beat the tar out of you the slow, low temperature way?"

"No, I'll be completely honest, that long-winded bit was mostly just me buying time."

"Okay, now he really sounds like Morty," Somnambula whispered.

Flin continued "Even if you beat me to a pulp and torture me, you won't get the tattoo. And I can't trade it for money, even if I wanted to. It only moves if the owner actually dies, or if you can prove you're more cunning than me, even with it. Good luck on that, muscles."

"Ah, yes, notoriously physically fit ponies are stupid, not keeping care of minds as well as bodies." Ink shook his head. "But you're the one slowly eliminating every possibility except me killing you. And if you think I can't kill you with my bare hooves, well… I killed a dragon once. You won't stack up."

"There won't be a fight," Flin answered. "What I was buying time for was for my friends, who you so kindly let leave without any kind of fight, to get in position around the windmill. With matches and jars of pitch. If I don't fly out of here first, unharmed and unfollowed, then as far as history will remember, you'll be the one who committed an unprovoked war crime off of Equestrian soil. I doubt it'd even be much of a stretch, if even half of what I heard about Baltimare is true."

"Ah. Well…" Ink glanced to Somnambula. "Forgive my mother tongue, but that's чертовски дно."

"What happened in Baltimare?"

"I burnt down an apartment building," Ink answered. "Trying to save Princess Luna when she got poisoned. And trying to catch Stoikaja. Long story, but that's the short. You got any ideas?"

Somnambula nodded. "Um… Morty, are you in that tattoo? It's me, Somnambula! I know it's been a long time, and that might sound completely crazy if you haven't heard, but Star Swirl and all of us are back out of Limbo, and—"

"Miss, I'm gonna cut you off right there," said Flin. "It's a tattoo. It's not alive."

"There's no mysteriously… asshole-ish voice in your head?" Ink asked. "Possibly telling you to use magic to kill us?"

Flin cocked his birdlike head. "I thought the dead guy was her friend…"

"Yeah, he is," said Ink. "But he's got a hero complex." And then, slowly, a glimmer of joy sparkled in the guardspony history teacher's eye, and he slowly lowered his wings from his sides until they touched the floorboards at the top of the windmill.

The motion wasn't lost on the hippogryph. "You know what happens if you make a spark."

"I do," Ink answered, and then flung himself forward on both wings like a bobsledder… doing whatever the term d'arte is for launching a bobsled. Whatever its name, this motion led the shorter but dramatically denser pony to tackle the far more limber hippogryph, with a sound like a sack of rutabagas hitting a small bundle of firewood. After a couple rolls, Ink wound up on top with a hoof pressing down heavily on Flin's neck—not quite choking him, but making it very obvious that the shoes Ink was wearing had their leading edge sharpened to a razor-like blade.

After coughing, Flin spoke in as controlled a way as he could to avoid being cut by the motion of his throat. "Fuck."

"You were bluffing," Ink told him. "You're a kid."

"No," Flin answered. "That's part of the point of sending the gang away. Prisoner's dilemma, or whatever; you can't hold me hostage to get them to give up, or trick me into calling them off. I just said 'fuck' because I was hoping this would end in no one dying, instead of the maximum number possible."

"Ah," Ink nodded. "So you were counting on mercy from the… how you said, 'Demon of Stalliongrad'?"

"I only had a few minutes' warning after Capper's man called for the meeting. And I only know you by reputation. Not bad for short notice, you have to admit." Then Flin shrugged. "Plus, I knew about your 'friend' Stoikaja, so it seemed like an unlikely contingency to need. Really a longshot getting to this point at all." Flin sighed. "Can you at least make it quick?"

"Well, there is one more chance," said Ink, glancing back to Somnambula for a short wink. "Morty's Cunning, you сука блять, I know you can hear me. If you can read this kid's mind, you know a lot of stories about me. Most of them are true. I really did burn down that building in Baltimare. I really did kill a dragon with my bare hooves in peacetime. And I really did kill Stoikaja's kids."

Somnambula could not miss the way Ink's voice hitched after that admission, despite his damnedest (maybe literally) effort to be intimidating.

"I like to think I'm a better pony than I was then, and that's why I work for Celestia doing the work I do now. But it's still dirty work. Often wet work. Heh. I don't care about killing this kid. I'll try and save whoever's in this damn deathtrap building when it burns down. And I'll take the blame when it goes sideways. But between your body trying to kill me, and whatever Celestia wants, I know this is important. Worth a few casualties. What's another few bodies on the pile? So now, you have choice, big hero. Either you play make believe that me calling kid's bluff means I'm more cunning than him. Or I carve your stupid tattoo off his face, and we reach same end state, but with a lot more misery. I know the stupid Mentor amulet doesn't care about body count, but I am hope you do."

It was that last sentence which, very suddenly, caused the seven pointed star tattoo to being to glow, and then to slide down Flin's throat and up Ink's foreleg, before disappearing under the sleeve of his heavy black coat. And inside Ink's mind, a familiar voice could be heard.

"You have Mentor? You should've led with that."

"You can talk?" Ink asked aloud, and then instead of swearing in Stalliongradi, he contented himself to spit on the floor.

"Very little. I'm not… built for it the way the amulet is."

"Thank Celestia." Ink sighed, and then stood up. "Well, Flin, it was… Brief. Which is good."

"It was nice to meet you!" Somnambula called.

Ink sighed. "He threatened to blow up a building full of innocents."

"Ah, right. But didn't you—"

"I'm worse, yes," Ink answered, fully turning his back on the toppled hippogryph and stepping back over to Somnambula. "But sometimes being worse pays off. Nopony got hurt my way. Flin, one last question, then you can leave."

"Hmm?" The hippogryph, midway through dusting himself off and feeling along his neck for a shallow cut that wasn't there, raised an avian brow. "What else do you want?"

"Stoikaja went to a bar, didn't she? What did Daring call it? Verka's?"

"Verko's," Flin corrected with a nod. "You already knew? Why—"

"Lucky guess," said Ink. "Now get lost and call your friends off."

Barely three seconds later, Flin was gone, and Ink gestured with a wing in the direction of the opening through which he and Somnambula had entered.

"Well, all danger aside, that was a lot easier than getting Mentor," Somnambula said. "Was Cunning how you guessed where Miss Stoy-whatever would be?"

"Call her Soldier On," Ink muttered. "I guessed she'd be where Tempest and Sunset were going, because there's not a ballsack's chance in Tartarus of her showing her face at the same time as us for something unrelated. The more we dig into this, the more Luna getting poisoned keeps coming back."

Somnambula chuckled. "Isn't the metaphor a 'snowball's chance'?"

Ink shrugged. "Mine carries the pain better. Stoikaja—Soldier On—hurts." As Somnmabula spread her wings, Ink lunged forward to grab her by the shoulder. "Look at me."

"Hmm?"

"This was the easy part. Soldier On isn't like this idiot and his excuse for a gang. She learned from Mentor… Er, from Hurricane. Same as me. She's ex-Honor Guard. If it turns out she's there, I want you to get Sunset and run. Honestly, Tempest too, but I doubt you can get her to run. And don't look back. No tricks with the magic feather, no coming back to check later. If we don't come back, you fly back to Canterlot and tell Celestia."

"Okay, if you say so… How will I know what she looks like?"

"If she wants to be seen, you cannot possibly miss her," Ink answered, before letting go of Somnambula's shoulder. "Now let's fly, and see if that 'Capper' cat can point us in the right direction before she kills our partners."

Interlude XIII - Pride Goeth

Interlude XIII

Pride Goeth

Sunset and Tempest followed the path they'd been provided into the dusty stone canyons of the Klugetown badlands, until at last they came to face a forbidding stone edifice engraved with nondescript faces which had been worn away by the centuries. Maybe if it weren't for those centuries of erosion, the equine skulls that those faces had once been might have urged the mares to enter the complex with a bit more caution.

Alas.

Dusty walls of old tan sandstone brick had been cleaned with archaeological care in the nave of the facility, which had been subject to far less erosion than the exterior, and so showcased not only distinctly equine skulls, but also engraved text in a long dead script. The script seemed to garner little attention, though, when compared to the two vaguely earth pony-shaped outlines flanking the only threshold deeper into the 'ruins' (a term I use hesitantly, because they weren't actually that ruined).

One of these outlines held a stone pony, restrained in place by very clearly modern stainless steel chains (five-eights gauge, substantially thicker than the standard offering at most Equestrian hardware stores). This stone pony was actively struggling against its chains, causing them to rattle with each twitch and thrust against the restraints, but whoever had installed the chains and the heavy pitons that mounted them into the wall had done an impressively solid job. Still, the fact that the faceless sandstone thing was animate was concerning enough.

"Uh… can it talk?" Tempest asked. "Hey?"

"Somehow, I'm guessing not," said Sunset after a moment, before she grabbed Tempest's shoulder and pointed with her horn toward the mirrored alcove. There, less secure pitons had been ripped from the walls and scattered amongst some minor stone rubble on the floor. A few strides away, the guardian golem's mirror image lay unmoving, its 'skull' split jaggedly in half, and one half of its head fully removed to lie shattered at its stone hooves.

Behind it, at head level, an extremely modern steel guardspony's shoe, very much like the ones Red Ink favored (though in a dramatically larger size) was buried up to its two slightly winged flanges in the stone brick wall like a veritable Clawrent oriented about ninety degrees.

(Excalipurr is the sword from the lake, not the sword in the stone, in case that joke is lost on anypony, or I suppose any griffon, reading. They're often confused by lazy historians, a fact which I really can't blame given one of the two forsaken things is fictional. Even at eighteen, what I told Gale about swords with names was more right than I could possibly have known at the time.)

"You think the big mare did that?" Sunset asked.

Tempest scoffed. "Well, it's a pony's shoe, and I doubt our stallion is throwing shoes with a broken leg. But the bartender wasn't lying; you know what they say about mares with big shoes?"

"Uh… no, and I'm not sure I want to."

"They have big hooves," Tempest concluded with a smirk. "Come on; they must've gone further in."

"Uh, yeah," said Sunset, but she failed to stop Tempest before the other mare pushed forward toward their quarry. Thus, as Tempest disappeared into the dark hallway ahead, Sunset was left with only a moment to linger staring upward at the engraved depiction over the doorway: a single bell with a little wooden handle, of the sort a noblepony might ring to summon a servant for tea, wrapped in stylized chains, suspended in the air just below the outline of the head of a mountain goat with great curved horns swinging around behind his ears.

By the time Sunset caught up, she found Tempest leaning against a stone corner in the hallway, her body pressed tightly against the wall.

"Tempest, I think—"

"Shh," Tempest interrupted in a harsh whisper. "Listen."

And when Sunset was quiet, she distinctly heard more voices echoing from down the hallway.

"So, let me guess: arrows come out of the holes in the wall if we walk through this hallway wrong or something? Step on the wrong tile?" That voice was spry and feminine, with a strange sort of Canterlot accent, not suggesting snobbery or elitism, but rather coming from one of the poorer neighborhoods of the Equestrian capital. "Am I pointed in the right direction?"

"Do you want me to laugh at puns when you broke my leg?" The vaguely Abyssian toned accent clearly belonged to a stallion, and judging from the comment, was obviously Dr. Caballeron. "Yes, it's a trap. Spears, not arrows; not that it makes much difference. If you carry me through there, we'll both die."

"I could dodge," came a third voice, at once feminine and yet far heavier than Caballeron's. There was, if anything, the slightest twang of the drawl of the Equestrian south in the words; an Appleloosan tinge, perhaps, or maybe even further toward the border. "But not carrying you."

"Relax, I've got this," said the first voice again, the Canterlot mare. Then, with the distinct pop of a cork leaving a glass bottleneck, she continued "This stuff's called Imperial Glue or something, but I always like to think of it as a wall in a bottle. If I just remember my old bowling stance…"

"Do you want me to just throw it?" asked the voice of what Sunset had decided had to be 'the big mare'.

"No! You'll break it all in one place." That made the other mare the one with the black bandana; the relative unknown of the group. "Just gotta balance on my hind legs here… Okay. One, two, three, and twist." The count were accompanied by three particularly sharp hoofsteps on stone, and then were followed by the sound of a glass vial (a Florence flask, if Sunset had to guess, and then she winced at how much of a nerd she'd become to recognize the shape of chemistry vessels by the sound they made rolling down a stone floor—clearly, she needed to spend less time around the human version of Twilight Sparkle) rolling lopsidedly along the hallway. Then, a moment later, there came a growing fizzing, which I might liken at the time of writing to the common foal's experiment of mixing vinegar with baking soda. Or baking powder. Whatever.

"Come on," Tempest whispered, and then crept forward around the corner, using the sound of chemical hissing and foam expansion as cover for her hoofsteps. Sunset followed in stride, and soon the two arrived at another corner, very near to another stone archway. Here, the explanation for the noise was all too obvious, as one wall of the hallway had been obscured by a slightly wobbly wall of blue-gray foam bubbles, stretching from floor to ceiling and glistening with a sticky surface layer that vaguely reminded Sunset of super-glue. A half dozen spearheads protruded through the goop, though they had hardly breached more than two inches of the stuff before it stopped each of the weapons in turn.

Through the doorway, a torch's flame could be seen above and beyond the small gemstones set into the hallway's ceiling to dimly light the path. In its light, Sunset could faintly make out the mare holding it: a pegasus, a sort of sky blue color with what was probably a white mane if one factored out the orange light of the flame. Next to her, Caballeron's graying black mane could only faintly be seen, and judging by his awkward sideways position, he was being carried on the back of somepony of considerable size.

"So the bell's here?" the pegasus mare asked.

"That's what the wall said," Caballeron agreed. "But we hadn't actually made it past the spear trap. I'm not like Daring Do; I don't destroy a site just to get to the big piece at the end as fast as possible. And I hope that foam isn't damaging the—"

"Quiet," the big mare beneath him ordered, before taking two sizeable steps forward and then turning around. "Who's there?"

"Crap," whispered Sunset, but after a glance to Tempest wasn't answered with some sort of a clever plan, she stepped out from the corner and into the spear hallway. "Um… Hi?"

"Who're you?" the big mare asked.

"I—"

"That's Sunset Shimmer," the pegasus, quick on the draw, explained. "Celestia's student before Princess Sparkle." Then, after a pause, she added "I thought she was trapped in a different world or something, though…"

"A different world?" asked the larger mare, still far enough away from the torch and the lit hallway to be shrouded in shadow.

"I told you, I don't get involved with magic stuff. This whole 'bells' thing is already outside my area of expertise."

"Hmph," said the big mare. "There's another one with you; no point hiding."

Tempest let out a growl in her throat, a sign of frustration rather than threat. "Damn it, Sunset."

"I didn't make any noise," Sunset protested.

"My leg twitched," said the big mare, and perhaps the most curious thing about that comment is that, knowing (a) Pinkie Pie, Sunset Shimmer immediately understood what it implied. Given Tempest's confused expression on her scarred brow, however, the big mare 'clarified' by saying "My leg doesn't twitch."

"Right. Great. A twitch." Tempest glanced then to the smaller mare. "You know who I am too, then?"

To our heroines' collective surprise, the smaller mare answered with a protracted whistle, looking up and down Tempest's body for a moment, before answering "Trouble." When Tempest made a rude gesture, the mare continued "Fizzlepop Berrytwist, a-k-a Tempest Shadow; the Storm King's former right-hoof mare. She's almost as wanted as you." That was accompanied by a glance to the earth pony mare.

"Almost?" Tempest scoffed. "I literally took over Canterlot."

"I'm not interested in making this a competition," the big mare replied. "Why are you here? You want the bell too?"

"No, we're working for Princess Celestia to, uh… well, to bring one of her old students back from the dead."

"Should you be that open about it?" Tempest whispered.

Sunset ignored the question. "What bell? And who are you?"

"Going Solo," said the pegasus of the pair. "Equestrian Intelligence. And this is, uh… another one of our agents."

"They're not that stupid, Solo," muttered the big mare, stepping fully forward into the light. "Soldier On. Ex-Honor Guard."

Vaguely eggshell colored, and with an off-white mane in a tight, businesslike ponytail, the most notable trait of the mare (as I have oft-leaned on over the last couple of chapters) was her size. And since so much has been made of her size, I shall spare the reader further exaggerations, and speak in objective terms.

Soldier On, also known by her Stalliongradi birth name of Stoikaja, was shorter than Princess Luna, but in very different way than you or I are (presumably) shorter than Princess Luna. Namely, unlike the average reader, if you looked at Soldier On and she wasn't standing literally shoulder-to-shoulder with the lesser, more despicable Diarch, you would probably describe her as being the same height as Princess Luna, and in that statement, you'd only be off by a fraction of an inch.

However, whereas Luna's height was attached to a body so slender and waifish that it (like her mane) bordered on ethereal, Soldier On's body was what young ponies of the day would refer to as a 'brick house'. I have met many ponies, and you almost certainly have too, whose entire skulls would fit inside her biceps.

After the surprise of her looming presence wore off, an observant pony might notice that she was missing the tip of her right ear, clipped off as if she were a stray cat spayed in a catch-and-release program.

Sunset took a sizable step back. "Y-You're the pony Mr. Ink was talking about."

It is a good thing Soldier On was not a pegasus, as the room might have been flooded with fire. Most interestingly, however, is that there was some pegasus 'ice' introduced by that comment, as not only Soldier On but also Going Solo tensed at the name.

"Is he here?" On asked, taking a much more threatening pose and stepping heavily forward.

Sunset lit her horn, mostly in reflex at the obvious threat. "I… Vaguely, yes? He's in Klugetown."

"Son of a bitch," Solo muttered, before turning toward her companion and fully putting a wing up on the bigger mare's shoulder. "On, calm. Lay off these two. We both know Ink's working for Celestia; they're probably telling the truth."

Daring to speak up, still splayed across Soldier On's back, Dr. Caballeron asked "Who's 'Ink'?"

"My brother-in-law," On answered tersely.

"Wait, really?" Solo asked. "And here I thought—"

On rolled her eyes, and waved a hoof through the air to brush off the question. "If you're not here for the bell, why are you here? What does Celestia want?"

Tempest immediately yielded to Sunset, who took a deep breath. "We're, um… A long time ago, the Princess had a student named Mortal Coil. Turns out he's immortal, and still alive. Kind of."

"Hold on," said Caballeron. "Coil the Immortal is real? From the background of Triumph over Silk?" Then, with a chuckle that was broken a bit by the pain of pressing against his broken leg on On's back, the rogue archaeologist smiled. "Is he related to Grogar somehow? That's what brought you here?"

"We don't even know where here is," said Tempest. "We came to talk to you."

"Ah," On nodded. "Well, you can have him once we've got the bell."

"Why do you want Grogar's bells, anyway?" asked Caballeron. "I hope you aren't planning on using it."

"Well, it's more about who we don't want to have them," said Solo, more to Sunset and Tempest than to Caballeron. "Short version of a long story: somebody has been up to weird necromancy stuff all over Equestria for the past few months. Weird little incidents; never in a major city. But almost no survivors. Whoever they are, On and I found out they've already got at least one of the bells. Until we can find out more, the ponies upstairs decided the best move was to get the bells, bring them back to Canterlot, and get them locked down."

"Oh…" said Sunset. "Well, about that. We, um… I think the guy we're looking for might be the one collecting the bells. We ran into him at Onyx Ridge a few days ago; he, uh, killed Mr. Ink."

That the mood in the room lightened at that cannot be understated.

On cocked her head. "I thought you said he was here?"

"He ripped out his soul; I have a piece of Morty—that's, uh, a nickname he liked—that helped me put it back in." Sunset lifted the Mentor Medallion in her magic, and Dr. Caballeron let out a small gasp at the sight.

"You have Daring Do's little amulet!"

"Yeah, she gave it to us after… well, a lot happened at Onyx Ridge. My point is, I think we're all on the same side here, old tensions aside." There, Sunset nodded to Soldier On. "But I don't really want to sit and chat in a weird dark room filled with booby traps. Let's work together, get this bell, then we can all regroup and figure out where we stand together."

"I'll pass," said On. "Wouldn't want another Baltimare, would we?" That comment was directed at Going Solo, who nodded quite knowingly. "But I won't turn down a wizard's help in here."

"I don't know how much of a wizard I really am anymore," said Sunset, "but I'll see what I can do."

"The bell's in that wall," said Caballeron, pointing to the far wall of the chamber, still shrouded in shadow. "I haven't had a chance to read the ancient warnings—"

"No point wasting time," interrupted Soldier On. "Is there magic on it, Sunset?"

"Let's see…" Sunset stretched out her magic, running her aura along the stone and feeling the ancient tingling of latent magic press back against her own. "A little bit. Um… Oh, no, actually a ton. But it's pointed inward. A… darn it, I used to know what this was called. It's a magical blackbody, basically. The magic of whatever's inside—the bell—can't get out. It's like the magical equivalent of a really high quality protective case. There's a little bit of magic on the outside; maybe an alarm or something to require a key. But there's no trap to it; at least, not on the wall itself. Honestly, this magic is just weird. Like, I can kind of tell what it's trying to do, but the way its woven together… it's like some weird combination of pony magic and the way the elk build spells."

"Acknowledged," said Soldier On, and walking calmly up to the wall, she put her hoof through what was probably a four-inch plate of magically reinforced solid stone, sending spiderweb cracks spreading across the wall.

"Ah! Celestia, no! You're destroying the site!" Caballeron protested, too late.

A moment later, the earth pony titan withdrew her hoof, holding a tiny silver bell very much like the one depicted in stone in the front chamber. And, as she did so, the room began to shake.

"That the alarm?" On asked in Sunset's direction.

"I don't know I want to stay and find out," Sunset answered, turning to run. Yet before she or anypony else could meaningfully move, the ceiling of the chamber cracked open, and desert evening sunlight poured into the room. It was joined, briefly, by an almost blinding pillar of pure white light in the center of the room, shooting up into the sky.

"Gah!" or similar not especially verbal utterances escaped the lips of the ponies assembled at the shock of the light, but to their collective surprise… that was it. Nothing fell from the sky, no arrows flew from the walls, no part of the room suddenly came to life.

"Alarm," Soldier On repeated, warily watching the walls. "But nopony to answer it."

"Are you out of your mind?" Caballeron demanded from her back, even as she walked over to Going Solo's side to hand off the bell—Solo being the one of the pair wearing any kind of saddlebags (which clinked lightly when she moved, suggesting more alchemical tricks like the one she'd used to stop the spears in the prior hallway).

"I've gotta agree with the doctor," Solo agreed as she took the bell. "We could have taken a little more time."

"Would you rather deal with traps or Ink's fire?"

"Point taken," Solo agreed. "Alright, um…" The pegasus glanced to Tempest and Sunset, and then back to On. "I don't think any of us besides you can carry Caballeron back to town, but if you get him as far as the edge of the city, we can split up and I'll meet you back where we agreed."

On nodded, but then several things happened at once.

Firstly, Soldier On's hind left leg twitched visibly, causing the steel shoe on her hoof to clack on the stone floor. Secondly, a dull pop that Sunset immediately recognized as the sound of teleportation issued from somewhere overhead of the now open room. And then thirdly, even as she (and the rest of the ponies present) began to look up, an incredibly elegant sounding stallion's voice called out, albeit with less-than-elegant diction and word choice.

"Who are you to go digging up—ah, the ponies from the black stone canyon." The speaker, of course, was a slender pale blue unicorn stallion clad in a slimming black coat with red trim. He was older than the image you might have in your mind, but not much so. Maybe twenty-five? Beyond that slight difference, the most notable distinction from the Mortal Coil you may have imagined or seen pictured was in his choice of companion. For you see, this ominous new arrival did not appear alone.

Beside what I shall dispense with the ambiguity to refer to as my 'mortal remains', Sunset and Tempest beheld a pale beige mare of the Night Guard, or at least their magical style, whose coat desaturation bordered more on gray than a true near-white like my own. Her face and mane down to her lower jaw were concealed by a mask that took on the stylized appearance of a fresh white skull, with raised cheek bones and deep eye holes. In those holes, none of the flesh of her face could be seen; only the seemingly magically glowing rings of her slitted eyes, colored a richly saturated magenta that I will go so far as to say bordered on red. Armor that was almost a parody of a guardspony's peytral and breastplate covered her torso, made of white steel fortified with ribs that at least looked like they were made of the genuine article. But most hauntingly, beneath her chiropteran leather wings, the hilt of a sword could be seen—one which Sunset knew she recognized, but in that moment of shock found that she could not place. Most interestingly, her tail was something leathery and solid, almost like a fin, striped in a dull orange and a gray gold.

Mortal Coil (bear with me on the awkwardness of this for the moment) whispered two words to his companion: "No survivors." And then it began.

Sunset only had time to watch the would-be Night Guard dive toward Going Solo before her attention was distracted by the silver torc she had wrapped around her neck—Celestia's gift from Stalliongrad—beginning to grow uncomfortably hot around her neck. A glance up to Coil revealed his horn glowing, staring straight at her as blue magic swirled around it.

The Razor.

"Mentor, a little help?"

"Driving!" Sunset knew in that moment that Mentor had taken over control of her body, but it was entirely unlike her previous experiences with the arguably cursed amulet. Even as the single word in my voice was ringing in the ears of her mind, Sunset's horn ignited; Mentor was that fast, or at least that desperate. She had no idea what he was casting—not that she had when he'd used the Razor on Ink either, but then at least her horn could tell it was a well formed spell. This time, it was just a surge of emotion and ideas in a haphazard ball thrown out of her horn like a spitball from a straw in a foal's classroom. But somehow, whatever 'spell' he'd cast from her horn, the very moment it diffused into the air, Sunset felt two changes. The first was that the torc around her neck grow cold, and the second was that the grip of Mentor's magic in her own horn—and then increasingly her whole body—started to grow feeble. Like he was releasing his control slowly, instead of just dropping it. Or, she reflected, more like he couldn't hold his control.

With a last surge of strength, he lit her horn once more, just before she felt it slide back into her control. This, at least, was a spell she understood; with a lurch of disorientation, she popped out of the world, and then back into it far above where she had been standing. She found herself standing face-to-face with the effortlessly handsome body of the greatest necromancer who had (or has) ever lived.

"Alright," said Mentor's voice, with the curious echoing, Doppler-effect-ified voice of somepony falling into a bottomless chasm and shouting up from the growing distance as they went, in her mind. "Remember to count to three. If he kills you with that now, you win. I'll be fine. Good luuuck!" And then, abruptly, Mentor was gone.

"Mentor? Mentor?!" Sunset called aloud… but the voice was gone, and she felt no spark in the amulet.

Had he… sacrificed himself for her? Somehow?

On a moment's reflection, it didn't seem like a very useful sacrifice. Sunset felt totally lost. Here she was, in a wizard's duel to the death that (as far as she knew) nopony had actually engaged in for over a thousand years of Equestrian history, and her opponent was the all-timeG.O.A.T. in that field. (Pun very much intended for clever readers; otherwise, I would never stoop to referencing slang with such a short shelf life).

Sunset Shimmer, who hadn't had practiced with her horn for the better part of twenty Equestrian years. Sunset Shimmer, a true believer in capital-F Friendship.

So Sunset let the glow Mentor had left on her horn die, resisted the urge to glance down into the pit that had once been the inner sanctum of the desert facility, and smiled. "You're not really Mortal Coil. You're Grogar, aren't you?"

"The nanny pony can add two and two. It's Emperor to you." Grogar sneered with my mouth, and Sunset watched as the fade on my horn fell in magnitude, considerably. Beneath, the bone on my forehead was almost all grooves, even more tightly coiled than I had described in the much older chapters of this book. "But you know how to stop his little killing spell, and you know his name. You even call him Mentor. What are you, an apprentice? An admirer? I can't imagine a pony would want to couple with this anemic, malnourished stick of a body he's cultivated, but something powerful must drive you if you're brave enough to fight me knowing I've already killed him. Or were you hoping to try diplomacy?"

"I'm always a fan of diplomacy," Sunset answered, brain running a million miles a minute past what was coming out of her mouth—the latter more or less skipping the 'thinking' part and just trying to avoid dropping into outright human high school small talk. "I've never actually met Morty; Princess Celestia sent me to find him. I can see you've had some disagreement, but—"

"Who's 'Princess Celestia'?" Grogar asked. "The one on the money?"

Sunset's train of thought came to a screeching halt, taking out three buildings at her mental station. "How could you possibly know who Morty is, but not Princess Celestia?"

"You are very mistaken if you think I care to answer your curiosity. I ask the questions here." My shoulders rose and fell once in a breath. "But you are well-informed about this modern world in a way so many of those corpses in the frozen fortress were not."

"That was you! I knew it!"

Grogar ignored the exclamation. "I am going to ask you three questions; your life hinges on your answers…" After a moment's pause, he added "You can remind me of your name if I allow you to live. Where is Megan Williams?"

"I… who?" Sunset frowned in confusion at the name for a very long moment before she remembered her most recent session reading this book. "The human? Discord killed her. Or banished her to another world, I guess. But she's dead now."

My face smiled, but it was not a pretty smile. "Excellent. What of the wizard Gusty?"

Sunset chuckled. "Archmage Gusty the Grand? She's been dead long enough most ponies consider her story to be fiction. She's ancient even by Morty's standards."

"Your chronology is mistaken, child… ah, but then that's the trick, is it not? Last question. Archmage Hourglass."

Ice ran through Sunset's veins. "I, um…"

"I will make three observations, pony apprentice," said Grogar. "The first is that after that reaction, you could not possibly convince me you do not know. The second is that I do not need you to tell me. I can just as easily pry the answer from your corpse, or any number of other corpses I wipe out of the way of my path. And the third, most crucially, is that your life still depends on your not inconveniencing me. So I will ask again, for the last time: where is the pony called Hourglass?"

Sunset answered by lighting her horn.

Mine proved as ever the faster horn. Grogar lit the bone in question with an aura of pale blue overwhelming magic and reached out for Sunset's neck. And there, concealed among her mane, Celestia's gifted torc began to glow and burn again. With an audible crack, Wintershimmer's Razor broke through the ward, and it crumbled off the back of Sunset's neck.

Fortunately, the delay was enough for Sunset's slower magic to come into play. Not being a trained warrior-mage of old, Sunset's horn fired no stunning bolt, no scything blade, no blast of disintegrating energy. No, Sunset's magic was far simple—some might even say the oldest of spells known to our species.

Picking up a random rock from the oft-aforementioned rocky desert that made up the canyonlands outside of Klugetown, Sunset bashed my brains in.

Sometimes the old ways are the simplest.

My beautiful body bled (less than a normal body with its skull cracked open would bleed, but lacking extensive experience in the area, Sunset didn't know any better) and my legs went limp, dropping Grogar forward and to the side, rubbing red rusty dirt into my well-groomed blue coat and my pristine black jacket alike. (I lie a little; Grogar hadn't practiced my coat and mane care routine since he got his soul in the body, and a few matted patches were already showing even before Sunset's blow).

Had I (or even the bit of me that was Mentor) been there to comment, I would have observed that Sunset had quite a bit of force in her horn; most ponies aren't strong enough with their horns.

Alas, Sunset didn't even have long enough to come to philosophical terms with killing another (ostensible) pony with a rock before the dead body started laughing. Even around the blood dripping over perfect lips, and the open bit of grayish matter exposed beneath broken flesh, piercing blue eyes locked with Sunset's.

"What, did you think that was it? You know who I am, and you thought a mere mortal blow would kill me?" Pushing himself up, Grogar added "That wasn't even enough to properly kill Coil's corpse, let alone to inconvenience my soul."

"Why are you using his body, anyway?" Sunset asked, keeping her horn lit and holding her now somewhat Morty-stained rock aloft at the read.

"Do you think this is a conversation?" Grogar lit my horn in another flare of light, and when Sunset swung the rock at him again, he caught it—only to visibly falter on his forelegs, fatigued and swaying. "Damnation…"

"Oh!" Sunset smiled, following my advice and counting to three. "You don't know how that body works, do you?"

"You dare to taunt me?" Still staggering, Grogar slipped a hoof into my jacket, and pulled out a bell that fit just tightly into the frog of my hoof. "I do not need this faulty body to kill you. And it will not be necessary much longer anyway. My bells sufficed in Onyx Ridge; they'll suffice against you." One flick of a hoof, one ringing strike of the clapper, and Sunset found herself flung backward by a wall of invisible force. There wasn't even a visible magical aura; the ground just cracked, and the air itself slammed into her like a hundred stomping hooves, picking her up and sending her bouncing and rolling across the dusty parched earth.

The noise had been quite quiet, but Sunset's ears rang anyway as she tried to gather her senses. The sky had moved so many times, and the world was so bright in the sun, everything had gone white. Slowly, fuzzily, it was coming back together. Blue the left. Red to the right… no, down. She was lying on her side. And the white-ish splotch in the middle with the big shadow was—

"—to return the favor. With luck, you will survive the fall and live, crippled and broken, long enough to watch my new creation snuff out your friends." Grogar glanced past Sunset, downwards and raised his voice. "Kill this one last, if she survives the fall," he ordered. "I leave the rest in your hooves."

Then a brutal pain struck Sunset's temple, at just such an angle to drive her back as well as to break into her. With a fractured skull, her last thought was the sudden sensation that the ground before her had disappeared, and that she was falling back down into darkness.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

Some moments earlier, just after Sunset teleported upward, Tempest Shadow, Soldier On, and Going Solo had gathered in a small group against the strange Night Guard creature Grogar had created, watching the masked mare pace and watch them through the shadowed (or perhaps enchanted, given their eerie perfect black) eyeholes of her mask.

Solo, the sole pegasus of the group, let herself begin to hover. "On, you call the shots here. What do you need?"

"I don't know," the titanic earth pony frowned. "Actually, land. Help Caballeron into the tunnel, then come back, but stay back."

"Land? I don't know a lot about fighting, but I do know the pegasus guards say that in a fight, 'get high or die'."

"She's faster than you," On answered. "This is a fight for Tempest and I."

Tempest frowned. "How can you tell?"

The big mare declined to explain her reasoning, instead continuing her brief directions. "If you stay on the ground, I can keep myself between you. But if you fly, she'll catch you and get the bell. No potions. Stay back. Hope numbers win out over skill."

"You know how good she is in a fight?" Tempest asked, stepping up to the side of the bulkier mare. "Who is she?"

"No idea," said On, not removing her eyes from the pacing dead pegasus. "But if she's like Luna's version of the Night Guard, that's a big enough advantage." On idly shifted her hooves, and looking down, Tempest noted a set of strange flanges sticking off the backs of her steel shoes. "Stay on the defensive; we don't know what she can do."

In a whisper, Tempest answered back "I'm not gonna sit on my flanks if I see an opening."

After a bit more circling, watching as On and Tempest stayed more-or-less side by side to stay between Solo and the mare, the tension snapped like an overtight guitar string. The desaturated tan mare flicked a leathery bat wing forward, not tight like a whip but lazily, as if gesturing to a whiteboard. Still, the motion was enough to send a cluster of a half dozen or so needle-sharp half-yard-long icicles flying through the air toward the defending soldiers.

Tempest dodged like a kickboxer, bringing both her forelegs up to cover her face, pushing with a hind leg and more or less falling sideways out of the way of the attack. The icicles flew narrowly over her shoulder.

Soldier On simply brought up her left foreleg and batted the projectiles away. A few pierced her flesh, but the wounds were—apparently—shallow enough not to inhibit the mare meaningfully.

In both cases, the effort the two mares expended did not seem enough of an opening to satisfy the corpse mare, and for another moment, silence returned to the pit that had once been the sanctuary of one of Grogar's lost bells.

It lasted less time this go around; not more than three or four seconds later, the pegasus undead lowered her wings to the stone floor, and from her wing tips, a sheet of ice about half an inch thick began to spread toward our heroines.

"Crap," said Tempest, and she lowered her broken horn to point toward their unknown enemy. A burst of malformed magic, a crackling missile halfway between a flare and a bolt of lightning, flew at the tan mare.

With her wings already on the ground, it was trivial for the mare to fling herself forward (much like how Red Ink had only a few hours prior at the far side of town). With that momentum, however, instead of tackling or pouncing on Tempest, the dead mare put her chest onto the layer of ice and slid like…. well, like an exceptionally deadly penguin. This let Tempest's magic fly just above her back without a hit, and ended with night guard fangs surging at Tempest's legs and chest, visible just beneath the lower edge of the mask.

Tempest lifted a hoof both to get it out of biting range and to take the most obvious opportunity in the history of hoof fighting: stomping directly on her opponent's face. It all came down to timing. And the moment was obvious, especially to somepony who'd been in as many fights in her life as Tempest Shadow had.

Unfortunately, none of those fights had been against a living dead monstrosity who could, using magic on the same ice she was sliding across, create a pillar that pushed her chest up off the floor and got her head well out of range—and also put her fangs not at a level to bite Tempest's extremities, but instead her throat.

It was only a hoof that saved Tempest's life, but in due deference to the impact it had on both the situation and the dead mare's side, it was a very large hoof. Between the blow from Soldier On's kick and the lack of friction from the ice, the dead mare went sliding to the far side of the room, where she slammed into the stone wall with a crack.

Tempest, too experienced to be left shocked by the near death experience, chased the undead with another violent but unformed blast from her horn, aimed straight for her center of mass.

The night guard mare, too staggered to dodge, was forced to wave her wings with much more urgency, dragging a wall of hoof-thick ice into the air out of nothing, rising up from the floor to give her cover. It barely rose in time to block the spell, but block it did in a shattering of ice crystals and mist that momentarily hid the dead mare.

In the ensuing silence, both soldier mares paced together, watching the mist, waiting for the next attack. But instead of an attack, the mist began to grow, covering more and more of the far side of the room.

"Appleoosa, you know how to deal with this?" Tempest dared to glance sideways for a half second when the question wasn't answered. "Anything?"

"Making it up as I go along," On answered. "There was never an ice pegasus in the Honor Guard. Just the Commander. And the fact she's nearly that strong is…" On briefly glanced back toward Solo, before concluding "...we'll figure something out."

Tempest raised a skeptical eyebrow, but then shook her head and grinned. "That's the trouble with guardspony types. You get so worried about collateral damage, you never learn to cause it on purpose when you need it. Cover me." Then, aiming her horn up the wall of the pit, Tempest began randomly blasting magic into the stone above the encroaching mist.

The first blast sent spiderweb cracks across the stone. The second did the same further up the wall. But the third, the third was the first where stone began to fall like rain. Chips and scraps, little bits of gravel poured into the mist. But the fourth, the fifth, the sixth, each blast sent bigger and bigger stones into the cloud.

And then, abruptly, Soldier On's clipped ear twitched down against her head and back up. The earth pony flung herself directly between Tempest and the cloud, bringing up a hoof in the very same moment that the dead pegasus shot out—a curved sword wreathed in a veil of frost clenched between her undead fangs.

Without a blade of her own, Soldier On blocked with a steel shoe. But when the general-populace grade steel of that shoe met the enchanted skysteel of the icy blade, it was a foregone conclusion which would win. At most, the deafening clang of steel on steel slowed the blade, so that it only dug a few inches through Soldier On's hoof and into the flesh of her foreleg before it stopped, presumably having struck her short pastern bone.

Tempest Shadow had caused enough screams to know what it sounded like when a pony—or really any creature, for that matter—screamed in pain. This wasn't that. Soldier On was bigger and, given how she'd handled the earlier icicles, tougher than creatures she'd watched shrug off similar wounds. The noise Soldier On let out was a haunted, terrified, broken scream; a thing of anguish and loss and turmoil, not the mere agony of nerves and torn flesh.

The earth pony didn't so much go for a tackle in that moment as thrash her entire massive mass in an attempt to free herself from the sword. Without her freakish luck—or whatever earth pony preternatural danger sense she possessed—that thrashing would have left her open for a bite or a slash of her neck or her chest. But with a wild blow, completely unaimed by her conscious mind, she at least battered the dead mare back. That left her staggering, reeling, as blood dripped from her hoof and it refused to carry her weight.

"You alright?" Tempest asked, watching the dead mare as her head swiveled like a predator just waiting for the right moment to pounce again.

"If we somehow get out of here, I've survived worse," said On, between a hiss of pain. "But big 'if'. Don't let the sword touch you. It got in my head."

The brief discussion was interrupted by a demanding and very handsome voice from overhead, one which stole the attention of everypony on the ground. "You aren't to kill this one if she survives the fall." Grogar (though as far as the warriors on the ground knew, me) stood over Sunset Shimmer on the very lip of the pit, holding a rock in a blue magical grip that was, apparently, light enough not to cause my horn to flare for holding it. The dead mare who served him nodded at the command, not saying a word. "I leave the rest in your hooves."

Then he brought the stone down with terrifying force on Sunset's head, sending a spray of blood into the air with a thrak that was audible even from so far below in the pit. The blow not only broke Sunset, but sent her limp body tumbling into the pit.

Then a whole lot of things happened in the span of about three seconds.

"Sunset!" Going Solo shouted, abandoning her quiet observation of the fight with the dead creature to spread her wings and jump into the air, aiming to catch the falling pegasus.

The masked dead, seeing her primary quarry take to wing, spread her own wings, tightened her bite's grip on the hilt of her accursed sword, and launched into the air.

Tempest hurled a rapid mana blast at the undead, but given the range and the corpse's speed, even as it left her horn she knew it had no chance of landing.

Soldier On grit her teeth, slow and stolid and last to act. But seeing what was happening, she knew she had only one option. She tapped her hind legs together, catching the flanges of her peculiar shoes and releasing a ratchet that ultimately loosened the one on her right hind hoof. Then, bracing herself on her one good foreleg, she lifted her hind legs and threw out a bucking kick—not toward the undead, but at Going Solo.

The loosened shoe, bucked straight and true, flew through the air until it struck Going Solo's right wing, right on its arch. The force crumpled the wing, bruising it if not breaking it outright, and sent the pegasus with the messenger bag tumbling from the sky just swiftly enough that the dead mare couldn't catch her. Solo hit the ground hard, her hairband unravelling out of her mane and fluttering across the ground as she came to rest not far from Tempest Shadow's hooves.

And nopony was there to catch Sunset Shimmer when, after falling for a solid three seconds, she landed on her right shoulder and her neck.

Interlude XIV - The Face of Thy Enemy

Interlude XIV

The Face of Thy Enemy

Soldier On looked down at her split hoof, dripping blood onto the stone floor of the temple, and then swept the room with a quick glance. Tempest Shadow seemed reliable enough with her hooves and the wild blasts from her horn, but she wasn't guardspony trained, which made synchronized tactics virtually impossible. Solo had whatever was left in her bag of tricks and potions, but if she let her spy friend anywhere near the dead pony, she'd be dead in a heartbeat. Whoever this pony had been in life, she was guardspony trained—albeit, On reflected, a weird, archaic sort of guardspony convention. But having served on the Honor Guard before her ignominious dismissal, On was no stranger to unconventional fighting styles.

It was, really, just a sign the dead mare was even more dangerous.

And laying in a crumpled heap at the far side of the room, Sunset Shimmer was transparently dead.

Combine those factors, and the writing was more or less on the wall. Soldier On knew a losing battle when she saw one. So she took a deep breath and spoke up without turning her head. "Solo, number one goal is we don't let her have the bell."

"Yeah, I figured that," quipped the mare with the bag. "Hard to miss the message when you bucked a shoe into my wing. Or should I say 'thanks' because you didn't cut it off?"

"Use the tunnel. Get yourself out."

"I'm not leaving you—"

Apparently, the dead mare didn't like her opponents conspiring in the open, and it wasn't exactly subtle that the big mare intended to sacrifice herself to buy Solo time, so she cut out the conversation entirely by flinging herself—frosted blade still clenched in her fangs—toward Going Solo.

On was too far to stop the attack; the dead mare was going past Tempest. And though Tempest lunged fast enough to stop the attack, she'd probably be left open to a counterstrike from the more nimble, swifter undead.

But the question never came up. A blur of vibrant red and black dropped from the sky, hoof-first into the mask of the dead mare, sending spiderweb cracks across the bone-colored surface.

Though the dead aren't known for staggering from pain—well made undead do not feel the same way as you or I—as we learned from Iron Rain's blow on Summer Celsus, death does not make one immune to physics. Tempest, though surprised at the sudden arrival, stepped up into the opening Ink had created to drive one forehoof into the mare's neck, and then a second in an uppercut into her jaw, hoping to get her to drop her blade. She had no such luck, but she did reestablish the distance between the dead mare and the group. She might have even lunged forward, had two lashes of pure blistering orange flame not flown from over her shoulder in the corpse's direction. The dead mare let out a hiss of pain as her magic came up against the new combatant, and then a very different hiss filled the air as ice met fire and steam began to spread. Seeing the threat a loss of vision posed, Ink grit his teeth, lit his own wings on fire (not so much a deliberate effect as a byproduct of his use of magic) and inhaled heavily through his nostrils. With frightening speed, the steam was sucked into the stout red stallion, revealing the dead mare just as she had gotten to her hooves and hopped back, warily eyeing the new entrants to the melee.

"You!" Going Solo shouted behind her.

"That's a funny way to say 'thank you for saving my life,'" Ink observed dryly. "Do I even know you? Or you just hear of me from your big friend?"

"You don't even remember me?" Solo snapped, before taking a shaky step forward and hurling a fizzing smoking flask of green something at the dead mare. The flask wasn't even close to hitting its mark—too slow, too easily dodged—but the way the splashes of acid inside melted the stone off the walls into a sort of dribbly gray-tan sludge made Ink raise a brow. "Going Solo," the mare muttered. "Equestrian Intelligence."

"S.M.I.L.E. is working with the most wanted mare in Equestria?" Ink asked, daring to briefly glance over his shoulder. In Stalliongradi, he added "I'm not here for you. But if you move for me—"

"I won't. Eyes forward."

"Is Sunset…?" Somnambula asked, landing a moment later near the back of the group, just behind Tempest.

"Morty dropped her from up above," Tempest answered.

"Morty?!" Somnambula flared her wings. "No, he wouldn't—"

"We don't have time to talk about it," Ink interrupted. "We deal with the problem in front of us first." Dropping into Stalliongradi, he added "What do you know about her?"

Soldier On hesitated to answer her rival for a good few seconds, but eventually pragmatism won out. "She's trained; not just hoof-to-hoof combat but magic. You saw the ice. She's fast, even by undead standards. I'd put money on her over Spitfire. That's why the others are still here."

After staring at the dead mare for a few moments, Ink then dared to let out a whistle. "He's got good taste."

"She's dead," said Tempest.

"I'd sooner die again," said the dead mare at the same time, and as she finally stood still, the assembled broken heroes took note of the jagged crack in her mask from where Ink had struck her. A bit even tumbled away, revealing that despite the mask, her eyes did actually have whites around her slitted eyes. And, just above said eye, one could catch a glimpse of her mane, orange and tan and brown. Like autumn. "But you'd go first."

Those present for the length of the battle were shocked at the utterance from the otherwise silent undead; all save Somnambula, who dared to step forward a bit, taking up a place on the other side of Going Solo from Ink. "Typhoon? Is that you?"

"You know her?" asked Going Solo.

The mare in the mask, however, recoiled. "Somnambula… And who forced you to be here?" The dead mare—the last rightful Commander of the Cirran Legions—spat on the ground. "Hell. I'm sorry. I'll try to make this quick."

"We don't have to fight!" Somnambula insisted. "If you think Morty's right, you can—"

"Don't cross your hooves," said Soldier On. "If she's like Luna's undead, she might have a little free will, but she can't disobey what she knows he wants that directly. She has to fight us to get the bell. Best we can do is put her out of her misery."

"Please do," Typhoon replied, and then sarcastically she added "Good luck."

"You're really Typhoon?" Ink asked. "Like, Commander Hurricane's daughter?" Typhoon rolled her eyes, producing an interesting visual effect with one still shrouded in shadow by her mask. The stallion rolled his neck and lit the fires on his wings even higher. "Spy filly, you got a fire extinguisher in your magic bag or something?"

"Why?"

"I have an idea, but—"

Typhoon—never a stupid mare by any stretch (despite the loss of her hoof against the buffalo… though Grogar had been kind enough to grow that back)—realized she had lost the advantage she held over the original group with the arrival of another pegasus with magic so nearly strong and so diametrically opposed to her own. So rather than let them talk, she rushed straight at Ink, Hiems Osculum (for that sword, recovered by Grogar along with her body at Onyx Ridge was, of course, the blade Sunset had passingly recognized) held at the ready.

Ink—not infrequently a stupid stallion by several stretches, especially after a bit of gin (though my Cunning did help)—grinned at the direct approach, flinging a bit of fire in advance of her approach as he got his shod hooves ready to punch a sword. He watched as, two strides away, she flung her wings forward to throw icicles at him, and he focused his fire to at least dull their tips so they were more like small tossed rocks or baseballs instead of spears or needles. The result was a great deal of steam. But rather than inhale it this time, Ink literally (and very much not figuratively) collapsed to his side and then pushed with a wing to roll onto his back, belly up.

This might seem like a not very smart thing to do in a fight, but in this one case, it was. Being the source of capital-C cunning, I can help explain exactly what was going on in Ink's mind. You see, having been introduced to a fight where Typhoon (despite being alone) had already wounded Soldier On, and with Sunset incapacitated or dead, Ink recognized himself as the number one threat in the fight. (Tempest might have been a close second or irrelevant; he lacked the information to tell, and it didn't really matter). If he bluffed having a plan involving the whole team, he could force Typhoon's hoof in making the next move. And as the primary target both for being the biggest fresh and uninjured threat and for having the plan, she would almost certainly come for him first. Then, when their magic met (as it certainly would; his fire forced a response from her ice, if she didn't take the initiative to lead with it, which she had), there'd be a great deal of steam. And given his prior reaction to the lack of vision, it followed she would assume he would be the one to clear it. But if he instead cashed in on the steam for cover, he could get one decisive blow in, and in his experience that was really what mattered.

The problem, which the reader might see but which Ink literally could not have for lack of context, joining the melee so late as he had, was that he was not the priority target despite his correct understanding of the relative threats each member of the haphazard group posed to Typhoon. Grogar's magical hold over Typhoon did not force her to obey his orders in the absence of common sense; she was still more than welcome to admit reality when she was outmatched by such a dramatic numeric imbalance. The magical hold Grogar held—and Luna over the 'standard issue' Night Guard likewise—wasn't one of enforced total literal obedience (with some notable exceptions), but instead one of total enforced loyalty—if one can call it that. Typhoon was smart enough to understand Grogar's objectives, and the order of his priorities, and it was that which bound her will.

Which is a great deal of words explaining a fraction of a second decision inspired by Cunning which was, nevertheless, wrong. Ink waited for one second for Typhoon's momentum to carry her over him, her sword aiming for where his throat should have been. But it never came.

In the very next second, Going Solo screamed, and Ink felt something wet and thick splash his coat from the side. By the time he was on his hooves again, he felt the heavy wind from a flap of wings, and though he flung fire toward the flying figure, it would prove to be in vain.

In the minute and change that followed, the first realization that came to our mismatched heroes was that the dead being who had been Commander Typhoon Stormblade had vanished into the sky under cover of steam and mist—flown far enough, at least, that Ink didn't dare to chase her for a one-on-one fight without the aid of another couple similarly competent military pegasi. In her escape, she'd taken the entire bag Going Solo had been wearing—removed by way of a slash across Solo's chest that had scraped to her ribs. To keep her from bleeding to death, Ink cauterized the wound, leaving her state uncertain but at least probably stable for long enough to get real help.

"Is she going to be okay?" asked Soldier On, in Equiish, walking up to loom over the red stallion.

Ink nodded. "We have an airship, from Celestia. We'll get her to Canterlot. Secret Service will spare no expense for an agent wounded in the line of duty." Ink shook his head, then pushed himself up to glare (up, considerably) at Soldier On.

Somnambula drew in a nervous breath, almost literally lunging between the two to intercept the inevitable confrontation. "What about—?"

"She's dead," Tempest announced bluntly.

"You don't know that! You haven't even checked…" Somnambula's protests trailed off when Soldier On's massive (split) hoof came to rest gently on her shoulder.

"I'm sorry," said the earth pony. "But she's gone. You don't walk off a fall like that."

A very long silence settled among the assembled; Tempest finally broke it. "What now? You two gonna to kill each other?" After a moment of tense silence, she added "If not, for the love of Celestia, get a room."

"If you suggest that again," said Soldier On, quite matter-of-factly given her looming "I will break your neck."

Amusingly, it was Red Ink who broke the ensuing tension. "We'll take this one and… Sunset's remains…both back to Canterlot," said Ink. "Sunset probably already talked to Celestia on her way to the Summer Lands. Either way, this isn't some cute favor anymore. It's a guard problem. I wouldn't be surprised if Celestia puts Armor on the case himself…" Trailing off for a moment, the red stallion glanced down at Solo, and then idly ran a wing through her mane to push it back, as it had been before her headband had come loose. "Is she the one from Baltimare? Armor's pet project?"

"She is," Stoikaja answered with a growl in her voice.

"Fuck," said Ink, then turned to the giant mare and drew in a big breath. Smoke slipped between his feathers as he stood in silence, before finally finding words. "I ought to kill you right now." A heavy, almost painful moment of silence followed before Ink broke it himself. "Are you really working for S.M.I.L.E.?"

Soldier On shook her head. "Not officially. I'm not getting paid anyway. But Secret Service is smart enough to know I'm with her. We crossed paths while she was digging on the Grogar case, and after Baltimare, she trusted me."

Somnambula brightened. "So this 'Grogar' is behind this? Like Daring Do mentioned? Is he controlling Morty too, or something?"

Ink shrugged. "That would be a question for Sunset. But given he came as a package deal with Commander Typhoon raised to be a Night Guard, it's smart money. I'm sure Luna can tell us back in Canterlot."

"What are you doing here, if you don't know about Grogar?" On asked.

Somnambula stepped forward. "Well, Princess Celestia asked us to find Morty and bring him to her. He's, um…" The ancient mare's voice failed her for a moment, and she fought back tears. "He's the body Grogar was using."

"We're here to talk to Caballeron," Ink added "One of the Night Guard stole an amulet from him a few years ago, we think it's connected. Is he around?"

"In the tunnel," On answered. "But I doubt he got far; I broke his leg." Then the big mare turned to Tempest, only it seemed to avoid making a friendly offer to Ink. "I'll carry him, if you can get Solo. Where's your ship?"

"You're joking," said Tempest, nodding toward Ink. "He wants to kill you. I mean, look at him; I'm surprised he hasn't swung at you yet."

"Don't be an idiot," said Ink, before focusing his glare back at On. "I'm not getting in leg's reach of her. I'd stand back and use fire."

"I didn't kill Polnoch," On answered with a sigh.

"I'm not taking your word for it."

"Take his!" On insisted. "He's Third Brother! Luna's got him. Just walk up to that damn cave in the back of the palace—"

"I know."

"You know?! How have you…" The huge mare trailed off, and then hung her head, and then started to chuckle—an ominous, heavy sound; a veritable portent of doom. "Fine. Captain Ink, if that's what you're calling yourself these days. I surrender. Take me back to Canterlot with you." The earth pony finished the thought by popping off her remaining steel shoes and sliding them across the ground to Ink.

"What?" Ink cocked his head. "You know Celestia will let me kill you."

"Maybe," On agreed. "But of the two of us, I come out better. Come on. We can talk more on your ship. I'll carry Caballeron and Solo. One of you should get the… should get Sunset's remains."

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

On the deck of the Constellation, Tempest Shadow frowned when she heard the catamaran's deck door open behind her. "What do you want?"

The voice that answered, at least, wasn't one of the ones most offensive to her. "I, um… sorry. Just wanted somepony to talk to," said Somnambula. "And the other two are… it's hard to be in the same room as them."

"Yeah, I noticed…" Tempest rolled her eyes (head facing away from Somnambula) and then waved her hoof to signal the other mare to approach. "You okay?"

"No." The single syllable was followed by some silence. Tempest watched her ostensible friend stare forward into the oncoming wind, letting her headdress flap and ripple along with her mane. Finally, she found her words again. "I've never lost anypony before."

"You only knew her for, what, a couple weeks? Right?" Tempest received a harsh glare from the pegasus, and shrugged in reply. "I'm not saying it's not sad, but ponies get hurt in this sort of thing. Just didn't think it'd be her, to be honest." Then, after a pause of her own, Tempest looked fully away from the bow to stare at Somnambula. "Weren't you tied up in all that crap from the book way back? You really never had somepony get killed on your watch before?"

Somnambula shook her head. "Never once. When I was really young, going up against the sphinx back home, it was just me. Then when I joined up with Star Swirl and the Pillars… well, being totally honest, there isn't much dangerous to Star Swirl even by himself. Add in Flash with his shield and Rockhoof and Mistmane, and it was pretty rare anypony even got hurt. And when they did, we were dragging the best doctor in Equestria around with us to get you fixed on the spot." She chuckled. "And then the couple times I ran off with Gale and Morty—well, we got a lot closer some of those times, but Morty always came through with some stunt at the last second."

"Huh. Must be nice, not worrying."

"It was," said Somnmabula. "It was."

The two mares stared blankly off at the horizon, as if there was anything in the sky for an airship to hit, or even dodge. Tempest had not one further thought to add, and Somnambula seemed content enough to linger in her thoughts.

The pegasus of the pair didn't speak to break the silence, but instead spread her wings and nodded to Tempest. When Tempest nodded back, Somnambula rushed to the railing of the upper deck and hurled herself into open space.

It was hard work for a pegasus to keep up with an airship; most could, at the aerial equivalent of a sprint, but the thing that made airships attractive even for pegasi was the reliability of their speed. But then, Tempest figured, that was probably the point. Get tired out. Get sore, maybe. Anything to think about something else.

Like so many young unicorns, Tempest dared to wish she had wings—but for hardly the usual reason.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

The entire following conversation was in Stalliongradi; I'll spare your eyes the wall of italics.

"Was she your friend?" Soldier On asked, reaching into the Constellation's galley freezer, where (for want of a better morgue) Sunset Shimmer's body had been laid. She came out holding a bag of frozen corn and peas and chopped carrots. "Or just for the mission?"

"Just the mission, but she seemed nice." Red Ink watched the limping giant carry the bag over the galley and slap it down next to a rice steamer. "You speak Stol'nograski with an accent now?"

"It's been more than ten years, Roscherk."

"Ink," Ink corrected, and then stopped. "I mean…"

Soldier On chuckled, though the noise was obviously not the kind of 'laughter' one regards as the capital-M Mirth of magical friendship. "The blood on your name finally get to you?"

"I could still kill you," Ink shot back.

Soldier On nodded. "You could. You'd burn the whole ship in the process and kill the other unicorn, and your contact in the process. But you could. Wouldn't put it past you."

"What fucking game is this, Stoikaja? You're the most wanted mare in Equestria. Fuck, with your bounty, I could probably buy Canterlot Castle. You know Celestia's going to execute you. She does not fuck around when it comes to Luna, and you tried to kill her. Is dying worth it, just to taunt me on the way?"

Another bitter chuckle. "I had nothing to do with her assassin. I just had a good idea about the poison." With a hiss of steam, Soldier On opened the lid of the rice steamer, and poured the white grains straight into a wide wok, alongside the frozen vegetables and a heaping helping of oil and soy sauce.

"Same thing," Ink muttered. "Especially for an Honor Guard."

"You'd have done it too, if you were in my shoes," said Soldier On. "You mentioned Typhoon being a Night Guard before; how much do you know about them?"

Ink scoffed through his nose, one heavy exhale that rattled his nostrils, dismissive. "Dead evil ponies, on the very cusp of redemption. They serve one hundred years, and then Luna lets them into the Summer Lands."

Soldier On nodded. "So you've heard Luna's sales pitch. But it's a funny word, 'evil', isn't it? You'd call me that, wouldn't you?"

"No," Ink answered. "Too philosophical. I prefer bitch. Traitor. That sort of thing."

"Hm." On focused on her cooking for a moment, kicking the wok back and forth over the tilting galley stove with enough force to make waves in the flying, slightly gold-tinged rice, without actually spilling any. "We're worse than most of them."

"Well, yeah," Ink agreed. "Polnoch, for example."

On flinched, and a few hundred grains of her fried rice spilled from the wok when it jerked suddenly to a stop. "Right. You know." Then she looked down at her hooves holding the wok and, after a moment, went back to cooking, her ears now firmly plastered back against her skull in silent fury.

"Well, yeah. You think I wouldn't recognize my dead brother in the halls?" Ink rolled his eyes. "He came to me in Ponyville, when Celestia first sent me there. I was out of it enough that I didn't recognize him at the time; got hit in the head. But I put it together back in Canterlot. I only just confirmed though; this case gave me a chance to actually talk to them, and when I asked to see him, Eldest Sister damn-near confirmed it was him."

Soldier On just stared, looking to all the world like a larger than life marble statue, perhaps on a plinth labeled 'loathing' or 'utter disbelief'.

"So you wanted Luna dead because you were worried he'd link you to the assassin? What?"

"You idiot," On whispered. "I… I can't believe this."

Ink cocked his head, incandescent rage merging with confusion. "Well, are you gonna keep rubbing yourself raw with that secret under your tail, or you going to tell me why I'm so fucking stupid?"

"I didn't kill Polnoch," On finally answered. "You could have asked him any time."

"And? It's not like he knew who hired Masquerade. That's the point of an assassin, right?"

"He knows I didn't do it."

"How?!"

After another moment of sheer disbelief, Soldier On reached back between her hind legs—Ink only resisted digging further into his grave to expand on his earlier joke, and instead watched as the mare revealed a pouch strapped to her inner thigh with a belt that matched the color of her coat. Out of that pouch came a tiny blue crystal, glowing with inner light.

"Every year, for one night, Luna lets the Night Guard go to the Summer Lands—a break, for their work. The year I was working at Sweet Apple Acres, Polnoch gave me this."

"What is it?"

"His memories of the trip," Stoikaja answered. "Touch it."

"This some kind of trap?"

On rolled her eyes. "You literally watched me touch it, passing it to you."

"Fine," Ink touched the stone, and then winced at the sight it put in his mind—a figment that did not replace his vision, but was more like a waking daydream, seen through a completely separate set of eyes than the real world. Around him, while the galley of the Constellation was still present, he also saw his erstwhile home in Stalliongrad, but not as it had ever actually been. The snow that fell was gentle, more like a Canterlot Hearth's Warming than the winds of a baleful windigo's curse, and the brick buildings lining the streets were well lit, not scarred with the burn marks of dragons and the pocked damage of wars.

Ink held out his blue hooves… no, not his hooves. His little brother's hooves. Polnoch's hooves. They reached for a pair of foals, guiding them together to look up at him (taller than Ink actually was off the ground; 'little' brother only conveyed their relationship by age).

"Now, I've got to go again," said Polnoch's voice in ears that weren't Ink's, but that he heard through nonetheless. "But before I do, I brought a special stone this time. See it here? I'm going to bring this to your mom."

"Really? Why?" asked the little filly of the pair; Ink's soul bled at the sight of her face.

"She misses you," Polnoch's voice answered. "More than anything."

“Don’t be sad, mommy!” said a little colt with a smile.

“We’re always here for you!”added the filly.

Their faces had haunted Ink's nightmares for the better part of his life. "Polnoch took pity on you?"

"Keep watching," On replied.

"Well," said Polnoch's voice. "She'll be very glad to hear that, and to see your faces. You're great kids. Neustannaja. Upornyj. I love you."

"We love you too, daddy—"

The image in his mind vanished when Ink dropped the rock. Soldier On, seeing the stone dropping, flung herself fully over the bar of the galley—badly burning her right hind leg on the lit stove as she dove to narrowly catch her precious message before it struck the airship floor. Fried rice and diced vegetables soared through the air, splattering across the ringed couches and the carpet of the ship.

Through it all, only Red Ink was still. The only motion of his person was a quivering beneath his skin, as his muscles rebelled.

"No," he whispered. "No,"

"I tried to tell you," Soldier On told him, with some satisfaction. "Your precious 'Mentor' tried to tell you. Fuck, I would bet Polnoch tried to tell you."

"You… you were sleeping with him?"

Soldier On's steps hesitated, hitched, and for just a moment it seemed she might kill the stallion anyway. Standing with her wounded hoof not even on the floor, she slowly craned her neck to look back at him over her shoulder. "You say that like it was just… lust."

"Wasn't it?"

On scoffed. "I'm not a beautiful mare."

Ink shrugged. "I mean, maybe you're not traditionally effeminate, but—"

His words were cut off when Soldier On slammed a hoof into his chest, fully picking him up and pinning him like a bug against the ship's cabin wall. "You fucking hypocrite! You disgusting, sickening, useless bastard! You killed my foals!"

"You know I never meant to—"

"Don't you dare say the word accident. They're dead!" Tears formed at the corner of On's eyes, even as she slammed her free forehoof into the wall next to Ink, hard enough to crack the wood paneling. "Then you blamed me for killing my own husband! And now that you know, you have the fucking audacity to try and console me?" Her split hoof smashed, ankle first in a sort of back-hoofed slap across Ink's face, and when a splash of blood decorated the cabin wall, it wasn't clear if it was from her own wound, or the new cut on his lip.

Ink said nothing.

"You wanted to know why I surrendered? Let me spell it out. You feel awful, don't you? Some part of you is weighing whether you want to try and say 'I'm sorry' or whether they'd be wasted words."

Ink winced. "How'd you know?"

"I've been dreaming of this day for fifteen years, Roscherk." When Ink winced at his own name, Soldier On nodded. "I knew it. That's why you corrected me. A new name lets you lie to yourself; tell yourself you've changed."

Ink's eyes ran away, counting the spilled rice on the carpet; anything to avoid meeting On's gaze.

"You're right; there's nothing in the world you can ever do to apologize for what you've done. Not to me. Not to your brother. Not to your own niece and nephew.

"There's only one more thing I need you to understand. Look at me." When Ink hesitated, she lifted him higher on the wall. "Look at me." It wasn't shouted; the demand was hissed. And, not so much intimidated as out of mournful obligation, Ink met her gaze. "I want you to know one more thing. All this. This silence, your denial—look at me, Roscherk—all of it only came out because they happened to be your brother's foals. If it weren't for that, you'd still be telling yourself what you did was… I don't know if you think it was right, or justified, or whatever you told yourself to sleep at night. Whatever it was, you'd still think that. You'd still be chasing me, thinking an innocent mare was behind what happened to Polnoch, and you'd think you were right for all the burnt bodies you left behind chasing me. All the scars. The princess-damn war you started over it." On leaned forward, until Ink could feel the heat of her breath on his face. "I want you to remember that. Forever. You'll never change, Roscherk. You'll never find a way to apologize. You'll never make up for what you did. You're a monster."

Then she took her hoof off his shoulder, letting him collapse in a heap at the base of the wall. "I promised Polnoch I wouldn't kill you. He still sees you as family. But if you even have a scrap of a pony's soul left under all the gin and violence, I suggest you find a good poison, or a cliff, or a noose. It's the only good you'll ever manage."

With that, the broken but satisfied widow and mother walked up the hall and slipped into what had been Sunset Shimmer's cabin.

Red Ink sat and stared at the spilt rice, for a very, very long time.

14-1 The Crystal Connection

XIV

The Crystal Connection

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

XIV - I

The Old Folks' Carriage

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

On the day we were to depart for my old home in the frozen north, the Equestrian delegation gathered in the gardens outside the palace. In the rough gravel path that ringed a statue of Clover, Pansy, and Smart Cookie (the same one that had welcomed my first sight of the city), no fewer than twelve sky carriages had been assembled in a sort of snaking line. Milling around them were dozens upon dozens of ponies: dignitaries in formal attire, legion pegasi wearing harnesses to pull said carriages, attendants and family saying goodbye for the trip or competing to get huge traveling trunks strapped with belts onto the outsides of the carriages.

Gale caught a glance at me out of the corner of her eye from her place entangled in the thick of it beside Typhoon and Puddinghead; she shot me a wink in recognition but otherwise didn't even have time to turn her head.

I scanned the masses for Celestia, but though she should have been painfully obvious simply by looking up, my mentor was nowhere to be seen. As I wandered amongst the crowd, wondering if she was on the far side of one of the carriages and also had her head craned down, I very nearly ran into Hurricane Stormblade coming around a corner.

"Watch it, uni—oh. It's you." That spiteful correction came from Sirocco, just over Hurricane's shoulder. "Well, doesn't matter. Get out of the way."

"An Auditoris should avoid creating conflict for their officer. Your job is to make my job easier." After that light correction, Hurricane smiled at me. "Morty. Good to see you this morning. Though that… thing… is a little on the nose, no?"

The 'thing' in question was Wintershimmer's draconic spinal staff, which I had rested between my shoulder and my neck, much in the same manner Wintershimmer had throughout my youth. "Maybe. But I need it to turn off the old stallion's traps, if I want to give Jade the west tower back." I glanced over my shoulders nervously before dropping my voice, leaning forward, and adding "Then I'll help your little spy thing out. Clover's going to give it back to Lord Krenn to trade for heat for River Rock."

"Subtle," said Sirocco, before reaching out to push on my brow with a primary feather, correcting my leaned-forward posture. "I'm sure no one saw you trying to be subtle there."

"Do I know you?" I asked back.

"Sirocco," Hurricane offered, and in lieu of titles he simply added "Blizzard's sister."

"Half," Sirocco sniped, still holding her wingtip against my chest.

Hurricane used his sole wing to push his granddaughter's wing down, and though I will remind readers that I lacked nearly all the context of their prior fight, I wasn't blind enough to miss the obvious disapproval that flashed over the old stallion's face. Inelegantly changing the topic, though, he picked up with "Give it back to Krenn? Last time I met the dragon, he still had his head and neck."

"Apparently, it was his son, once," I explained.

Hurricane's eyes widened. "That is Dragon Lord Scathe? I remember him being bigger…"

"You knew that dragon?" Sirocco asked. "Did you… do that? Wait, is that the dragon everypony tells that story about? That you just stood in its breath?"

Hurricane chuckled and shook his head. "No on both counts."

"Wintershimmer," I explained, and for Sirocco's benefit I added. "My old teacher."

Hurricane sighed, and smiled, and shook his head. "The last time I met him—Scathe, that is—it was to sign a peace treaty. I take it Wintershimmer didn't trust the parchment it was written on?"

I shrugged. "Before my time. Have you seen Celestia? I wanted to talk to her about what we're going to be dealing with in Wintershimmer's vaults and make sure we wound up on the same carriage."

"I didn't realize Celestia was coming." Hurricane shrugged. "Tell you what, though; I'll save the two of you one of the benches in ours, if you like." With his wing, he gestured to one of the more-or-less identical carriages, distinct only for its comparatively spartan outfitting. "I don't think you're going to have much luck riding with Gale, and I'm sure you won't get enough room in there for Celestia."

"I figured," I replied. "And all things being equal, I'd rather not fly with Typhoon again." I dipped my head to exit the conversation, and in parting added "Wouldn't want to remind her how embarrassing her missing hoof is."

I continued my search in vain, and then settled to sitting on the lip of the fountain and staring up at the sky, as the packing and organizing continued around me. Celestia did not arrive. I watched the assembled and idly noted that High Castle was joining us, but that he was the only suitor in attendance—even Peanut Gallery, Puddinghead's direct heir, wasn't making the trip. He looked at me and smiled.

I regret not giving in to the passing whim to break his jaw.

Finally, when the crowd was mostly into their carriages and I was beginning to worry, I heard a voice over the trickling of the fountain. A voice I loathed.

"Ahem. Mage Coil."

I felt my neck shift like an owl's, smoothed simply by the force it took not to snap the motion all at once in an unwanted show of emotion. "Archmage Star Swirl."

"Celestia asked me to give you this," he said, and in his gray arcane aura, he handed me a sealed envelope. When I took it in my magic—ignoring the pain through sheer spite—I watched him open his mouth, endure my glare, and press on regardless. "I do not mind opening it, or reading aloud if—"

"Go away, Star Swirl."

I watched the old wizard take a few steps—noting idly that he was not wearing his usual bell-adorned robe and hat in favor of a simpler, more formal uniform—and approach an emaciated dull gray unicorn a little younger than myself with the most hideous blue bowl I have ever suffered to witness, adorned in tattered peasant's garb of mud brown. I didn't bother to inquire after the visual war crime that was the other pony, though; my attention was on forcing my eyes to work through the letter, which read thusly:

Morty,

I know I may be asking a lot to request your trust in a lesson after what happened with the changelings at Graargh's school. However, I am asking as your mentor and your friend, that you bear with me. I cannot accompany you to the Crystal Union. I have asked Star Swirl to accompany you in my stead.

To be completely transparent and fair with you: I do intend this as a lesson of sorts. However, I also know that no matter how much you and Star Swirl may be at odds, he has no intention to humiliate you or belittle you like what you faced at the school. I would like to hope that you and he can find some common ground, and perhaps even become friends through this experience. I can't say I expect that, given you are both such proud, stubborn stallions, but I hope. I do ask that you try to practice setting down some of your pride to see if you can learn from him; he is, in a lot of ways, a better wizard than I am despite my advantage in age. If you can do so, I promise, you'll come back from the experience in a better state than you left.

If this idea bothers you, I'll remind you that you're almost certainly headed for a hero's welcome from Jade and Smart Cookie and your old friend and acquaintances in the Crystal Union. If you find yourself in need of a pick-me-up, I hope that can give you the respite you—or, if we are being honest, your ego—needs.

I am sorry for springing this on you; if I had another option, I give you my word, I would have given you more notice.

If it is any consolation, I'll keep an eye on your new unusual houseguest, Graargh, and Cherry, in your absence.

Yours,
Celestia

Out of the vague misty spray of the fountain behind me, my hallucination of Wintershimmer took form. "This will be good for you, Coil."

"Haven't seen you in a while, old stallion."

Wintershimmer's gaunt expression tweaked with a mixture of curiosity and the tension that suggested fury without actually conveying emotion—but even if he were the real stallion, I knew he'd practiced the expression specifically for that effect, and it was just a bluff. "You would dare to talk to me like that?"

"A figment of my imagination? Yeah, I figure there's not much risk there. But you're welcome to surprise me. You agree with Celestia? You think I ought to grow from this?"

"I think her purpose for trying to alleviate your pride is misplaced, but she has nevertheless offered you an accurate diagnosis and an effective cure. You are right to see him as an enemy and a threat, but your hate overrides your reason. You will be a better wizard if you learn to control it." After a moment of ponderance, the old stallion sat on his flanks beside me on the lip of the fountain. "I would also suggest that there are a great many traps in the tunnels that connect my vaults which would make it very easy for you to assassinate Star Swirl the Bearded, and believably cast it as an accident. But I likewise know the suggestion is wasted on you. And I would not want you to indulge that advice for a reason as base as revenge. Certainly not ideological revenge, at that."

"Murder is only a virtue when committed in cold blood?" I quoted to him.

Wintershimmer nodded without so much as a chuckle at the ridiculousness of one of his more extreme quotations. "And at the moment, I fear you would indulge yourself in the heat of passion."

"So what should I do instead?"

"Immerse yourself in him," Wintershimmer suggested. "Sit with him. Debate him. Not on the subject of my research; some other topic. Ideally magical, rather than philosophical."

"What's the difference?"

Wintershimmer's brow dipped. "Don't you dare, colt."

"Fine, whatever. Nice talking to you." As I literally waved my hoof over my shoulder through his torso, dissipating the hallucination like as much mist or fog, I glanced over to where Star Swirl was still talking to the eyesore. "You might as well join me, Archmage. Hurricane was saving a seat for Celestia and I, so there should be plenty of leg room."

Star Swirl raised a brow at my indulgence (even despite the reality that my tone still carried my dissatisfaction, I'm sure). "I can find another carriage—"

"At this point, I doubt it." I gestured with Wintershimmer's staff to where most of the doors were either already closed or in the process of being boarded by an overstuffed mass of Equestria's delegation. "Celestia asked me to humor you. Don't let me change my mind."

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

I barely made it on time for the carriage to take off, though in the defense of the legion guardsponies trying to shut the door, it was because I was also already inside. In truth, if I didn't recognize the stallion at the door (Dusk Watch, I think) from Gale and I's last trip north, I doubt I would have been given the courtesy. Instead, a chuckling "He's with me," got my body double aboard just in time.

That made six of us the carriage; in addition to the aforementioned presences of two myselves, Hurricane, Sirocco, and Star Swirl, we had been joined by the now theatrically infamous Private Pansy. It was this old pegasus, butter yellow and with his right hind leg scarred and twisted so badly that its hoof pointed inward toward its left partner, who was the first to voice his confusion. "What? You… identical twins?"

"It's a candlecorn,"I explained. "A magic body made of wax." I glanced toward Hurricane and added "You remember when I cut that void crystal at the dinner table, and it was made of wax?" Reaching over to the body now standing in the middle of the carriage, I ripped his horn off with a hoof, and then held it frog up to reveal a burning candle of yellowish wax. "They're useful if you need to spare your horn a lot of magic, and—ow, ow, hot!" The dripping wax had slipped down the candle and past the horn of my hoof to the soft and sensitive frog. When I smashed the candle back into the candlecorn, the wick went first, and when the flame was snuffed, the hornless other-me collapsed dead on the floor. "I see. It's going to be one of these days."

"They just die when you put out the flame?" Star Swirl asked, brow raised. "All this time I could have just used a little wind, and—"

"The alternate form isn't just an illusion. The fire isn't actually on the outside to be snuffed, usually. Just what I get for showing off." I rubbed my hooves together to scrape off the wax stuck to them, then picked up the now largely cooled candle again. "Hurricane, can you spare a light?"

Hurricane groaned slightly in the motion of leaning forward, before being stopped by his granddaughter's wing. "I've got it, grandpa." Then she pinched three of her lead fingers, ignited a tiny flame like she'd been smoking cigarettes since she was four, and lit the candle. I quickly restored it to the candlecorn's brow, and it stood up before sitting down between Pansy and I, on the rear-facing bench opposite Hurricane, Sirocco, and Star Swirl.

"While you're offering, miss," said Star Swirl, producing a pipe from within his less noisy robes.

Sirocco glared at it. "You think I want to smell that thing in here the whole trip?"

"I'll magic away the smoke, I promise," Star Swirl replied. "Just promise not to tell my granddaughter. Us old ponies have to have our vices." Grudgingly, Sirocco lit the pipe, and after a brief moment of a whiff of something that was definitely not just tobacco but whose true identity escaped me, Star Swirl was true to his word and cast away the smell and the smoke alike.

"Well, I'm… honestly, surprised you solved your problem so quickly, Morty." Star Swirl offered me a smile.

"It's a temporary solution," I answered flatly. Then I finally sat back in the corner of the wagon and let my eyes wander, taking in the new pony. "Sorry, I don't think we've been formally introduced. Mortal Coil."

"Pan Sea," said the stallion, emphasizing a space in his name that history (and Clover's thespian cruelty) have forgotten. "Your reputation precedes you, Morty." After stretching out his wings to rest behind his back and stretching out his wounded hoof into the limited floor space of the cabin, the third-youngest stallion in the carriage (though only barely Hurricane's junior) turned to the other side of the carriage. "Miss, you called the Commander 'Grandpa'?" He then turned to Hurricane. "Is she—"

"Imperator Sirocco," the veritable filly snarled. "And yes. Commander Cyclone is my father."

"You really shouldn't introduce yourself as his imperator, Sirocco," Hurricane chided, before answering his old friend. "I gave her your job. She's my auditoris for the time being."

Pan Sea raised a brow. "What do you need an auditoris for? Having trouble keeping your hops in formation in the yard without a clear line of command? Or are you feeling like an empty nester now that Gale's the queen?"

Star Swirl chuckled at the question. "She still sleeps at home most nights."

"Not weird that you know that, when you're a hundred and she's eighteen," I observed.

The comment was answered with silence, as Star Swirl indulged his pipe. I would have said something further, but the sudden lurch of the carriage moving and lifting into the air, twisted my stomach into a knot, distracting me from the indulgence.

"If you're feeling jealous, Pan, I can find something for you to do too," said Hurricane. "But somehow I doubt you're very intimidating to the Dawn, and I'm mostly calling in a lot of old favors."

"The Dawn?" Pansy frowned. "Please tell me you aren't going to get yourself hurt?"

Sirocco huffed in amusement at the notion. "I don't think there's anypony in Equestria who can take grandpa in a fight."

Hurricane massaged a temple, and then shifted in his seat to face (the real) me. "We've got the benefit of not needing to be in all the diplomatic meet-and-greets, since I'm not commanding the Legion anymore. I've never actually been in the Union long enough to explore or see the sights. Anything you'd recommend?"

I couldn't help but chuckle. "Well, I'd be careful where you wander, unless you've brought a baker and a candlestick maker to help you blend in."

"I don't follow."

"Rub-a-dub-dub, three mares in a tub?" I shook my head when Hurricane continued to raise his brow. "Sorry. Hurricane, how do I put this? Everypony, every single pony you will meet while you're here, has somepony they're related to that you killed. I doubt I need to remind you about Queen Jade's late father; she was mad enough when Gale brought your sword up to fight Wintershimmer." When the comment made Hurricane recoil, I added "I don't mean to imply you did it personally. My mom has a scar on her back that I only recently learned she got from Iron Rain. But yours is the name everypony associates with the wars. More than Jade, more than your foals… more than Iron Rain, I guess. Everypony my age in the Union has heard of you, and the older ponies call you 'the Butcher' for what happened. So even beyond the weather, I wouldn't expect much of a warm welcome."

Hurricane solemnly frowned. "Maybe I should have stayed home."

"Oh please, Grandfather," said Sirocco, though to my amusement she did put a wing on his shoulder despite the harshness of her admonition. "If they're afraid of you, they'll stay out of your way."

"A shame you didn't come north earlier, Miss Sirocco. Wintershimmer would have liked you." The comment came idly around Star Swirl's pipe, and though he didn't seem particularly aggressive (especially compared to his subject), I couldn't help but note the hint of an admonition of his own in the turn of phrase.

"Morty mentioned him before; who's 'Wintershimmer' that everypony seems to know about him?"

I elbowed my wax body-double, and with a ripple, it took on its most familiar form, all yellowed and thin with sunken cheeks and narrow, glaring eyes beneath a thinning mane.

"That is… profoundly uncanny, Morty," said Star Swirl.

I took some glee in the comment, and with a mental nudge, showed off another little bit of golem-craft I'd been up to. The candlecorn Wintershimmer opened his mouth in Star Swirl's direction. "If seeing the face of death causes you discomfort, Star Swirl, I would encourage you to indulge your age and join me."

"Eugh," said Pansy. Hurricane frowned. But Sirocco looked forward with considerable interest, even leaning forward—at least until Wintershimmer looked her way.

"I am—or was, I suppose—Archmage Wintershimmer the Complacent. In my youth, I studied alongside Star Swirl under Archmage Comet until a… disagreement about the ethics of my magic saw me banished. With nowhere else to turn, I came to the crystal barbarians and slaughtered them with my magic until I got an audience with Warlord Corundum. From that day, I lived in the Crystal Spire, in what they now call 'Union City', furthering my research and protecting the poor miserable captives that the raiding barbarians kept as slaves and… prizes." (I was particularly proud of how that word captured Wintershimmer's peculiar way of conveying disgust, with just how far back his lips peeled from his teeth.) "As well as the foals of those unfortunates." There, the golem glanced briefly but meaningfully to me (obviously, more for Sirocco's benefit than any message for me). "When Corundum proved too effective in his campaigns against the Diamond Kingdoms, I killed him, and allowed a stallion named Halite to succeed him. I served Halite until he died at Onxy Ridge, and then I served the new Crystal… 'Queen', Jade." (Here again, the golem conveyed disgust, though subtler). "In that time, I raised two young colts as apprentices. The first was Solemn Vow, who I understand very nearly became King of Equestria through assassination and the magic of the warlock. The second…" A hoof was pointed in my direction to complete the thought. "Late in my life, I mastered my study of death and necromancy, and alongside Coil, I created a spell to travel physically into the Summer Lands. I instructed him to kill Clover the Clever with a powerful spell I created to sever a pony's soul from their body. Alas… Coil grew a detestable conscience. And, with considerable ingratitude, he killed me."

I flicked my hoof and the waxen form rippled back into a (silent) copy of a more handsome stallion.

"Did we really need the long version?" Sirocco asked.

My response was cut off when the carriage hit a bit of turbulence, and my real body briefly became far inferior to the waxen double, as I braced my foreleg against the wall of the carriage chamber, wrinkled up my face, and contemplated whether or not I needed to open the door mid-flight in order to empty my stomach.

Star Swirl gave me the unwanted mercy of picking up in my indiscretion, nodding at Sirocco's side. "I think you will find, Miss Sirocco, that Wintershimmer's legacy still weighs heavily in the Crystal Union, even now that he's gone."

"Was he as much of a jerk to you as he was to Diadem?" Pansy asked me with idle curiosity.

I forced down a swallow just moments before answering. "I'd—ugh—say 'depends', but since Diadem isn't dead, and there's no way in Tartarus she would be if he'd ever picked a fight with her, I'd say he was probably worse to me." I shrugged. "But then, he got me away from my mom, and I'm a wizard because of him, so… it's complicated." I let out a sigh. "Before I forget what I was getting to, Hurricane, there's lots of beauty around the city. The Frosted Forest should just be getting its namesake frost back this time of year, and there's the Grievous Gorge and the Crystal Mountains if you're into mountain climbing or big peaceful meadows or picnics. Inside the city, the Crystal Spire is the obvious thing to see, and I'm sure Jade will show off the boring, safe parts to the whole group. If you can find one where they won't stab you in the back, I'll recommend a hot stone massage, and the meadery is delectable, albeit in small quantities—"

"Hold on," said Hurricane when he finally found a pause for breath to cut into.
"The boring, safe parts?"

Star Swirl fielded the question, despite not being its subject. "The Crystal Spire wasn't actually built by the crystal ponies. Well, no, that isn't fair; the best we know from ancient histories that are probably more legend than fact at this point, the crystal spire was built by slave labor by the crystal ponies, as the capital of an ancient empire called Tambelon."

"Tambelon?" asked Pansy. "Is that like Tambellium?"

Star Swirl nodded. "I don't know for certain, but I've suspected ever since you all first arrived from Dioda already speaking the same language as we did. There are parts of our histories and myths that line up uncannily—Tambelon, or Tambellium as Cirra calls it, being just one example—that suggest a shared history." Star Swirl chuckled, and then added "Of course, Celestia eventually just told me I was right, but deus ex machina somewhat ruins the fun of history just as it ruins a play, don't you think?" As Pansy gave a small nod, the old archmage pressed on. "Tambelon was a kingdom ruled by a mountain goat lich, Emperor Grogar the Grim."

"What's a 'lich'?" Pansy interrupted.

Star Swirl gave a short nod in my direction, and I sighed at the prospect of simplifying a very complex necromantic ritual for a lay pony. "Short version, a wizard who raises themselves… themself? from the dead. It's not strictly required, but most liches eat souls to prolong their undeath and prevent their souls from dispersing."

Sirocco recoiled. "They eat souls?"

I nodded. "Not much different than greater spirits like the draconequus, or the windigoes some of you are quite familiar with. And if you cross a lich who manages to live—heh—to be a few hundred years old, your odds are about as good as they are with a windigo. Difference is, a lich knows how to set up traps. And that is why you don't go under the Crystal Spire."

It was a great end to my thought, a really beautiful delivery. And, had the door to the carriage not opened a fraction of a moment later, I probably would have looked very knowledgeable and charismatic. Instead, I had the experience of Dusk, or whatever his name was, opening the carriage door to say "We've got some turbulence up ahead, so I wanted to warn—"

Then I emptied my stomach across his finely polished parade-painted lorica segmentata at the sight of just how high up in the air we were and the realization of motion.

I don't like flying, but it's not the height. It's the motion.

14-2

XIV - II

A Scalding Reception

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

I can only be grateful to whatever higher power may apply (perhaps the 'Artist' of the crystals) that my stomach was already empty when we landed with a lurch that almost threw me from my seat. Ponies of the modern era may be aware of the idea of using springs on the axles of a carriage or chariot to absorb such impact, but that idea had not yet reached the minds of ponykind in my youth.

Outside, there could be heard the murmuring of a crowd, and the sounds of crystal horns and a choir, heralding the arrival of the Equestrian delegation. Still, just because my body didn't have anything to expunge didn't mean it didn't want desperately to relieve itself of queasiness by the feeling of solid ground beneath my hooves. I didn't give any more thought than that before I forced open the door and stepped out.

"Wait!" called Pansy, "They're supposed—"

I didn't think my moment of hunched-over dry heaving deserved an applause, but after a solid beat of confusion (and one notably off note in a performance of the then-Equestrian national anthem, Simul Fortior) applause is just what erupted. More out of confusion than anything, I looked up to take in the main market plaza of Union City. All the usual stalls were still there, but pushed out of the way to make room for a considerable crowd. The Equestrian carriages were lined up in order, slowly queuing to deposit their occupants upon an indigo velvet carpet where no less than Queen Jade and Smart Cookie were greeting the new arrivals personally.

The arrivals at that moment were the occupants of the first and most important carriage: namely, Gale, Typhoon, Puddinghead, the elder Queen Platinum, Frostfall, and an earth pony mare I didn't recognize but who, given she was about my age, was almost certainly Puddinghead's lover-of-the-week in addition to some tacked-on title to justify her presence. Of the assembled, Gale was barely containing her humor at my state, Peanut wasn't even bothering to hide the same emotion, and the elder Platinum was obviously furious that I had, once again, stolen the spotlight from the young queen.

After a moment of chuckling, I pushed myself up on Wintesrhimmer's staff, rolled my neck, and did my damnedest to regain some measure of dignity. I even stepped back toward the carriage, though it was Queen Jade's voice that called out to me, shouting over the crowd "You might as well come over here at this point, Coil."

Smart Cookie whispered something up to his alicorn counterpart, and Jade swiftly corrected "Morty, sorry."

I waved off the concern with a smile and a flicked hoof, marching up the line of carriages to the 'main event' carpet. I recognized more than a few faces amongst the crowd—Side Effect was there, as was Iconoclast, forming a line between us as the envoys and the crystal masses. But the thing that caught my attention wasn't the faces I knew; it was the fact that they were smiling at me. That the applause I mentioned earlier was… genuine?

"There we are," said Jade, once I was close enough that she didn't have to shout. "The stallion of the hour." The monarch of the Crystal Union extended a foreleg, and when I took it for a shake, she pulled me forward and wrapped me in her glittering wing for a rather crushing hug.

"Ow."

"Ah, sorry." Jade chuckled as she released me. "Cookie doesn't mind when I hug strong. But then, I guess you prefer a softer mare." There was exactly zero subtlety in the glance she gave to Gale.

I was keenly aware of Platinum the elder stepping up toward me, as she quietly but pointedly noted "I wasn't aware word of your… friendship… had reached as far as the Crystal Union."

"Platinum, lay off it." Puddinghead, reminding everypony of his considerable earth-pony frame, covered the distance to me with a single stride and then slapped me on the back hard enough that, were it not for my enchanted jacket, I'm sure would have bruised. "They're kids."

"Not helping," I muttered to the seated chancellor of the earth ponies. "Good to see you too, Queen Jade. Smart Cookie."

"Did you have to bring the, uh… walking stick?" Smart Cookie asked, leering nervously up at Wintershimmer's staff.

I nodded. "Unfortunately, yes. In addition to its other uses, it's a bit of a skeleton key." Puddinghead, at least, appreciated the pun, even if I got an incredulous raise of a brow from Gale. "So I should be able to give you back the vaults, with a bit of work."

"Appreciated, Morty," Jade answered. "But don't keep too busy; my Cookie is back thanks to you, and I don't want you to have to miss out on any fun." It was, perhaps, an inelegant solution for a segue; even with a lot of her Wintershimmer-inspired paranoia and solitude resolved, she was still a wartime ruler saddled with peace, and her lack of rhetoric showed when she turned fully away from me and toward the rulers to complete the thought. "We're having feasts all three nights, a proper crystal games, and for the last proper thaw of the year, the running of the pines."

"Well, that all sounds delightful," said Platinum with a nod. "We're all very grateful for a, forgive the pun, thaw in Crystal-Equestrian relations."

"As are we, Your Majesty," said Smart Cookie. "Now, I'm sure the rest of your delegation is maybe not as excited as Mr. Coil to get some fresh air, but I wouldn't want to keep them waiting. We'll have your bags chauffeured up to rooms, but to give you all a tour, I've set aside Commander Typhoon's crystal counterpart."

Gale smiled and let out a chuckle in recollection, and then piped up "As long as we don't have to drop a cathedral bell on her again."

"Oh…" Jade slightly shrunk—only slightly—and coughed once. "Yes, about that." With her one remaining wing (more of a stump was present of its pair than on Hurricane, but only slightly), the green alicorn gestured somepony from the crowd forward. "After, uh, recent events in River Rock… When I realized how close we came to war with Equestria, I realized that no matter what my late advisor felt, somepony so young probably shouldn't be my top military advisor."

"Reasonable," said Platinum.

"Kind, too," said Typhoon. When everypony looked to her with confusion at the comment, she added "Speaking from personal experience, even a legion was too much at that age."

I, however, had context the others lacked. "But you don't have anypony else, do you? Everypony older than us with military experience was with Halite, or one of the little warlords. You can't be telling me you looked past that."

Jade sighed. "Halite died twenty five years ago, Morty. Ponies change. I don't like it, but I'm trying to be pragmatic, which is why—"

The alicorn was cut off by a figure finally approaching through the crowd; she'd been dealing with the guards forming a line for the crowd even as she approached, which is why I hadn't paid much mind before. Still, I fault myself for not recognizing her sapphire (literally) coat and white-from-shock 'diamond' mane. "Mortal!"

I tightened my grip on Wintershimmer's staff, and if I am being completely honest dear reader, I did contemplate whether or not it was worth a year of my life to kill the mare on the spot with the Razor.

You should also know, in the interest of honesty, that it was the risk of a political incident and not personal mercy, which stayed my horn.

"Mother." I massaged my temple with the hoof that was holding Wintershimmer's staff, holding it in my elbow.

"Morty?" Gale asked. "This is your mom?"

"Morty?" With a curious look to Gale, Castigate (I won't bother calling her 'mother' a thousand years later) shrugged, and then explained "Alright. Yes, Morty is my youngest," adding "Your Majesty," with an unsubtly forced tone. "Chancellor. Commander." The latter was spiteful, nakedly. "I'm Castigate, Her Majesty's Warmaster."

Typhoon raised a brow. "Have we met?"

Jade tried her best to interrupt, even stepping forward into the middle of the circle-ish shape we'd formed. "I'm sure it's not a concern—"

"It's alright, my queen." Castigate even dared to put a calming hoof on Jade's shoulder. "I'm not going to cause trouble. It's been twenty years." She glanced to me. "Long enough for my softcoat colt to grow up and kill that rat-bastard Wintershimmer. I honestly can't believe it, Mortal. You were not the foal I expected to make something of himself."

I felt my eye twitch, and judging by the looks of concern I got it was visible. I opened my mouth for the first response I could think of, and then felt the words catch in my throat when Gale of all ponies shook her head in disapproval. Finally, I forced out "Yeah. Thanks."

Castigate raised a brow at me, but refrained from asking questions in front of the crowd. If nothing else, that could perhaps be called a virtue, or at least a skill: she was a survivor. In a time of peace, that meant blending in, playing nice, not rubbing her old scars. "If you'll all follow me," she said, nodding with her head.

"I'll pass on the tour. I still remember where everything is." I glanced to Jade. "The other copy of me in the wagon is a candlecorn; it's under my control, so don't worry about it, but don't expect much small talk. Have somepony bring it to my room."

"Ah, about that…" This time, Jade trailed off not with worry or hesitance, but a smile. "Do you want Wintershimmer's room?"

I pondered the question, and the memories it was sure to raise, until I caught a passing glance at the departing rulers on their tour—and, notably, I'm sorry to say to my high-minded readers, Gale's backside. I call this out not for the sake of lechery (though she was quite beautiful in an orange-red surcoat-dress-thing that was high fashion enough I lacked a proper word for it). That glance put in my mind Solemn Vow's instructions for my behavior in order to empower myself as a suitor. And said thought put in mind a very different benefit of Wintershimmer's quarters: namely, that he had a bed sized for two.

"I think I will," I answered with a nod. "If you do see Silhouette before I do, tell her I'm looking for her."

Jade looked almost concerned. "But… wait, aren't you and the Queen—"

"It's not that serious," I answered back, before adding with a smile "but believe me, I'll tell her she's welcome too." I strode two paces, stopped, and turned around. "Also… I know this isn't likely even before I ask, but do you happen to know my father's name?"

Jade looked at me with a very confused expression, which ultimately melted to a sigh. "I hate admitting Wintershimmer was right, but despite how much effort I put into promoting unity amongst the crystals, I don't actually enjoy spending time with Halite's inner circle. And even if I did, I certainly wouldn't spend my time talking about… conquests. You know I was never—"

"I know," I replied, glancing to Smart Cookie. "There's only one softcoat 'conquest' for you."

Smart Cookie did not seem to appreciate the implication, but I got what had been (before Cookie's resurrection) a rare treat: a sampling of Jade's wry wit. "As the Cirrans would say, Vidi, Vici, Veni."

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

I didn't actually make it through the crowd before I was stopped by a group of various crystal ponies, some of whom I recognized, but none for the same reason. A few were shopkeepers I visited on Wintershimmer's behalf, some were ponies who worked in the Spire, a few were even just random ponies I'd run into in the course of hunting a monster or a spirit, and otherwise knew nothing about. And about half the group were strangers, or at least escaped recollection. I would have started with what they wanted, but at first, I didn't know myself; they were all talking over one another, fighting to get closer to me and to be heard over each other's requests or demands.

It was amusing for about forty-five seconds. Then I lifted Wintershimmer's staff about a hoof off the ground and brought it down with as much force as I could. The smack on the street was something, but the fact that the dragon skull roared was, if I'm being completely honest, the real reason everypony shut up (myself included).

"Are you animate?" I idly asked the staff, but I got no answer. After a moment's awkward silence, I turned to the mass of crystals. "Right, one at a time. Let's see… Ms. Phial, you first."

The aged crystal mare with the thin rectangular spectacles that seemed probably useless in the face of cloudy eyes from cataracts stumbled forward out of the crowd with a smile. "Mortal Coil, it's good to see you around again. I was worried something had happened to you. When is Archmage Wintershimmer going to be treating us again? It's been months—"

"Wintershimmer is dead, old mare," interrupted a gruff young crystal stallion, probably mid-twenties, whom I did not recognize by name. "Archmage Coil, it's my daughter; she's been bleeding from her ears. Nopony's been able to help."

I raised a brow. "Ah. Raise your hoof if you are here because you need medical advice." Fewer hooves rose than I was expecting. After giving a moment's thought, I added "How many of you are here because you want to be seeking some kind of consultancy from Wintershimmer?" That got me every hoof. "Did Archmage Mistmane not sit in residency while she was here?"

Ms. Phial scoffed and then even spit on the street. "She's a nice mare, but a shit doctor. All sympathy, but she wouldn't even give me my medicine. I've been out for six weeks. Tried to tell me it was bad for my body, gave me some piss-awful tea. Then she had to run back to the softcoat south; something about a murder or something."

I couldn't help but chuckle a little bit at Phial's blunt tongue, though it earned me a glare from the irate old mare, thinking it was at her expense. "Well, alright. I'm going to go get the sitting room set up, and in about an hour, you can all come by. If you've got an issue that could result in somepony dying, get in the front of the line; I'm going to try and see you all, but it could take a couple of days, so we're going to have to prioritize." With that, I pushed forward with the dragon staff, and much like the mythical prophet Moseys, I parted the crowd.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

Wintershimmer's 'sitting room' was exactly as we had left it before my entire life changed. Two extremely well cushioned foreleg chairs, upholstered with hog leather (ethically deriving from 'pigs have no souls, so it's not meat') and tufted in a diamond pattern with little circular buttons had, for a full decade, flanked a hearth made of stone that wasn't shiny—a rare luxury in the spire. The chairs faced mostly away from the fire, though, across what we would now call a coffee table from a long recessed chaise that I would have called an alienist's couch, if the study of psychic discipline of natural philosophy had existed in those days.

All around the room were cabinets full of dusty medicine jars filled with preserved dried herbs and odd bits and bobs and magical trinkets, each made of fine quartz crystal because in the north it was cheaper than glass, and shelves of finely bound tomes full not of magic, but medical knowledge, alchemical formulae, and all manner of other secrets. The room was extremely tidy—Wintershimmer was a stickler for both hygiene and orderly appearances—but it wasn't actually organized. Instead, every jar's place, every book's resting spot, was memorized through the use of Surely Lock's Mind Palace, a mnemonic spell for memorizing sights and thus producing something like what is described as a photographic memory—only real.

When I entered alone, I first walked over to Wintershimmer's slightly larger chair (even though he was physically slighter than me) and ran my hoof along the leather, enjoying the texture and the smell. I next walked up to the hearth, and lowered the dragon staff's head toward a stack of charred but not yet disintegrated logs. I had always assumed Wintershimmer was quietly using magic, barely igniting his horn, to get the staff to act. I was corrected when, entirely on its own, the skull breathed a tongue of purple and green flame that, after a moment, created an altogether natural fire. The room filled slowly with the sound of crackling and popping, and took on the slight smoky smell of the hearth that brought me back to younger days.
One breath was all I suffered myself, before I walked to the far side of the room with its redwood doors, and pulled them open with my hooves, one then the other.

"Please, come in."

The first pony was the stallion who had pushed his way forward, and he'd brought the filly in question with him. Both were green; he a sort of minty color and she a rich forest tone. Both were earth ponies. And I hardly needed to ask about symptoms; while she wasn't actively bleeding on the carpet, the smears of the blood in her ears hadn't been perfectly wiped from her hard crystalline 'coat'.

"I-is this pony the Arc-mage you told me about, daddy?" asked the... filly? She was five, or so.

The father nodded. "He'll help you, Ivy. Just do whatever he says."

I nodded, hesitantly, a pit already forming in my stomach as I listened to the filly speak. "Um… right. I'm Ma—" I don't know what stopped me, but I shook my head. "My name is Archmage Coil the Immortal. But you can call me Morty, Ivy. It's nice to meet you." I dipped my head, then nodded with my horn to the couch. "Why don't you lay down on the couch? Should be more comfortable than standing. I'm gonna ask you some questions, and I'm going to have to touch your head a little; is that alright?"

Ivy nodded as she climbed up onto the couch. "Thanks, Mister Arcmage Morty."

"Morty?" asked the father, and then blinked for a moment and said "Oh, sorry; I'm Climbing Vine, Archmage."

"'Morty' is what the Queen calls me." After a moment, I thought to clarify "The Queen of Equestria. Better than 'Mortal Coil' by a longshot, so it stuck."

"What's wrong with Moral Coil?" (sic) asked Ivy, finally scrambling her hind legs up and sprawling out on the couch.

"I think he just doesn't like it," said her father.

I didn't take the hint, preoccupied as I was with the filly's ears. Bending down next to her and gently putting a hoof on her temple to tilt her head at a good angle for a peak, I carried on the conversation without thinking about it. "There's a saying, that somepony 'shuffled off the mortal coil'—it means they died." I turned the filly's head the other way, glancing into her other ear, and again observing no cracking or damage to her crystalline coat up until it gave way to softer flesh deeper in the ear canal. I even let out a sigh, though my next words masked it. "Being born a softcoat—uh, don't repeat that, Ivy; it's rude—but because I'm not made of crystal, I was embarrassing to my mom. That's why I got a bad name."

"Ponies still care about that?" asked Vine. "What are you, Halite's kid?"

I laughed for about half a second before I stopped in thought. My mother was one of Halite's inner circle, and there weren't exactly a lot of mares in that particularly unpleasant social club.

Then I finally realized I had gotten too far into my own head about my parentage. Halite was also a crystal earth pony, so the odds of a softcoat unicorn were infinitesimally small. Those weren't the first reasons that came to mind to invalidate the hypothesis, though. Aloud, I foolishly said "I'm eighteen…ish… So unless my mom went to Onyx Ridge, dug up Halite's body five years late, and—"

"Archmage!" snapped Vine, and when I gave him a sour expression at the interruption, he reared up on his hind legs just to gesture with his forelegs at his daughter, still directly in front of me.

"Ahem. Right. Sorry." I shook my head. "Right, Ivy, let's talk. Has anything happened when your ears started bleeding?"

"Like what?" Ivy asked.

"Hearing voices?" I asked. "Levitating off the ground?"

"Levytayting?"

"Floating," I clarified. "Maybe your head spun around, or you saw something that wasn't there, or—"

"No, nothing like that. It just hurts."

"Where? Just your ears? Whole head?" Ivy touched not an ear, but the crown of her brow, with a clinking crystal-on-crystal noise. "Alright. Let me just see here…" I meandered over to Wintershimmer's shelves, and from a wooden rack specifically for its display, I plucked a small silver hammer, its head no wider than the upper third of my horn.

"You're going to crack her coat?!" Vine stepped to put himself between me and his daughter. "What's wrong with her?"

"I'm not going to crack her coat," I cautioned. Well, no first I mumbled those words around the grip of the hammer; then I spit it onto an upraised hoof to talk, and repeated myself. I continued "Crystal coats reverberate audibly, and there's some conditions you can diagnose from the sound. I can't promise this won't hurt, Ivy, but I'm not going to injure you permanently."

"What do you think it is?" asked the father.

"I…" I hesitated, and when I saw Vine's face twist into worry at my hesitation, I jumped to the first answer I could consider: I lied. "I don't really know yet. Just working through a few theories."

I had a diagnosis one swing of the hammer later.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

"Rank cowardice," chastised Wintershimmer's ghost, swirling into being to fill his old chair a few hours later, when I'd sent Vine and Ivy away with the promise to do some reading in the remaining library and try to find an answer. "The filly's going to die."

I huffed. "I know. You know that I know, because you're in my head."

"Do you think you're being kind?" Wintershimmer pressed.

"I think if I can raise myself from the dead, maybe I can—"

"She has crystals growing into her brain," Wintershimmer interrupted forcefully. "You might be able to escape soul death, but unless you intend to stick her into an automaton like Vow, I am quite confident there is not a thing in this world you are capable of doing. Even I couldn't cure Stalagtitis. Spare the father the suffering. Tell the truth. Or better yet, use the Razor."

"What? You want me to murder the kid? She's still got a few months left—"

"Months of headaches, disorientation, confusion, personality change." My mental ghost of Wintershimmer dismissed the grim list of symptoms with a flick of a forehoof. "The father will be happier to remember his filly while she is still herself, instead of tainting her memory with days of crying and screaming, unable to control her body, begging for relief. But I am not interested in debating those ethics with you. If you would rather give the filly some milk of the poppy and prolong her life, that is your prerogative. What matters is that you do not flee from death. Which you are better than. So what is wrong?"

"You know—"

"Aloud, Coil. Stars help me, I don't need to be in your head to know what you're thinking. Clearly, however, that locational advantage isn't enough to overcome your… adolescent hormones." Wintershimmer waited a very long moment and then repeated "Speak, Coil."

"They respect me here," I answered, trying my absolute damnedest not to let emotion sneak into the words and mostly succeeding. Mostly was worth nothing, though, against Wintershimmer—even if he hadn't been in my head. "I don't want to throw that away by failing. If I can beat you, why can't I save Ivy?"

Wintershimmer raised a brow. "You know her condition is a death sentence. You watched me offer a merciful death to its victims before. Why then is this a failure, when it was not for me?"

"Because they value me here! There's no fighting with Platinum or Star Swirl over what I'm allowed to do with my life here. Jade clearly likes having me around, and even these random noponies understand what being an archmage actually means—"

"You are not an archmage yet, Coil."

I winced. "You know what I mean, Master."

"Master?" An amused huff escaped ghostly nostrils, but any sign of amusement was gone by the time I met his gaze. "I am surprised you have the audacity to call yourself a 'hero' when you call the unwashed masses 'noponies' behind closed doors."

"You know—"

"I do not disapprove," Wintershimmer interrupted. "It is practical. I merely thought you would benefit to recognize your own hypocrisy. Perhaps you might gain perspective from it."

"You don't disapprove?"

"Everypony is a hypocrite," Wintershimmer replied flatly. "I was the most feared stallion in the crystal world for half a century, yet these insignificant still knew to come to me when their feeble grasp of medicine and alchemy failed." With a waved withered hoof, the apparition continued "Or perhaps you would reflect that despite my commitment to follow the true purpose of an archmage—to be a magical guardian to the less capable—I killed no small few ponies at Platinum's Landing and… that other town."

"It wasn't as if they were hard to fix," I noted. "Given you used the Razor—"

"Do you sincerely believe I require you to offer a defense of my actions, Coil?" Wintershimmer shook his head. "I suspect these words are futile, but I will indulge desperate hope for want of a better tactic. Look at me, colt, and listen well." Wintershimmer took a very deep breath. "In Equestria, you have a better teacher than I ever was. She has frustrated you here, yes, but I have every inclination to believe her words in her letter. In Equestria, you likewise have challenges and struggles to overcome—struggles which will force you to grow, and to learn how to grow in the absence of a mentor, as I did when I came to this accursed backwater when I was still young. Though it is to my chagrin that you pursue her, your quest for your lover will present you with hardships that will force you to embrace magic unakin to what I gifted you. Here, in the Union, you may be happy, but you will stagnate. Do your duty here, indulge what glory alleviates these feelings you are now afflicted with, if you must. Kill the filly with kindness. Take your inheritance. Whatever it is. Then leave here. And do not return."

I recall staring for a very long time at Wintershimmer even after those words were done—the thought in my mind mostly being surprise that he would call Celestia his better. But the old stallion said nothing to break the ensuing silence. As I wondered in my own mind, his figment simply faded away.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

I didn't kill Ivy. I didn't even call her back. But I did settle the rest of the petitioners. And, when the last one was done, I was a bit surprised when a hand caught the door of Wintershimmer's parlor before it swung fully shut.

Perhaps a claw would also be a fair description, but at least its tips were dull enough not to scratch the wood.

"So, how's 'Her Majesty' in bed?"

I scoffed at the bluntness of the question as an old enemy and more recent… something, slunk into the room. Silhouette, for those who have not read my prior tale or simply want a reminder, was a mare of about my age with a dark-grayish smoky quartz coat and a mane of veined black-and-white marble with a vague tan (blonde?) hue in the stone. A rather harsh scar, or arguably a 'feather' if one is a geologist, ran from the right corner of her lip up and across her petite muzzle and up between her eyes to her maneline. Her most notable trait, though, was the mass of liquid quicksilver that had replaced her right foreleg—a limb which when she stood on it at least had the decency to be mostly leg-shaped, but which had a propensity for growing claws or fingers or other grasping digits.

My first instinct was to insult the mare, and it took me a solid few seconds to remember we weren't actually enemies anymore. So, instead, I settled for "I think I'm politically obligated to tell you I wouldn't know."

Silhouette groaned and muttered "Don't talk to me about politics, Morty," as she stepped into the room—rubbing her temple with 'fingers' as she did so.

"You should be careful with that leg, Silhouette. Quicksilver's poisonous. Don't rub your eye with it." I gestured to what had formerly been my own chair, and then collapsed into what had been Wintershimmer's.

Silhouette ignored my offer, instead splaying herself across the reclining chaise in a patently seductive way—only her tail's practiced placement left anything at all to my imagination. "Come on, tell me a little."

"Are we friends like that?" I asked with a raised brow. "I know we worked together at Platinum's Landing, but—"

"Come on!" Silhouette groaned. "You're still like this? Even after you killed the old stallion? Fine. Forget I came in. Up yours." Silhouette rolled off the couch, and started walking toward the door.

"Wait, wait." Silhouette humored me, at least, stopping mid-stride and turning her ears slightly toward me. "Sorry. You're right. New world. Fresh start. Blank slate." I hesitated a moment, and then shamelessly muttered "Fourth idiom for forgetting the way things used to be."

"Some things never change," Silhouette shook her head, but she wore a grin, and she did wander back to the couch. "Fine. Morty, I'm sorry; I was an ass to you growing up, and I made life harder for you whenever I could get away with it."

"Eh, it's alright," I replied.

Silhouette stared at me for a very long time, as if waiting for something. In my innate genius, after a solid ten seconds of silence, I added "It's not like you really could make things that much harder."

"Wow. I… you know what, I was hoping for too much there, wasn't I?"

"What?"

"Forget it. Just cough up the spiciest gossip in the world and we're even. What's she like? Does she know her way around a stallion, or is she as virginal as you?"

I rolled my eyes. "She's into magic."

"What, like you wear the jacket in bed?"

I broke into a full laugh, which made Silhouette raise a brow. "No, I think I'll leave that to your imagination for now," I told her. "How're you doing? Having a rough time with my mom?"

"You're mom's an asshole," Silhouette answered. "But no, it hasn't been too hard."

"Did she send you, or Jade?"

The answer earned me a cocked head. "Who says I didn't just come to say hi and hear some tasty gossip? Check up on my old friend who hasn't been around for a couple months?"

"Silhouette, I know I'm the most handsome stallion in the world, but even I can't make a mare come just by saying hi."

Silhouette's jaw dropped. "Sweet Artist… she actually changed you?"

For the reader's benefit: most of the credit for that simultaneously crass and clever comment goes to the late Solemn Vow. But I wasn't about to correct Silhouette. Instead, I grinned, and indulged another of the thoughts he'd put in my head. "In all seriousness, it doesn't matter which one asked. I'd love two favors, if you don't mind lending me a hoof. I'm sure you'll get some joy out of them two. Parents, and romance."

"Parents?" The word was punctuated with an uncharacteristic noise for the ever-confident young mare, at least for most of the time I'd known her. I suspected it was fear, though a part of me wondered why.

Still, I didn't dig. "You wanna spite my mom, right? About the job?"

Whatever it had been on Silhouette's face, it vanished into confidence. "Look, your mom isn't a fight I want to pick myself. But if you're gonna start one… well, I know where I'd put my money."

"Great. I need to know who my dad is. Or was. Almost definitely was. I don't know if I can ask, and put up with listening to the answer, without killing her. And I certainly don't want her to know why. The last thing I want is her getting involved with me and Gale."

"Ah." Silhouette nodded. "Well, I still have ponies I can ask in Jade's guard." I made quiet mental note, but I didn't find a moment to ask about the curious phrasing before she pressed "What's the other favor?"

I pushed myself up from my chair, walked confidently up to where the crystal mare lay, put a hoof on her shoulder, and pulled her into a kiss. I cannot tell you, reader, how much satisfaction I took in her shock at my forwardness, when for so long she had teased me in what little our private vendetta could be called a relationship. At last, though, she indulged back (indulged here coming from the word 'dulge', and archaic synonym for 'duel', to imply two wet, flexible, muscular bodies engaging one another in single combat, and not just the chaste kiss of lips).

"You're gonna cheat on Gale? On the Queen of Equestria?"

Thinking back to her description of the bite I got from Summer on our meeting at the Rains' house, I confidently explained "Gale would say 'hot'. But to answer your question: I have her permission. If I'm obviously going after her, trying to become Crown Prince, it looks like I'm playing politics. But if I chase any tail that swings my way—and most do—well, then I'm just a healthy young stallion."

"What a sick double standard," Silhouette answered, shaking her head.

I nodded "Given what little I know of Chancellor Puddinghead, I'm inclined to agree. But… if it gets us both what we want…?" I shrugged and smiled.

Silhouette raised a brow, and then let out a little huff of amusement, and then dared to smile back. "I'll help you find out about your dad. And I'll be your date for the feast, Morty. We'll see where it goes from there." I smiled, and lifted a foreleg to offer her the usual held hooves of a couple. "But—"

"But?"

"I need an introduction to Commander Typhoon."

"What?" When Silhouette frowned, I quickly added "I mean, sure, I can give you an introduction. Just wondering why. Seems like the second-in-command of the crystal army could just walk up and say 'hello' on her own."

Silhouette sighed. "When Jade put your mom in charge, I quit. I'm leaving the Union."

14-3

XIV - III

Feast and Famine

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

There were, in retrospect, rather a lot of important conversations that took place over that most-of-a-week in the north. If we'd had better records, I suspect it might have produced a master's thesis in sociology or international relations or some similar field.

In the absence of such enormous time, I shall do my best to filter down the list.

Though the Crystal Spire had a throne room, unlike was sometimes the case in unicorn history, feasts were not held before the throne in the main chamber. Instead, the belly of the Spire held a huge more-or-less round room (technically a dodecagonal chamber) with a huge fire pit in the center. Around it, the floor rose up in steps—a bit like the seating style of the Cloudoseum in Cloudsdale, where everypony in the room has a view of the central floor and perhaps one or two important boxes. In this case, the focal point for the room was a huge table with Jade and Cookie's talent marks emblazoned as a sort of heraldic iconography hanging from cloth on the table's face. Behind that table, the aforementioned hosts sat centered, with Gale and Typhoon enjoying Jade's company, while Puddinghead absolutely abused his access to his old secretary.

At a nearby table—but notably not in the limelight of the room, such as any place could be called dark when the walls were made of polished crystal and a huge fire was burning in the center of the chamber—one could find Hurricane and the elder Platinum enjoying a quiet moment to themselves as husband and wife. It was a rare luxury, one I don't begrudge either of the pair, and so they have my sympathy that it was ruined when, without any sort of request for the space, a heavily laden plate clattered down on the table at Hurricane's side, and a moment later, a crystal mare settled onto the seat.

"So, Hurricane… Long time no see."

The speaker was my dear mother Castigate.

Hurricane drew in a brief breath, but it was Platinum who spoke up. "Queen Jade introduced us not altogether too long ago for the tour… Commander, is it?"

"I'm not a Cirran," Castigate answered, picking up a blood orange and taking a bite out of it without bothering to peel it whatsoever. As a bit of the citrus' namesake colored juice leaked down her chin, she smiled. "I mean, I'm not even here as a soldier. You can call me Castigate."

"Why are you here?" Hurricane asked rather directly, eyes narrowing.

"Well, the popular rumor up here is we're going to be family soon. Figured I should say hello, get to know each other on better terms."

Platinum massaged a weary temple. "Whatever you heard is wrong, I'm afraid. Morty and Her Majesty might be very good friends, but they certainly aren't getting married. Morty isn't even eligible. He's not a noblepony."

Castigate raised a brow, then leaned forward across her plate to get a better view past Hurricane at Platinum. "I'm not sure whether to think it's cute you haven't thought this through, or to be offended you have such a low expectation of my taste in stallions."

Hurricane pivoted fully on the bench, so that he could cross his remaining wing between himself and Castigate, marking a very visible barrier with his obsessively well preened feathers. "Even if I didn't remember what it meant for some poor soul to be taken alive thirty years ago, Castigate, Morty didn't leave much to the imagination when he explained the subject. I'd rather not be reminded of that story over dinner."

Castigate shrugged, trying to play off the introduction as friendly and failing quite miserably. "Fine, fine, I can take a hint. Just figured we should celebrate together a little, be proud of the foals." The crystal mare stepped past Hurricane's back, and in passing Platinum, she observed aloud to herself (but obviously not actually to herself) "A crystal finally conquers the Diamond Kingdoms and it's Mortal?"

"Conquers—?!" Platinum's hiss of offense was cut off by her husband moving in a rather distracting blur of dark gray-blue, putting his wing over Castigate's foreshoulder and yanking back to make eye contact with the mare.

"You're making the same mistake as your son, Castigate."

"Hmm?"

"You think I'm the scary half of our marriage," Hurricane told her. "But we're not at war anymore. You've got nothing to fear from me. But Platinum?"

The genuinely reasonable warning earned a disdainful scoff. "What's she going to do?"

Hurricane shrugged. "If you apologize, I'll make sure nothing. Otherwise, you'll see her talking to Jade in private out of the corner of your eye some time in the next couple of days, and—"

"Jade?" Castigate raised a brow. "Oh, I see. That's… Hah. Adorable, Butcher, really." The crystal mare had the audacity to remove Hurricane's wing from her shoulder with a hoof. "Queen Platinum, if I've offended, I apologize. I wouldn't want any trouble between future in-laws. As for you… ex-Commander? Jade was an inspiring leader at Onyx Ridge, but the 'Union' isn't about to forget her being Wintershimmer's bitch for twenty years."

Platinum cocked her head. "But… surely, with Wintershimmer's passing, and Smart Cookie restored…"

"Think what you want, Your Majesty. I'm just being honest with you. Halite might not have been your favorite pony in the world, but at least you had to respect him." With a shake of her head, Castigate slipped away.

Platinum frowned to her husband as Castigate left. "I was at Onyx Ridge; I thought Jade was a delightful leader. Certainly, she was a great warrior."

"She was," Hurricane agreed.

Alas, twenty years of marriage do not let such a comment lie. "There's more behind that thought, Cane. I can hear it."

The old soldier sighed. "Personally, Jade was a great warrior. Being an alicorn doesn't hurt. And she was a fine leader on the battlefield. But… Before the windigoes, probably once a week, I'd sit down to a council argument about Jade: whether it was better to let her die fighting Halite and then sweep in while he was weak, or to come here to lay siege to the Spire and then let her pick up the pieces. Jade was never going to beat Halite and free the crystals on her own; even with a bigger army, the unfortunate truth is that between his cruelty and his experience he was always going to be the better general."

Platinum nodded. "That may be true, but we're talking about her quality as the ruler of a civilized state. The Crystal Union may not have the economy or the population of Equestria, but that is no reason to admonish a mare who turned around their society from such… barbarity."

Hurricane glanced in the direction of my mother, now mingling at the far side of the room with a few other crystals. "Between what Morty's told us since he came to Everfree, and what we just heard from Castigate, I'm wondering if she actually did. Castigate isn't the first pony to claim Wintershimmer was the reason the Union has been so stable all these years."

Platinum put a hoof on her husband's shoulder, pulled his height over her closer, and pecked him on the cheek. "I'm sure Typhoon and Gale will be glad to help if Jade needs any assistance. But for the moment, I think I'll refrain from worrying about the Union until I hear a reason to worry from somepony whose read on politics I actually trust."

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

When Silhouette and I entered the feast, forelegs entwined, it would be quite the understatement to say that there was some stir. Immediately, all eyes were on us, which as far as I was concerned was the natural order of things—but to my surprise, I found Silhouette at my side shying from the attention.

"Maybe this was a bad idea," she whispered in my ear.

"It'll be fine," I replied, and then dared to peck her on the cheek, thinking that might give her comfort.

The sound of tankards and plates dropping on the chamber floor (and a wolf whistle from the supreme political authority of the earth pony breed) proved I was… overeager in my encouragement. From across the room, I caught a very skeptical raised brow from Gale.

"Come on," I told her. "Let me introduce you to some of my new friends."

While the high table was her eventual goal, I had the sense that going there first was going to really get to Silhouette's nerves, as unprepared as I was to consider their mere existence. (For a reminder of the brashness I was used to from my crystal peer: Silhouette broke into my magically sealed bedroom just to sprawl herself in my bed to tease me, shortly before Wintershimmer's ostensible death). Thus, I glanced around the room, and settled on the first welcoming face I found.

"Okay, Silhouette, this is going to sound a little wild, but I promise he's very friendly. This is Hurricane. Hurricane, this is my friend Silhouette."

Hurricane smiled and dipped his head (a motion that still managed to make Silhouette pull back just a little—one does not cease to be the collective bogeystallion of an entire culture with just one small verbal assurance), and then fixed his eyes on our interlinked forelegs for a moment, before finally turning to me.

"I usually say that Gale can take care of herself, but you are an exception. So I should be very clear. If you're cheating on her, I'll kill you, but only because I don't want her to get hurt doing it herself. And to be completely honest with you: Wintershimmer was right to not want to pick a fight with me."

"Um…" Silhouette tugged rather hard at my foreleg. "Maybe we should…"

"Calm down," I insisted. "He's an old stallion who cares a lot about his daughter. And she's," I continued to Hurricane, "an old friend. I'm not interested in keeping secrets from Gale." I then nodded past Hurricane. "That's… Right, it's still Queen Platinum even though you aren't the seated Queen. Gale's mom, though that's probably obvious. Platinum, Hurricane, this is Silhouette."

"A pleasure," said Platinum, standing up and reaching out a hoof toward Silhouette. I realize in hindsight from her slightly tweaked brow that she wasn't expecting an earnest hoofshake, and least of all from a mercurial claw-thing, but to Platinum's credit, she reacted nearly as though it had been her intention all along. "I understand you were the mare who had a couple of… interesting encounters with my daughter and this one in Lübuck?"

Silhouette let out a little snort of amusement (though still clearly on edge from being so close to Hurricane). "You make it sound like we had a threesome."

"If you did, please do not tell me," Platinum replied, before sighing. "My apologies, for what it's worth, about your position. Your replacement is an intriguing mare."

Silhouette sighed. "It's probably for the best. And I don't think that's why Jade made the change anyway."

"Oh?"

"It's just a convenient excuse…" Silhouette let the words trail off as she glanced across the room toward the high table. "I'm sorry Your Majesty, and, uh… Commander? Morty and I need to be talking elsewhere."

"Oh, no trouble at all," Platinum agreed. "It was nice to meet you properly, Silhouette."

"Indeed," said Hurricane, and then he nodded once and added "I'm not here to hurt anypony, really. There's no need to be afraid."

"I… yeah," Silhouette managed before she pulled me hard enough to get my legs moving. "Bye."

"Eloquent," I noted as I was pulled toward the high table. "Really, I mean it, well done."

"That's the Butcher!" Silhouette hissed only once she was sure Hurricane wouldn't hear her over the dull roar of the crowded room. "And he threatened you to your face, and you don't care? Are you stupid?!"

"Even if he did decide to do something, Celestia would handle it."

"The goddess? You think she's gonna personally step in—wait, did you actually fuck her? When you were talking about her staring at your ass in the swamp…"

"No, no," I waved away the thought. "She's just my teacher. And my friend. Even if her idea of a 'lesson' is sometimes infuriating." I glanced briefly around the room at the thought of Star Swirl, and found the old stallion chatting with High Castle, Grand Duchess Chrysoprase (whom I had not seen in the crowd of the carriages boarding back in Everfree—a troubling addition to the crowd, even if I didn't fully understand the significance at the time) and a few other random nobleponies. "Look, it took me a while to get over it too, especially with what happened when I first met him. But Hurricane's just a friendly tired old stallion now. It's Typhoon you have to watch out for."

"Typhoon?" Silhouette repeated. "The one we're going to talk to right now? She's worse than Hurricane?"

"Oh, calm down; I didn't mean it like that. She's fine. She and I just got off on the wrong hoof." I couldn't help but chuckle. "I guess the two of you have that in common."

"Us and everypony else you've ever met?" Silhouette suggested.

I sighed. "I mean because you're both missing hooves. Though at least your story why isn't embarrassing." With barely a second between that thought and arriving at the head table at least close enough to be heard, Silhouette was left with a rather confused look on her scarred muzzle as I spoke up. "Your Majesties and et cetera..."

"Morty!" Jade grinned at the surprise of my greeting (having been deep in conversation with Gale and so facing vaguely away), only to slightly dampen upon seeing Silhouette. "I… had thought the two of you didn't get along."

"Funny how a fight to the death can bring ponies together," Silhouette answered, with just the barest hint of spite—not that I understood the edge at the time. "Gale—sorry, Your Majesty—good to see you. Anypony else make it? The little bear-shapesh—mmph!"

That last noise came from my magic grabbing onto her muzzle.

Typhoon, sitting on Gale's other side from the hosting monarch, sighed with dry amusement. "You're a little slow on the cast for us not to hear 'shapeshifter' out of that, Morty. Though most of us already know anyway."

"I'll ask later!" Puddinghead chimed in from the more distant end of the high table with surprising glee, before going back to his conversation with Smart Cookie.

"You know?" I asked Typhoon.

The pegasus triumvir nodded grimly. "Frostfall tells me the most interesting things about your experience at 'magic kindergarten'." Then her focused eyes turned on the mare beside me. "It's Silhouette, right? Are you and Morty an item, now, or…"

"Oh, it's nothing like—"

"We just needed a moment to catch up on lost time," I cut in. "Massage some… unresolved tensions."

Chancellor Puddinghead wolf-whistled mid-sentence, then carried on as if nothing had happened.

Gale frowned, put a hoof on the table, and pushed herself up to standing. "Morty, can I have a word?"

I indulged the queen of Equestria, leaving Silhouette alone for a moment between Jade and Typhoon, where she obviously felt no small nervousness unbecoming of her usual attitude.

Jade's gruff initial question did not help matters. "Was there something you wanted from me, Silhouette?"

"No, um… actually, I was hoping to talk to Commander Typhoon."

Typhoon raised her scarred brow, sat back in her seat, and nodded. "Go on."

"Um… look, I'll just cut to the chase. I'm looking for—"

There was a brief but very demanding distraction from across the room and the barely nascent conversation was quite thoroughly halted for a solid few seconds of wincing in the aftermath. To understand this distraction, we'll need to refocus for a moment on Gale and I.

"You didn't actually fuck her," was the first thing Gale said to me.

I shook my head. "Of course not."

"That wasn't actually a question, fuckwit. I'm telling you you're a shit liar."

"Are you mad?" I asked. "You don't sound mad, but—"

"I know what you're doing from Vow," she hissed, making extra effort to sound mad just to contradict my claim. "Would have been nice for us to have talked about it first, but I'm not out of the loop. It's fine. Makes sense. I fucking hate it because it's more political bullshit, but I get it. We both have to do what we have to do. But here's the kicker: I—oh, hey look!" Gale abruptly cut herself off to point across the room with one foreleg, pivoting on the other as she did.

I turned to look where she was pointing, but saw only a random servant of the Spire's palace staff entering with a tray of new hors d'oeuvres through one of the chamber's doors. What I did not see, because I was looking at the servant, was that Gale did not stop pivoting on her foreleg. Instead, kicking off the ground with both hind legs as well, she practically pirouetted on that single planted forehoof, and as she did, pulled her hind legs in tight to her body with all the power of her slim, sinewy build like as much of a coiled spring. When her rotation brought that compressed core and those folded legs to be pointed at the back right corner of my now-turned-away jaw, she released the pressure.

The result: a double-hoofed buck with her full body strength to the side of my head. If she'd been wearing Legion-issue steel shoes, I suspect she would have actually broken a vertebrae and crippled me, if not killing me outright. With softer, gentler silver shoes (it's the small mercies, I find), she only picked me up, spun me around in an orientation pegasi refer to as an aileron roll, and then left my crumpled form to stop abruptly by slamming into the nearest wall. I then made a rather awful squeaking noise, like a squeegee dragged down a not-quite-wet-enough window as I slid down to the foot of said wall.

"The kicker is, I have to play my part too," Gale concluded. "And everypony knows I don't pull my punches. Sorry, not sorry." A very satisfied Queen Platinum III took two strides away, lit her horn, and popped back into her seat with a show of teleportation that would have been quite the triumph if she didn't proceed to slap her own chin on the high table tabletop for having landed a good half-hoof too far forward in her seat.

Typhoon attended briefly to her little sister, offering a block of magically formed ice to hold against her chin (which Gale waved off appreciatively), before finally returning to the subject at hoof. "You were saying?"

"I want to join the Legion," said Silhouette, finally overcoming her hesitation and vomiting out the words in a rushed dump of thought. When Typhoon's brow climbed back to its earlier high-water mark, she continued "I'm a good scout; Morty can attest to that if you need. If he's still alive."

"He's fine," said Gale. "You fucked up his neck way worse than any time I've ever hit him and he walked that off."

"Right…" Silhouette swallowed quite visibly, turning back to Typhoon. "I know I don't have formal war experience, but I've fought enough monsters and rogue crystals that I've made a good name for myself here. And more than all that, I know my way around commanding a sizeable force. I'm not asking for a Commander's title—a, what do you call them, 'legate' or anything like that. But I could lead a squad for you. All I need is the basic pay and, I guess, for you to make me an Equestrian like Morty."

"Really?" Typhoon steepled her wings as she asked that concluding rhetorical question, more a mark of her surprise at the request than anything.

"I know I'm a crystal; I hope that won't be a problem. I'm not old enough to have fought anypony back then, and—"

"That's fine," Typhoon assured the younger soldier. "You'd be the first, so you'd have to expect you'll get trouble for it from the others, but the first earth ponies and unicorns had to go through the same. There won't be real trouble."

"Really?" Silhouette brightened at even Typhoon's tense choice.

"But I can't offer you an officer's commission," Typhoon continued.

"What? Why?"

"In the Legion, we don't fight solo the way you've learned. We—"

"Of course you do!" Silhouette interrupted. "Every story I've ever heard about you and the B—Commander Hurricane, I mean, says—"

Typhoon interrupted swiftly, and with practiced authority. "The Equestrian Legion is made up of twelve distinct legionary armies, each with four thousand soldiers and as many supporting ponies as well. One hundred thousand ponies. My father and I are two. And no matter what stories you might have heard, neither I nor he in his prime could fight even a full century alone, let alone a legion."

Though Typhoon's point in making this claim is valid, in the interest of historical accuracy, I wish to note it is also a damnable lie. Typhoon certainly could not fight the four thousand and ninety six soldiers in a standard legion with her accursed sword before they overwhelmed her, but I have every confidence that, wielding her frightening mobility as a world-class flier, using hit-and-fly tactics in combination with her ice magic, Typhoon would be the smart bet in such a conflict. It would just be very slow.

My particular insight aside, Typhoon continued with her point. "Every legionary is expected to know how to fight in those massed units. Not scrapping alone—no matter how good at it you might be—but flying in tight formation, or in your case, marching with gladius and scutum. Until you've served amongst those ponies, I won't put you ahead of them."

"I see." Silhouette didn't even properly answer the offer; she just turned and stormed away; I waylaid her en route to the doors, and the two of us made our escape only a few moments after we'd entered.

Watching us leave, Typhoon commented to her little sister "You should've killed him."

"It was for show," Gale confided back, though with a hint of a grin she added "Fun as hell though."

"For show?"

"Unicorn politics bullshit. Just keep it between us?"

"Ah. Sure." Typhoon picked up the crystal goblet set before her, and had it nearly to her lips when Gale sat back in her seat, revealing a rather intense look in the commander's direction coming from Queen Jade. "Oh, um… something you wanted, Your Majesty?"

"Hmm? No, nothing. I just… I certainly wouldn't want to tell you how to run the Legion of course, but it would be a pretty big favor to me and Cookie if you could take her on." When Typhoon raised a brow, Jade retreated from the pause behind the veil of a bite of sweetbread laden with sugared crystal berries.

Typhoon might have left it at that, but Gale was not so easily deterred. "You want to get rid of her? If it's just the whole thing with Morty and I, let me say officially on behalf of the crown, it's water under the bridge. She's a damn good fighter."

"I know," Jade agreed. "Maybe the best in the Union. It's not her fault, but… Well, you understand. Sometimes it's not what you do, it's who you are."

"I don't follow," Gale answered. Then, after a bit of a pause, "I mean, obviously for me that's true, and you were born an alicorn so that probably carries some weight, but—"

"I wasn't, actually," said Jade. "I, um… After I lost my father," (Jade pointedly refrained from glancing in Hurricane's direction across the room) "and most of the old warband, Halite started hunting those of us who were left. We were the last real resistance against his dominance of all the crystal clans and tribes. One by one, I lost my friends. Eventually, I was alone, freezing in a cave on the side of Mount Garnet. I prayed… well, it's more like I just cried out for any help I could. I must have fallen asleep, or passed out from the cold, but whatever happened, Luna heard me. And when I told her my story, and what I hoped to achieve for the crystals, she gave me her blessing." Jade extended what remained of her wings, and glanced somewhat cross-eyed up at the broken shards of her horn, both fairly briefly. "Her only requirement was that I not let anyone know of her involvement or her existence."

"That was before dad found them, then?" Gale asked.

Jade nodded. "Fifteen years before Onyx Ridge; maybe a little more. I know crystal earth ponies stay looking young for a long time, and nopony has a good frame of reference for alicorn age, but I'm a little older than your mother, Your Majesty. Anyway, since nopony was left who remembered me, when I came out of that cave and went to try and bring some of the clans who weren't as close to Halite's cause over to my side, I told them I was born this way; both my way of keeping my promise, and a good excuse for why they should follow me. Now, obviously, it doesn't matter much if I'm honest about it, but stories are hard to change sometimes."

"Well, thank you for trusting us with the truth," said Gale. "But, uh… I'm still not following how that applies to Silhouette? The only weird thing about her is the new foreleg she got a couple months ago, right?"

"I would like that to be the whole story," Jade answered with a wistful smile. "But I'm not as good at telling those kind of stories as you are down in Equestria. I can't find a place for her here, not anymore; you follow?"

"I… think I do?" Gale asked, glancing back to Typhoon.

Her sister offered a rather tentative nod. "I follow there's something wrong with her, but if you know what it is, Gale, you're ahead of me. She's not old enough to have worked with Halite or done something terrible, and you went as far as to take a mare who was close to the warlord and put her in the highest rank you had open, so obviously that's not a problem for you."

"Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer," Jade replied. "You understand enough, Typhoon; I'd rather not talk more about this in completely open company. I'll just say: even if Wintershimmer stoked a certain amount of paranoia in my court to serve his own ends, he wasn't often wrong. I need Silhouette out of power in my army, and ideally out of the Union, but she hasn't actually done anything wrong herself… the whole thing with Morty and Wintershimmer aside. So I feel bad for her. If you could humor her to be a scout-centurion or something to soothe her ego, I promise you, she'd be useful to you. And her heart's in the right place."

Typhoon sighed. "Be that as it may, it's one thing to accept a crystal into the Legion; it's another to let her skip up the ranks. If I'd taken a unicorn who was thrown out of a knightly order in disgrace and made them a legate or even a centurion, morale would be in shambles. I gave her the best offer I could. If you want her to take it, you're going to have to help her over her ego first."

"I might be able to help with that," said Gale between the two older mares. When they both looked at her, she couldn't help but don a small grin. "I've learned a thing or two about dealing with oversized egos recently."

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

When the doors at the far side of the room from the high table opened once again, it marked the first time in nearly a quarter century that all six of the survivors of the first Hearth's Warming were in the same room. Clover the Clever entered in full glory, carrying a wooden stave and flanked on either side by the two pegasi who had pulled her chariot: Tempest and Blizzard. She wore not wizard's robes, but instead an elegant ball gown of thin, nearly transparent lace netting, interspersed with diamonds. The net effect (pun fully intended) was that at least at a distance, she seemed to be surrounded in a floating matrix of glittering stars. (Again, her traditional costume of tattered sackcloths in the pageant is utter tripe).

Despite Clover's importance to this story, though, I shall have to spare you reciting her reunions with old friends (and one newer enemy, given Hurricane's loathing of her talents as a playwright—for those wondering why no first editions of the original pageant script exist, it is because Hurricane personally hunted them down and burnt them; anecdotally, this may be reflected in his character being rather harsher and more racist in the now popularized second edition). Our focus instead must settle on a rather uncomfortable reunion between two half-sisters.

Blizzard shared a brief hug with Hurricane (as did Tempest) before the grandfather was pulled away by his wife to share reintroductions with Clover after her long absence. Feeling suddenly aware of her place in a rather busy and social room, the young mare drifted over to where the welcome form of her grandfather had been seated, hoping that if she just sat still, hunched down, and kept to herself, he might return to keep her company and shield her in what was one of the bigger social events of her life.

Just as she settled herself, however, Sirocco returned with a platter of drinks and further refreshments for herself, her Commander, and his wife.

"Sirocco," said Blizzard as she hesitantly looked up.

"Traitor," Sirocco snapped back, though at least the snideful utterance was quiet, drawing no attention from the surrounding group. "Father sent you? I'm surprised he didn't entrust Maelstrom. Or is he already done with you too?"

Blizzard winced. "Oh… y-you don't know, do you?"

"Know what?"

"Maelstrom…" Blizzard hung her head, took a deep breath, and then calmly forced the words off of her tongue. "Maelstrom is dead, Sirocco."

Sirocco stared for a few seconds, blinking, and then simply said "I don't believe you."

Blizzard glanced around the room, then leaned forward. "There's more griffons. They came after you left. When food ran low, Wrest wanted to kill them. Maelstrom tried to protect them against her. Wrest killed him."

"More…" Sirocco shook her head. "No, no he can't…" Flames began to build on her wings as the platter with which she was carrying the drinks and food clattered onto the floor, splashing rich purple wine on the glittering crystalwork. "You're lying."

"Sirocco—"

"No!" Sirocco shouted. "He's not dead!" Flames burst up from her wings. "You shut your lying traitor mouth…"

The younger sister's words died down in shock when, despite the accusations (and the pressures of the scene she was causing, now fully turning heads), Blizzard had moved around the table, wrapped her wings around her sister's shoulders, and embraced her in a hug.

For a moment, the two were silent, peaceful. Blizzard shed a few tears in her brother's memory. Far more flowed from Sirocco's face.

Alas, it wasn't meant to be. Sirocco pushed Blizzard away violently with a hoof, and when Blizzard didn't fully yield, she got a shod hoof to the eye for her troubles. As ponies gasped at the fight, the burnt orange mare spread her wings and flew out of the room, trailing smoke as she went, and forced her way past the palace's attendants until she finally reached the quiet of the Union night sky.

Typhoon was the first to arrive at Blizzard's side; unlike Gale, she gladly accepted the offer of ice for what would, the following morning, become a rather bitter black eye. Soon thereafter, Hurricane arranged a private room to tend to his granddaughter and spare her the discomfort of being the center of attention in such a gathering. It was, I suspect, not his plan but rather just a lucky coincidence that the small bedchamber Jade afforded for her care was also a private enough place for Blizzard to give a report in full of River Rock's state and its newer griffon arrivals to Hurricane.

The old stallion was strong enough, and had suffered enough in his life, that through the news, he only comforted Blizzard with the embrace of his one wing, and saw her comforted as he tucked her into bed. But if one listened close that very night to the wind at the battlements near the top of the crystal spire, one might have heard the haunting voice of a broken old soldier cursing his gods. And in the morning, though the first winter frost had not yet touched the spire, one would find a line of icicles dripping as they dangled from the polished stone.

14-4

XIV - IV

The Last Duel of Star Swirl the Bearded and Wintershimmer the Complacent

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

If, while reading this, you happen to find yourself in Celestia's quarters and you see Philomena, stab that bird in the neck for me.

Despite my earlier intimations, Silhouette and I did not actually consummate our new friendship that particular night. Instead, disgruntled as she was, she retired to wherever it was she actually lived in town with the loss of her military position, leaving me alone in Wintershimmer's room until the following morning. Then she returned, still angry but refusing to talk further on the subject, wanting to find some less emotionally-involved physical activity to relieve her irritation with Typhoon, and I suggested she help me sort through and empty Wintershimmer's vaults. The idea was to get the controversial stuff before Star Swirl arrived to abscond with irreplaceable knowledge, raise ethical dilemmas, and generally create problems.

So it was that, carrying the birdcage of the phoenix Wintershimmer had kept on-hoof to prolong his lifespan toward a century in her quicksilver claw, Silhouette had ducked under the door of the vault, unerringly swung the cage in the vague direction of my head beside her to make sure it fit through the lower doorframe, brought the bars rather close to my head, and allowed a vibrant orange beak to slip just far enough out of the bars to chomp down on a particularly well-formed pale ear.

My reaction to yet further pain in an already painful and embarrassing day was very nearly to kill the damn bird with the Razor. The only thing that stopped me was a little voice in the back of my head.

"You know how much effort it took me to capture a live phoenix; I will be quite cross if you ruin it. And, being a sentient creature, I am certain your new mentor will care if you wantonly murder it."

I refrained from answering Wintershimmer's ghost only because of Silhouette's presence, and instead devoted my attention to directing my candlecorn as it carried two crates of priceless necromantic texts and scrolls, whose planks it had sunken into the wax of its sides instead of carrying them by magic or by balancing them atop its back.

"It's weird to be around those things now that you're in charge of them," said Silhouette. "Don't you find them unsettling?"

"They're just golems," I answered with a shrug. "They can't do anything on their own."

"That's what you said at Platinum's Landing. And now I'm missing a foreleg. Not that the new one isn't great, but I'm not exactly excited to lose another one to the same mistake."

I shook my head. "Wintershimmer was possessing them from inside the Summer Lands. And he's gone now." (I heard Wintershimmer's voice scoff in my mind.) "I can control them the same way, but nopony else knows how; not even Star Swirl, I think. So either it's me, or it's the golem acting on my orders. Either way, you're entirely safe."

"If you say so. I just…" Silhouette trailed off as the door opposite us in the old workshop swung open, revealing two wizards to whom I had quite opposite emotional reactions.

"Ah, hard at work already I see, Morty," said Archmage Star Swirl the Bearded, now clad in his unpleasantly noisy robes and carrying a gnarled staff in the crook of his right foreleg. "And miss, I recognize you from the aftermath of Wintershimmer's debacle, but I confess your name is escaping me."

"Silhouette," my companion introduced herself, setting down the cage of the phoenix you likely know as Celestia's pet, Philomena. "Nice to meet you, Mr…"

I let out a small sigh. "Silhouette, these are Archmagi Star Swirl the Bearded and Clover the Clever; Court Mage of Equestria and Archmage of River Rock, respectively. Archmagi, this is Silhouette, an old nemesis and now friend of mine."

"Morty makes for the most interesting introductions," Clover observed, amused, and offered a hoof to shake with Silhouette, before glancing down with raised brow at the liquid limb which answered the motion. "Ah, Master, this is the golem prosthetic you were mentioning? Fascinating."

"It is," Star Swirl agreed, before glancing at Silhouette. "Odd Wintershimmer was kind enough to give you full control over it when he wasn't around to override it, but I'm glad he did. I don't know if I could have overridden his control if he gave it a will of its own. Your foreleg might be the most sophisticated golem in equine history. I'd tell you to take good care of it, because I'm not sure either Morty or I could repair it, but given it's liquid metal, I can hardly imagine how you would go about damaging it in the first place."

"Huh." Silhouette nodded, glancing down at the limb in question, and idly forming fingers with which to flex in and out of a fist. "I guess I should be thankful?"

"It seems like you're already unloading most of Wintershimmer's stuff," said Clover, looking around the room. "Master Star Swirl said you needed our help, Morty, but we can certainly get out of your mane if you've got the situation handled."

I let out a small sigh—perhaps with just a hint of a huff of annoyance. "This is all stuff from the main vault, where Celestia and Gale and I fought one of the candlecorns. But there is also his private store, which I don't know how to get into." I indicated a familiar old bookshelf, not especially distinct from the other bookshelves in the room. "All I know is that it's trapped, probably lethally, specifically to keep you out." (The 'you', as I had mentioned previously, was directed to Star Swirl.)

"I'm assuming the vault is behind the bookshelf?" Clover asked.

"Well, it could be anywhere," I answered, wandering over to the shelf and pulling a heavy green book from the wall. For the first time after all my years watching Wintershimmer pull that same tome off the shelf, I could finally read the title. "The Encyclopedia of Touch-Contagious Diseases: A Survivor's Record."

Star Swirl snorted a laugh, and when we all turned to look at him, he muttered "Wintershimmer used to be a very funny stallion, when we were foals. That reminds me of his sense of humor. But it looks like you were mistaken, Morty, or there's more to it. That didn't open the door."

I flipped open to the middle of the book, and then dramatically dropped it on the floor of the workshop. With a vast riffling and folding, building to an almost skittering, living churn, the pages began to peel away from one another, unfolding and spreading until all four of us were forced to step away toward the walls of the room lest our hooves be swallowed in a parchment sea. Very little space remained around the perfect oval I had unleashed. And then, with the ominous grinding not of paper but stone, the center of the oval began to sink. Step by step, notch by notch, it lowered, clearly moving through space that should have been solid floor. After the first hoof of depth, one flat segment about a hoof across halted its descent. A moment later, another hoof down, there was another. Stair after stair emerged from the infinite parchment until, at last, the staircase ended—and the pages of the book that lined the 'shaft" of the stairwell blocking the path forward peeled away like a curtain to reveal an ominous doorway of ebony wood, framed in a wall of pale white stone that most certainly did not match any rock native to the glittering Crystal Spire.

"That's as far as I've ever seen," I explained, sauntering over to the side of the room and fetching my inherited staff. "So that we all have our expectations set, I appreciate your assistance, but what's in there is mine. I don't care if it's a clump of his earwax or a diamondfyre. Are we understood?"

"What's a diamond fire?" Silhouette asked.

Clover frowned. "Not the best part of our history. A diamondfyre is an enchanted gemstone turned into a weapon. Stories say they could wipe a city off the map, though more likely the damage inflicted would be limited to a neighborhood or a single large castle or fortification. Regardless, they're enormously powerful, and terrifyingly dangerous."

"And we won't find any here," Star Swirl added bluntly.

Clover raised a brow. "You sound confident in that, Master."

"I have all five known remaining diamondfyre in my analogue to this vault," Star Swirl admitted. "Archmage Comet spent the later years of her life getting them all together for her research; she entrusted them to me when she passed, and I hid them from Wintershimmer, as well as ponies like Hurricane."

Clover looked worriedly to her mentor at the comment. "I thought Hurricane was your friend. He may have been a soldier, but he always struck me as a great pony."

"Oh certainly," Star Swirl agreed. "But I knew there'd come a day when he decided he needed to cross that moral boundary for what he'd say was a just cause. Maybe the dragons, maybe wiping out Halite at Onyx Ridge and taking Jade with her. Maybe against the Windigoes, at the cost of your life. Whatever the case, there is magic in this world that should not be set free, even under the most desperate of circumstances. And there are many, many ponies who will indulge the easy path that such magic tempts."

I took in a short breath, and then without turning announced "Silhouette, you should leave."

"What? Why?"

"Last time I let you get involved in a wizard's duel, you lost a leg. And if I learned anything from killing Wintershimmer, it's that making sure my friends don't get hurt makes the fighting a lot harder. If you want to keep helping me out, go ask your friends about what we talked about earlier."

"Sure thing, boss," Silhouette replied with dripping sarcasm, but she did depart the room.

"So…" Clover glanced between Star Swirl and I a few times over her glasses, before finally she said "I can see there's some tension here. Is there anything I can do to help?"

Star Swirl looked to me, apparently yielding. I shrugged. "You tell her; I'm not repeating myself again."

"Either we both say our side, or we agree to table our disagreement," Star Swirl answered quite firmly. "I trust Clover's counsel, even if she disagrees with me."

After a moment's consideration I took a deep breath and threw myself into the philosophical deep. "I have the Scourge of Kings. It originates from extreme mana burn, in my case from fighting Wintershimmer. Presumably, Electrum wasn't actually cursed by Celestia, and instead overworked his horn in a similar way. In both cases, Wintershimmer had a cure: a horn transplant. I need Wintershimmer's research. Your beloved mentor thinks using it is a bad idea and won't hoof it over."

"Really? Why?"

Clover had turned to her old master, but I picked up the answer on a surge of verbal momentum. "Because I might get myself killed—nevermind that it's a risk I'm willing to take. And because it dishonors the ponies Wintershimmer mutilated to figure out and prove the process in the first place."

Clover frowned at me gently. "I would like to hear that part of the argument from Master Star Swirl, Morty."

I still had a great deal of respect for Clover from our limited prior interactions, and most notably from our duel in the dragon lands. Thus, I felt more than a bit ashamed of myself, as I hung my head and muttered "Apologies."

"Master?" Clover prompted.

"To some extent, Morty's representation of my points are accurate, though he misses nuance, and one particularly major case that, I admit, I haven't drawn attention to previously. Our other discussions had been in open company." I perked a brow as I shot Star Swirl a side-eyed glance. "To address his first point: I do think there's more to being a wizard than violence by way of a horn. There is no doubt in my mind Morty will one day be a world authority on necromancy, and he is already the sole surviving keeper of several legacies of magic that were already lost to unicorn tradition until Wintershimmer resurrected them. To even risk throwing that all away in the belief that his value comes solely from violence is to do a great disservice to generations of young mages who will follow when all of us are gone." (Ha!)

"To his second point: it's a valid point, but a minor one. If there were no risk or uncertainty, and with my third point notwithstanding, I would agree the need for healing outweighs the ethical unpleasantness by which we learned of this treatment.

"But my third point is this: once the greater public knows this is possible—not just as a freakish novelty that Wintershimmer dragged out of the dungeons to win an argument, but displayed proudly on the brow of of a stallion of high reputation, used to achieve all sorts of feats of magic and heroics—where does it end?"

Clover quirked a brow. "I don't follow; surely there are less than a hundred carriers of the Scourge of Kings? And given the only two ponies to actually stumble onto a new case in all of history were Morty and Electrum the Omniscient, the slippery slope seems like it isn't very steep and doesn't slide very far."

"Only if your imagination restricts you to seeing this as a limited cure for the Scourge of Kings. But never forget: Wintershimmer's first demonstration was giving magic to an earth pony."

Clover's eyes widened.

I was, perhaps, not so enlightened. "So you're worried, what, somepony irresponsible is going to learn to do a ritual it took Wintershimmer to figure out, and start grave robbing to stitch herself into an alicorn?"

Star Swirl shook his head. "I'm worried that well-meaning ponies like Meadowbrook will see this knowledge as an advancement of medicine, and take something currently only accessible to highly educated mages, and make it available to the masses. Then I will expect it to be misused. And I don't just fear grave-robbing. How much do you think the richest nobles or the less-scrupulous merchants of Lubuck would pay for a horn, or wings? Enough for the toughs in dark alleys and highwaymares at the edges of society not to ask questions?" Star Swirl sighed, and concluded "Once this djinni is out of its bottle, every step toward that horrible future will be a step for moral good, up until the very last one. You've heard the expression that the road to Tartarus is paved with good intentions?"

"I…" Clover looked between us, and started with me. "He's right that just killing monsters is a reductive view of the good we can do as wizards. I can understand if you find Diadem's radical position in the opposite direction restrictive, but I believe there exists wisdom in a middle ground." Then she turned to Star Swirl. "Similarly, Master, I see your concern, but surely there's a compromise we could make for Morty's sake, rather than costing him the use of his horn for the rest of his life. I for one would advocate we all band together, work through the research, eliminate the risk, and cure Morty's case before it has the chance to spread. If we could eliminate the Scourge of Kings, and then destroy the research, wouldn't that be worth it? To spare ponies like Platinum their suffering?"

Star Swirl sighed, and in that sigh, it occurred to me that neither he nor I could reveal what we both knew about how far progressed the elder Platinum's case was to the mare who, of the three of us, was surely her closest friend. "Then, Morty, it seems you have your answer. I'm already a century old, and when I am gone, the care of that research I sealed away will pass into Clover's hooves. Perhaps, in the time I'm still here, going without using your horn will at least give you some perspective into our point of view."

"You realize you're actively incentivizing me to not mention a trap on the way into this vault and kill you?"

The most famous archmage in Equestrian history chuckled. "If Wintershimmer managed to build a trap that could kill me past Clover's luck without him even being here, then I deserve to die. But I'm also going to call your bluff, Morty: you're a better pony than that, no matter how angry my position makes you."

With that, Star Swirl walked down the parchment stairs to the door of the vault, and began to inspect it.

"Sorry," Clover whispered, before gesturing with a hoof that I was welcome to go before her. "I should mention, Morty: while I can maintain my spell while doing other things, like I did in our duel, it's enormously taxing. So unless you specifically need me, my plan is to stand behind the two of you and maintain the spell, so that if you do set off any traps or defenses, we can all have good 'luck' and things will be okay."

I walked up to the door—the farthest I had ever seen Wintershimmer progress into the vault. As I did, I raised the skeletal staff of my predecessor in an emulation of his style, and found myself satisfied that the motion was enough to open the doorway. What we found behind it was a long stone hall, its bland flagstone walls only decorated with little iron braziers—or more accurately, the skeletons of braziers—which flickered to life one by one despite the complete lack of fuel or spark to fuel their flames.

"Ominous," Clover muttered behind me.

Star Swirl scoffed. "Yet more of Wintershimmer's flair for the dramatic. He could just as easily have laid his traps in a better decorated—and shorter—hallway. But that wouldn't serve his aesthetic, would it, Morty?"

"No, I imagine it wouldn't." I stepped past Star Swirl into the hallway, dipped the skull on the staff in the direction of a fire, and watched it open its mouth to catch a bit of the magical flame between its teeth, in an emulation of a fleshier, livelier dragon. "On the other hoof, on the topic of aesthetic, Wintershimmer knew better than to think he could make bells on a robe long enough to trip on 'work'."

"There's no need to take our disagreement to such petty grounds, Coil," Star Swirl snapped. "Lestwise I might point out that at least my school of thought sees its members fed enough not to look sickly."

I stopped mid-stride, turned around to face the bearded old stallion, and for just a second I found myself on the verge of listing off mares of roughly my age who preferred my physique to his. Fortunately, a voice in the edge of my mind spoke up first.

"You will not enjoy comparing sexual exploits with Star Swirl," cautioned Wintershimmer's grim tone. "Or so I infer, given how hesitant you were to challenge me on similar grounds some time ago, when I still drew breath. Remember, the stallion is over a century in age. And Clover is his granddaughter, lest you forget; you know the stallion has had success in his personal affairs. Do not pick a losing fight."

"Should we continue?" Clover asked, gesturing on ahead. And, neither Star Swirl nor I seeing reason to stand in the hall and bicker, we all pressed on.

The first deathtrap Wintershimmer set came very abruptly, when partway down the hall, Star Swirl's hoof caused the stone beneath it to ripple like a shallow puddle.

"Hmm… see that?" he asked, nudging the point again with the barest tip of his hoof.

I nodded. "An illusion?"

"Alongside necromancy, it was always one of Wintershimmer's specialties." Star Swirl lit his horn, and then gasped when Clover lunged forward, grabbed his shoulder with a hoof, and pulled him back.

"No!"

"What?" Star Swirl frowned. "Your spell warn you of something?"

Clover nodded. "Dispelling that would be a very bad idea."

"Huh." I briefly raised my hoof as if to push further beyond the invisible line Star Swirl had found, but then thought the better of it. "Any idea what happens if we were to dispel it?"

"That's the downside of the spell, alas." Clover shook her head. "I get a relatively ideal possible future, but it's not like I get to see what the other possibilities were."

"Fair enough." I glanced around the hallway, then lifted the dragon staff up to a brazier and placed the iron between its teeth. When the skeletal dragon bit down, I pulled, and some tension and coiling in the spine of the staff added to my strength, wrenching the ironworks from the wall. With a flick down the hallway, I indicated my desire, and the staff followed suit, 'spitting out' the torn down brazier. As we all watched, it flew down the hall about two strides length before abruptly being struck by a beam of green light shooting up through the floor, which made it rather grayer and less shiny.

Lest I delay your gratification longer than I had to wait myself, when the now duller iron hit the ground, it exploded into fragmented little shards that, with a squint to focus my eyesight on them, I realized were stone.

"Petrification," Star Swirl observed. "Not usually Wintershimmer's go-to."

"So we know there's a trap in the floor that the illusion is hiding," I summarized. "Which can be triggered by something flying overhead, even if it doesn't touch the floor itself. Which suggests some sort of basic anima of intelligence?"

"You think there's a candlecorn in the floor?" Star Swirl asked.

I shrugged. "Maybe just the candle part? Hard to say without dispelling the illusion that's hiding it. I still don't understand why that's a bad idea yet… Should we try standing back further in the hallway and see if dispelling the illusion would be safer?"

"Backing up strikes me as a good idea," said Star Swirl. "But I have a better solution for getting a clearer picture." As we all strode back, Star Swirl's horn ignited in golden magic and, well back of the illusion, he drove a spell into the floor. There before us, stone smoothed and flattened, and then… a wooden frame began to appear around the edges of the hallway, delineating a roughly four-leg by three-leg cutaway of the walkway. The contents of frame slowly turned to glass, and as we watched, the transformation of stone into glass extended downward at a shallow angle, toward the space below the illusion, from whence the petrifying ray had been flung.

It was a tour de force of magic; in all my years I'm certain Star Swirl is the only pony I can think of who could transmute so much matter in such a magically rich environment so casually. Indeed, though, the effect was brilliant, and the revelation was startling. Eventually, Star Swirl's window pierced through to a chamber disguised from above with the illusion we'd tentatively tapped. The view wasn't altogether useful, but it was revealing.

"Miasma's toxin," I observed of the acrid purple haze, roiling and churning as if the clouds had been distilled within disturbed water. "So the magic isn't just an illusion; it's holding the gas back."

Clover nodded. "But then we still don't know anything about the petrification spell…"

I shook my head. "Maybe we don't need to. I'd bet a good bit the point of it is: if we hadn't seen it when I threw the brazier to try and judge how far the illusion stretched down the hall, then when we saw this, we'd teleport or levitate ourselves or walk on the ceiling or something to get past the pit of gas. It's a trap specifically designed to punish wizards who notice the first trap and take an obvious solution to bypass it."

"Oh," said Clover, nervousness creeping into her voice. "I… suppose I'm not ruthless enough to have thought of using a trap as a diversion for another trap."

"With no offense meant," said Star Swirl, "that is why I wasn't going to do this without Morty present. Out of all of us, he has the best chance of understanding Wintershimmer's mindset. What do you propose, Morty?"

"Can you shapeshift a bridge for us out of the stone floor?" I asked. "Since the petrification was a beam coming from below, as long as we've got something between us, that should work for a shield as well as getting us over the gas pit."

"Trivially," said Star Swirl, and barely sooner had I said it than it was done. Sure enough, as the bridge extended forward, a green beam shot up—only to be transformed from a slightly darker stone into a more lightly colored one. Star Swirl extended the bridge a good stride or two past the point of the beam before lowering it back down to floor level, at which point he looked at me. "Think that's far enough?"

I shrugged. "I'm gonna walk forward now; if the petrification trap is still there, I know Clover can undo that for me. But try and stay close enough for me to still have your luck; I don't want to risk not having that if there's something else on the far end."

As I walked forward with very slow steps, I idly queried back "Clover, did Archmage Hourglass come to you while you were working on this 'luck' spell?"

I didn't dare to look back, but I heard enough of Clover's posture shift to guess at a shrug. "No, why? Did she come to visit you?"

"Yes," said Star Swirl with a sigh. "After he awoke from fighting Wintershimmer."

"More recently too," I added. "I, um, stumbled on a secret room in my new house. Apparently…" I stuck my forehoof out just barely past the edge of the bridge but then immediately pulled it back. The nervousness was not rewarded; absolutely nothing happened. So, slowly, I began to lower the same hoof down to the floor at the bridge's end. "Solemn Vow had made a hidden room with Clockwork's Runic Septagraph carved in the floor. He'd used it to set up Hourglass' Horological Hoop… though obviously he hadn't maintained it since his death. Hourglass came to me while I was trying to fix it."

"A Horological Hoop? But you don't have Tourmaline's Grimoire, do you?" Clover asked.

Star Swirl chuckled. "Just because it's tradition to put your thesis in the old book doesn't mean that's the only place anypony writes theirs down, Clover. Especially not Hourglass, given she seems keen to spill her secrets everywhere she possibly can."

My hoof met solid ground; nothing terrible, or even notable, happened. After two solid steps forward, I gestured for my elders to join me. "I was curious if she had to warn you about the effects of your spell on the health of time and reality themselves."

"Oh, no," said Clover. "I spent fifteen years perfecting this slowly. It's very stable."

"She puts my Omniomorphic spell to shame, Morty," said Star Swirl. "When you see my old chicken scratch in Tourmaline's Grimoire someday, you'll understand Clover's the real mage to be admired."

"Oh please, Master," said Clover. "You redefined an entire school of magic. I just wrote a clever trick with divination."

"Isn't it sickening how they play off one another with these platitudes?" asked Wintershimmer's voice in my mind. "No wonder their philosophy led to the intellectual dead-end of Diadem's school. Beware lest you should become this way with the changeling and the earth pony."

I didn't feel the need to acknowledge Wintershimmer's comment, but it did bring to mind an idle curiosity. "Star Swirl, did Wintershimmer ever ask you about shapeshifting monsters up here in the Union? Or, I guess it would've still been in Halite or Corundum's days, before the 'Union' proper."

Star Swirl cocked his head. "You mean like the ones from your little duel at the schoolhouse?" When I confessed to my surprise with a raised brow, the bearded archmage chuckled. "Celestia doesn't keep many secrets from me, and I did already suspect there was more to your little bear-cub companion than just a case of lycanthropy. No, to answer your question. I only spoke to Wintershimmer rarely in his exile, at least until Jade unified the crystals into a society we could peacefully interact with. I reached out to him once about the centaur and a gargoyle named Scorpan, but—"

"He knows," Clover observed. "He saw my memories when we fought."

"Ah, yes." Star Swirl sighed. "You defiled her soul."

Clover chuckled. "Better than doing what Wintershimmer had wanted, Master. Come on; let's see what the next horror is." Clover took two steps forward, then shuddered in place as the ground beneath all of us could be felt to shift.

"A trap?" I asked.

Clover shook her head. "My spell would've caught it. I don't feel anything. Which suggests a divination blocker of some kind, rather than danger in-and-of itself. We're just going to have to be a bit more careful going forward from here, and—ah!"

That last noise was echoed somewhat by both Star Swirl and I as, past the petrification beam and the toxin pit, just past the edge of the bridge, the hallway in front of us tipped down into a slide, sending us all rolling together into the dark. I should stress, lest you think we were idiots, that continued forward without Clover's spell, that we hadn't actually moved forward at all. It would have been especially smart to back up, but wizards of any quality are not, on a whole, the kind of ponies to take a step back when volunteers are called for, even when that is objectively the smartest thing to do.

Star Swirl almost immediately slipped and fell, while Clover and I scrambled backwards—only to find that the hallway some distance back behind was part of a rather large see-saw like contraption, and our path back had been blocked by the rising back half. Star Swirl's horn ignited to try and teleport away (or something; I don't know what he meant precisely), only to fizzle and spark like an apprentice foal's first stab at a third-circle incantation.

The slide lasted for a surprising while, even if the darkness lasted only a moment; by the time the upper hallway was out of sight, we began to see a light from below. Then, as we slid further, there were more lights: braziers, around an apparently elliptical room of harsh gray stone with a dull brown dirt floor. The ceiling was its most interesting quality, absolutely covered in bitter black void crystal, so much that the air felt thin and empty to the trained horns of the three mages who were deposited on the floor in something of a heap.

"Damn," said Star Swirl, trying to rise to his hooves and visibly struggling until Clover and I were able to help him up. "Broken," he muttered, lifting his right foreleg and noting the sickening angle his ankle dangled. "And thanks to my old friend's choice in ceiling decor, I can't even shapeshift to fix it. At least we know why your spell died on us, Clover."

"You can heal broken bones with with the Omnimorphic spell?" I asked. "What else can you heal?"

"It only lasts as long as you keep up the spell," Clover explained. "Remember, for all its advantages, you can't seal the Omnimorphic permanently." Then she shook her head and looked around. "How is this even in a demiplane, with all this void crystal? This has to be… most of the void crystal in the known world, right?"

"It's not a demiplane," Star Swirl noted.

I nodded, taking note of a few glimmering veins and split geodes of precious crystals interwoven between the stones and void crystals in the walls and ceiling. "We're underground in the Union. Nowhere else has this many natural gem veins. Not even close."

"I imagine we're directly beneath the Crystal Spire," Star Swirl added. "The older I get, the less I believe in coincidence. Morty, our discussion of Grogar's tunnels beneath the spire when we were in the carriage on the way here seems much less theoretical."

"Grogar?" Clover asked.

"Ancient goat lich," I answered. "Built the Spire a long time ago."

"Fun," joked Clover. "And do you see anything to this trap? Are we just supposed to lose hope here and starve?"

Star Swirl scoffed. "Maybe that's Wintershimmer's idea of irony. A trap that reduces me to just a tired old stallion."

I, however, had to shake my head. "You think the guy who wrote the Razor is just gonna let us sit here and figure out a way to get out? All we know is it won't be magic killing us. I'd bet on some kind of poison gas."

My bet was proven wrong, but the principle sound, frighteningly quickly. The stones of the wall on the far side of the chamber began to grind and twist and crack, and then pull apart under their own volition (probably enchanted from within so as to stay insulated from the void crystals on the ceiling).

Issuing from behind the stones, the three of us heard a serpentine hiss and a distinctive rattle, a dozen times deeper than any rattlesnake one might trample underhoof.

"Is that—?" Clover started to ask.

"Basilisk," I hissed, hurling myself at my companions and stretching out a leg to block their eyes as they had both (naturally) looked toward the noise before the sound issued forth. I managed to put my foreleg in front of Star Swirl's eyes, though I wound up punching Clover in the face (thankfully with far less strength than my romantic interest had to me the night before), and though I felt a bit bad for a fraction of a moment, I also managed to turn her head away in time not to meet the creature's horrifying gaze.

"Ow!" Clover said, and then a moment later "Thank you, Morty. But… aren't its eyes going to be warded by the void crystal? They're magic too, right?"

I shook my head. "Remember Hurricane's armor still lets Typhoon throw ice. The crystals only work on arcana." (Of historical note: void crystal isn't wholly ineffective against pegasus magic; however, most of the time a pegasus uses magic it's insulated from the air by being wrapped in an elemental 'packet', like a wall of fire or a barrage of icicles.)

"I'm not sure that it makes much of a difference," muttered Star Swirl, as we all listened to the rattling slowly slither forward and worked very hard not to look toward our impending deaths. "We can't fight it without magic, and even if we never look in its eyes, its fangs are still lethally poisonous."

"So we need to get our magic back." It was very, very hard not sweep my eyes around the room to help supply an idea, so I instead squinted them shut and outright sat down. "I don't know a ton about void crystal, so if either of you have a trick up your sleeves, I welcome it."

Clover proposed the first idea, as half-baked as it (understandably, given the timeframe) was. "Morty, you and I will run. Throw dirt or rocks at it when it's going after me, I'll do the same. Hopefully we can distract it. Master… figure something out."

"We ought to just look at it," said Star Swirl, about halfway through a stride of mine and the beginning of Clover's. "Petrification can be reversed. Poisoning can't. The Sisters will come looking for us, that crystal filly—Silhouette—knows at least vaguely where we are, and then their alicorn magic will make short work of it."

"You're giving up?" I snapped, breaking into a sprint as the monster approached Star Swirl's position, and swiping a foreleg to fling as much dirt and debris backwards as I could.

"I'm being practical," said Star Swirl, as he lowered his horn to the floor and began scratching out a message in the dirt. "This trap is meant for us. And while I might be an old stallion on his last legs anyhow, petrification for the two of you is a far preferable solution to losing two of the brightest young mages of a generation… Clover, are there two 'L's in basilisk, or—"

Clover did me the decency of hefting a full sized rock in the frog of her hoof and hurling the thing at the basilisk as it slithered toward me. "Spelling is not important now, Master Star Swirl." The blow literally hit the creature's rattle, producing a very strange sound I won't attempt to onomatopize here. Then she continued "You obviously have some idea; I've known you too long not to hear it in yoru voice."

"The chamber it came out of," Star Swirl admitted, seemingly begrudgingly. "Magic will work there, since whatever enchantment opened the wall would otherwise have been nullified by the void crystals in the ceiling."

I made sure I heard the serpent off to my side before I looked up in the direction from which the beast had originally come. Sure enough, there was a little chamber—much more obviously worked stone than this larger cavern—which had no visible roof at all, but also no sign of void crystal.

"But if you get bit on the way over there, you will die. And I can't run. So as soon as I'm done with my message, I intend to look. I trust the two of you won't risk your lives if it gets too close."

"Right," I said. Then I picked up the most sizeable rock I could and flung it vaguely in Clover's direction, trusting that even blind I couldn't miss something roughly the size of a dozen farmer's wagons daisy-chained together.

The noise it made suggested I had hit it, and as I veered away from the noise, I heard Clover let out a gasped "Oh—!"

The problem with wizards is, all the cunning—all the 'cleverness', if you will—in the world doesn't make up for how stupid we can be when deprived of our preferred tools of borderline godlike power. Case in point: in trying to look out for my well being and see how close the basilisk was getting before she needed to throw another rock, Clover failed to account for the possibility that my scrawny wizards forelegs had hit the basilisk, but not hard enough to actually distract it, let alone to harm it enough to get its head to turn back on me.

For perhaps the only solid moment in the fight, Clover got a chance to take the basilisk in, in all its glory. Easily a hundred and twenty hooves long, and four or five in diameter on average, the great serpent was covered in huge green and yellow scales, more like those on a dragon than less magical snakes. Its tail, of course, ended in a rattle like a rattlesnake—although unlike a rattlesnake, this one was covered in red-gray spikes two to three hooves long, giving it the overall impression of an oversized morningstar. Jutting out from the front-middle of the snake were an octet of closely-grouped, stumpy, and mostly vestigial legs that resembled somewhat those you might find on an iguana or a komodo dragon. In nature (not that basilisks occur much in nature, owing to the relative infrequency of chickens sitting on even small snake eggs, let alone those of great jungle snakes to produce such a large specimen) the claws were useful for climbing, but generally held up off the ground when the creature was slithering on flat surfaces like the dirty floor of Wintershimmer's deathtrap.

Moving up from the forward-center and the legs, we would find the beginnings of a 'mane' of spines like those on mundane legged reptiles. This trail of spines culminated in a large crest, like that of a chameleon, atop the creature's head—the 'crown' which gave the creature the title of 'king of serpents'. Otherwise, beneath that crown, one would find a hood like a cobra, and a head shaped rather like that of the same more natural snake: a relatively short face, coming to a point, and a very wide mouth held open as it turned toward the source of the blow to its body. All this was framed beneath two brilliant emerald green eyes.

And seeing them—meeting their gaze—of course sealed Clover the Clever's fate.

The short exclamation I mentioned above was all she managed to get out before her mouth gave in to the rocky gray spreading down from her own eyes. Slowly, painstakingly, I lost my best chance of survival.

"Clover!" I shouted.

Star Swirl scoffed. "Calm down, Coil. It'll be alright. My sympathies for the boredom, though." As he spoke, calmly as if commenting on the weather, even as his own apprentice faced what might be a very slow and miserable path to oblivion (for uncured petrification in a cave somewhere, forgotten and abandoned, is a fate far, far worse than death), Star Swirl posed himself so his dangling broken hoof was pointing down at the chicken-scratch he'd carved in the floor. "Try your best to avoid our argument, while you've got some time to think. I've got a message here. I'm sure Celestia won't be long." With that, Star Swirl craned his neck awkwardly over his shoulder, something like pursed his lips, and let out a sharp and piercing whistle.

I don't know how much of what I said in reply was heard, as stone swept toward his ears, but I still shouted out "I'm glad Wintershimmer got to prove he was better than you one last time, you stubborn bastard."

And then I was alone with the serpent.

14-5

XIV - V

The Monster Under An Adult's Bed

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

What you are about to read was performed by a trained professional under desperate circumstances. Do not try what you are about to read at home. I will not be held liable for some idiot thinking they can pull this stunt with a manticore or something, and stars help you if you find a basilisk to test your mettle against.

To reiterate the state of the battle: we were in a roughly circular cavern somewhere beneath the crystal spire. The ceiling of the cave was lined with most of the world's natural void crystal (at least, excepting the portal to Tartarus beneath Canterlot… but we'll get to that), suppressing all unicorn magic. A particularly large and venerable basilisk had emerged from a chamber on the far side of the room, which appeared to be removed enough from the void crystal in the main room to allow a mage to wield their magic—but getting to it would require outrunning the basilisk, and given it was big enough to swallow any of the three of us whole (and for those unfamiliar with monster hunting lore, landspeed almost always scales linearly with size), I'd only survive an attempt to outrun it once in a puce polka-dotted moon.

Clover the Clever had already fallen prey to bad luck (something I suspect she had forgotten happened to the rest of us who didn't just turn it off with magic), and Star Swirl had full-on given up to put his faith in being rescued by Celestia and/or Luna—perhaps justifiably given he broke his decrepit foreleg in the trap slide down into the cavern, but I still felt it was a cop out to put Celestia in danger, and I certainly wasn't going to trust Luna to rescue me.

I swept the floor of the chamber visually again, while holding my foreleg up to block line-of-sight between myself and the basilisk. It should be reiterated beyond any shadow of a doubt that I did not have a plan, and I was seriously considering Star Swirl's proposal not out of agreement but purely desperation. Before I fell to that level of defeat, though, my eyes fell on Wintershimmer's staff, which I'd lost my grip on when we fell on the trap-door see-saw slide apparatus. It was, at the absolute least, a weapon—even if the bone wasn't thick enough to insulate the magic animating the staff against the void crystal (a determination I had no way of making except by trying my luck), its teeth were still sharp, and more importantly it was still something resembling a polearm (perhaps a 'spinearm'?). But the most important and best quality of the staff was that it wasn't that far away.

Given the basilisk was already bearing down on me as the only still-animate prey it could see, and apparently having woken up from suspended animation hungry (or just being hungry because it was, for all its magic, a wild animal), I didn't stop to think if turning around and running back to where we had entered the chamber was a good idea; I just ran.

I heard the slithering behind me. I dove. Snap, behind my tail, as I skid on my belly on the rough stone (not an experience I recommend). My hooves touched the staff, but sent it skittering away. I clambered forward, throwing myself onto the dry off-white bones. One of the spines jutting from its back pierced my belly shallowly, but that was hardly a concern, compared to the imminent danger and pain I felt when the basilisk's bite on my tail hair yanked out more than a few of my precious blue-white strands.

The same motion yanked me backward, dragging me and the staff clutched to my chest about a stride back, and then in a failed attempt to snap its neck and toss me up into its mouth, instead flung me across the room. (Which is to say, I suspect losing hair from my tail threw off its aim and saved my life—however much life is worth with an ugly tail). If I hadn't had the staff's spines literally buried in my chest, I'm sure I would have dropped it as I landed. Instead, wheezing out what little I had of breath in my lungs from the impact back onto the stone floor, I pushed myself up on it, using it as a crutch in a way Wintershimmer never really had even despite his advanced age.

I highlight that metaphor in the moment because I contemplated the irony even in that live-or-death moment, and for my stray thought I earned a chastising voice in my mind.

"Shoulders and joints are not the hard parts of the body to bolster with magic, Coil. Focus on surviving. I saw something on the south wall; a stone out of place. Almost white; I'm not certain your conscious mind realized it."

It was an unusual comment, and were I not in the heat of focusing on not getting lethally poisoned, I might have dug on it further. As it was, my tongue ran on its own as I contemplated how to get across the room in any direction, and tried to figure how far I was from the basilisk's secret chamber where I could do magic (without just looking, since that was fraught with peril). "How in Tartarus do you expect me to know which side is south? Even if I hadn't just been thrown across the room, we got here through a portal."

"I suppose you just assumed the slide was facing north. Now—"

"No time," I snapped, as the rattle of the basilisk's tail and the coiling of the absolute lowest part of its body that I dared to let into my field of vision suggested it was rearing back for another strike.

That's when I had the idea. The most wonderful, terrible, staggeringly bad idea.

When I heard the snake's mouth hiss and I smelt its foul breath, I jumped.

Forward.

"What are you—?!"

Looking up was a necessary risk at that point; if I turned to stone… well, if I screwed up the jump, I was going to die either way, and at least stone would spare me the sensation of the pain. As it was, though, my timing was right; even if on an instinctual level, I knew what I was doing, and so instead of meeting the basilisk's gaze, my eyes saw the top of its open mouth and the two fangs literally dripping green venom that would probably spell my momentary death.

My forelegs soared over the shorter lower fangs of the so-called king of serpents, and as I lunged, I thrust Wintershimmer's staff forward. The dragon skull met soft palate, spines and spikes digging into vibrant red flesh. I hardly had time to look at it, though, before my free forehoof met a forked tongue, and I had to awkwardly pull myself further forward into the mouth. As I did, I rammed the 'tail' of the staff forward. Even if the void crystal in the room hadn't been sapping at least some measure of the enchantments on the bones, I had no doubt the sheer mass of muscle behind the snake's jaws was enough to crunch through the most magically fortified of bones. I had no false hope the staff holding open the beast's mouth to keep its fangs out of my exposed torso was a permanent solution. I only needed it for just as long as it gave me: time enough to scramble past the surely lethal, poisoned fangs and into the basilisk's throat.

"Coil, it… oh!"

I didn't acknowledge Wintershimmer's ghost aloud; the sound of the groaning and then snapping of bone and alchemically preserved cartilage behind me, combined with the sudden sensations of darkness and crushing peristalsis, meant I had no particular breath with which to hold an academic debate.

However, something else interesting happened at the moment that the basilisk closed its mouth. Namely, I suddenly became fully insulated from the void crystals in the cavern ceiling, thanks to walls of fairly thick flesh all around me. That meant that, though it was piercingly painful and tiring, I did get the satisfaction of a brilliant and white stable blue glow around my horn when I focused up my magic.

Basilisks are not sapient creatures, and so do not possess souls; the Razor would be of no help to me. That being said, Wintershimmer and I had been killing non-sapient monsters since I was old enough to remember—and for all its offensive prowess and size, a basilisk isn't especially complicated by traits like natural regeneration or amorphous anatomy. It was even a reptile, and therefore a vertebrate. Further, I had one of the most purely powerful horns in the living world, and it happened to be only a (relatively) thin layer of muscles removed from directly touching one of the basilisk's vertebrae.

An abrupt and audibly snapping rotation of just one disc of its spinal column very near the base of its skull in place by a full three hundred sixty degree cycle was enough to instantly paralyze the monster, while also tearing enough surrounding flesh and vital central arteries to induce internal bleeding that would see the beast dead by the time I physically fought my way back out of its mouth.

"Star Swirl's plan was better than yours," Wintershimmer's voice arrived in my ear, chiding. "But I commend the efficacy with which you enacted your plan."

"Please…" I gagged briefly, as even the very minor way with which I moved my mouth to answer meant I briefly tasted the inside of the basilisk. I refrained from continuing my thought for a moment as I pushed forward, until I got back into the 'mouth' of the creature. There, rather than risk poisoning myself even on its still fangs, I slipped out the side of its cheek, pausing only to take the largest shards of Wintershimmer's staff with me. "…you were literally the pony who taught me I had an ethical obligation as a wizard not to shuffle my problems off on other ponies."

"The Sisters absolutely carry the onus of mages, even if they don't bother with titles. If they did not, allowing them to aid in your battles against me would have been reprehensible." Wintershimmer sighed. "The stone is to your left now, by Star Swirl."

Even when I took a deep breath to center myself and focused my memory, I couldn't place seeing it. It was a tiny thing, too; easy enough to miss even for somepony actively searching for it. If Wintershimmer's voice hadn't called it out, even if I had seen it, I would probably have inspected the basilisk's chamber first for a way out. But when my hoof so much as grazed the rock, another segment of the cavern's wall ground open, revealing a staircase back up in what I assumed was a rough parallel to the slide which had left us in peril in the first place.

"Well, that's convenient," I noted. "Any recommendations from the back of my own mind on what to do now? Even if it weren't for the void crystals, I don't exactly want to burn out my horn picking the two of them up."

"Leave them down here and continue on." Wintershimmer replied. "If you make it out of this place alive, you ought to be able to get my research back without Star Swirl in the way."

"You want me to effectively kill Star Swirl the Bearded and Clover the Clever?" I asked, before rolling my eyes. "Right… you directly asked me to in life."

"I am, in this moment, merely the voice of the convenient ego. You could always come back for them later. Better, I think, to find a way out of this place, fetch a petrification cure from among my tonics, and return to solve this problem alchemically. If anything, now you have the guarantee Star Swirl will not try to abscond with or censor my treasures." Wintershimmer nodded toward the stairs. "So now we must hope I did not place more traps that require magic to bypass."

"Either that, or I sleep down here…" I shuddered at the thought. "Right, let's see what's next."

The stairs, which I walked extremely gingerly, led up to the original hallway just past the point where the floor had tipped away. In the other direction, beyond a smooth curve in the hall, just out of sight of where we had fallen, I found another door—this one inscribed with a tiny plaque, and guarded by a walkway of stone bricks that had each been carved with a single magical glyph.

This is my greatest creation, read the plaque.

"Oh. Joy," I muttered aloud, actively thinking about the ghost of my mentor somewhere in the recesses of my mind. "I hate that this is actually really clever of you."

"If it were clever of me, and not the real Wintershimmer," said my figment "Then surely I could just tell you which of my works I consider to be my most respectable. What do you think?"

"It's gotta be the candlecorns, right?"

"'Gotta'?" Wintershimmer asked, as if I had dishonored him. "And not my work with the Summer Lands?"

"Was that supposed to be rhetorical? I know you were already using this place long before we finished and tested that spell."

"You should also recall, though, that work on it started long before I took you on as an apprentice. After all, it was part of how I handled framing Vow for my attack on Jade and Smart Cookie, and kept Smart Cookie's soul from being caught by Celestia or Luna."

"Huh…" I had a particular and very deep thought at this moment, but I don't want to explain it just yet. "Well, that does make things tricky, doesn't it? Maybe you're right. The only other option is the Razor, as useful as it can be, it doesn't even work on the most dangerous monsters and spirits we might have to fight. As we observed with the changelings…"

"Something bothering your mind, Coil? I can only hear your active thoughts when you focus on making them… I suppose 'audible' is as good a metaphor as any."

"Just trying to recollect the way the ritual's glyph notation starts." I continued to speak aloud as I reached out to the stones. "Tripartite nested septagraph. Seven upon seven upon seven points." Click click went two corresponding stones. "Candela's Stabilizing Retrograde Impulse… And then it should move on to Rapid Transit's Portal to Shangri-La."

"No!" Wintershimmer called out, fully materializing as he desperately tried to stop my hoof from landing on the offending tile.

I chuckled, hovering my hoof in the air a moment and then sliding it over to the tile that I knew I was skipping all along. "I remember," I said aloud. "You thought Ferry's Aerie was the ideal initial portal mechanism before we improved it."

Wintershimmer's ghost staggered back in the air. "You remembered—?"

I tapped down my hoof on what I knew was the correct next stone. "But I also know I was thinking very, very hard about our version of the ritual."

"Why? I… Surely you didn't risk your life on a spur-of-the-moment whim, Coil?"

"I wasn't going to lower my hoof, so it was hardly a risk." With two more taps, I was satisfied to watch the door before me begin to open. "You tried to warn me when I was fighting the changelings back in the schoolhouse with Graargh and Cherry. You knew that when the changeling turned into me, and I tried to use the razor on him, the spell would sever my soul instead of his. And I had no way of knowing that in advance; I didn't know you had any connection to the changelings until that day. Then in the basilisk's den, you tried to pass off the stone as something I subconsciously noted, but when I actually found the stone in question… that's quite a stretch, isn't it? Add to that slipping up by knowing which way south is, and I start to put together a fairly damning conclusion. Despite your claims, that you do have information I don't, and that you aren't just some kind of 'soul hallucination'."

Wintershimmer's ghostly form 'sublimated' fully into being before me. "And?"

I raised my hoof and gesticulated prodding him in the chest, even if without a physical body it mostly served for visual effect. "Well, you might as well spit it out; what's going on? Is you being in my head—"

"Soul," Wintershimmer corrected.

I rolled my eyes in frustration. "That level of nuance isn't exactly an answer."

That earned me a sigh, but one rather less reflecting disappointment and more a rare sort of fatigue the old stallion had occasionally expressed in life. "If I could skip to the point, Coil, I would. As it stands, nuance is the best I can offer you in lieu of a straight answer."

"You don't know?" I asked.

Wintershimmer shook his head, almost mournfully. "Since this appears to be a challenging conversation for both of us, I am going to expound my observations, and you are going to listen, Coil. Doubt them, if you must, but at least doubt quietly; perhaps when I am done, you will see the truth of this; perhaps even better than I can. But first, go in. The door will open for you now. There are many treasures inside, but to start with, I recommend Comet's reading chair."

"Your teacher's chair?" I asked with a raised brow. "Is it enchanted somehow? Will it help me understand?"

Wintershimmer didn't grin; he never really grinned. But the spectral wrinkles of his right cheek tightened in a way that suggested, even if only barely, that a body with less atrophied smiling muscles might have turned the corner of its lips upward. "It heats and massages the back, and it is extremely comfortable. And it does not stain or smell, no matter what you spill on it. I had many a difficult conversation with my old mentor while she sat in that chair, and I have no doubt it will serve you just as well for the conversation we need to have now."

I scoffed, even as I pushed open the door. "You kept a magic chair down here and all it does is feel comfy to sit in? Wouldn't it be better up in…"

The sight of the chamber beyond stole the words from my mouth.

It wasn't that it was huge, or unnatural in any meaningful way; the walls were the same smoothed but still obviously cavernous stone as the hallway behind me. Nor were its accouterments especially improbable; they mostly consisted of two rows of simple oak shelves and a couple of dedicated glass cases.

It was the contents of the cases, and the books and baubles on the shelves, which stole my attention. There must have been a thousand books crammed onto the shelves, and as many scrolls besides. Hanging from prongs on the pillars of the shelves were staves and rods and wands, some of which I suspected I recognized from Wintershimmer's lectures on the history of magic. Horrifyingly, my eyes picked out a wooden handle attached to Archmage Pallid the Peer's severed horn; an artifact that had come to be called the Pallid Wand. Set on their own shelf, I spotted a half-dozen crystal balls and half-again as many scrying bowls and mirrors and braziers. Bottles of preserved monster parts that each represented an improbable danger to harvest—and one or two of which I remembered assisting in bottling myself—filled another shelf.

More to the point, in between two shelves, and quite near the one full of books, I saw a red upholstered reading chair, complete with a standalone hoofrest of the same scarlet fabric. I had to reflect, a few moments later, that Archmage Comet had impeccable taste in furniture.

When I was settled, Wintershimmer's 'ghost' appeared to me again. "Now, as I said, I will tell you what I know. Let me start from the beginning—which is to say, my end.

"My plan was the plan you managed to thwart. I did not waste my time crafting a backup strategy; I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I would either conquer one of the so-called 'goddesses', or I would be destroyed. Now, I fully admit the possibility of being destroyed by you and not one of them was… not a consideration I entertained much until just before the end, but the horn that dealt the blow was hardly of concern to my conclusion. I would win, or I would die. The possibility of a stalemate where I walked away unsuccessful but alive was not a possibility worth entertaining."

I leaned back into the spectral affections of the enchanted chair, but you should know that for all the relaxation of my body, my mind was alert for deception on Wintershimmer's part. For all my searching, at least in those words, I found none.

"Even if I had such a plan, though, it would surely have involved the use of magic through my horn—a power that the new queen's quick work with her blade denied me. I spoke to you in total honesty that day in my cell beneath Everfree. My congratulations on your success, my warning against taking an Archmage's seat too early… my frustration at your insistence on that mewling little speech about the nature of heroism… all of that was true. Indeed, something you will find if you think back is that for all my skill in a mage's duel, I am not a very convincing liar without the benefit of forethought. You would have seen through me if I had tried to deceive you. I had no other plan, and with a dispersed soul, I would never see the rewards of my legacy in training you achieve fruition.

"After you dispersed me—or whatever it was you did that we both believed to have been dispersing my soul, I found myself here, trapped in your soul. Reduced to a passenger, if not a parasite. I don't know how that came to pass, or what the longer term effects will be. To start in Everfree, your soul and your magic were at peace, and I could do nothing but watch silently through your eyes. I only gained the ability to manifest myself audibly and visually as you both released more reckless use of mana, and found your soul in more churning, troubling emotional states. I assume that is the reason I was finally able to appear to you, following your diagnosis; either that, or discussion or thought of me empowered me. It is hard to measure or test such things without your conscious consent—and given your lack of control over your emotions, this new consciousness of the situation may thwart further experiments in other ways. But that is a concern for later.

"What I do know is this: just as you correctly warned the elder Queen Platinum before seancing King Lapis, a soul in want of a brain struggles to recall many pieces of pure trivia and information. I do have access to a brain of sorts, but it is yours and not my own, and I only have access to its spare energy and its idle archives of memory. I can warn you of things that were of great importance to the stallion I was in life, but I cannot—to choose a prescient example—recite all thirty pages of my research to graft a new horn onto your head purely from the memory of my soul. What I can do is offer limited counsel on those things I am able to remember in this fragmented, partial existence—such as the lesson I learned several decades ago, about the interaction between a so-called 'changeling's shapeshifting and the targeting mechanics of what you've come to call my 'Razor'."

Wintershimmer then sat down in midair and nodded to me. "So, Coil… do you have thoughts on this situation? Questions you would ask your old master? Perhaps a hypothesis?"

I nodded, leaning forward in the archmage's chair and steepling my hooves. "Why lie in the first place?"

"In one part, because I did not fully understand this state of affairs myself, and it seemed the best path to continue my existence. Compounding that, when I first appeared to you, you were in such a heightened emotional state that I felt some risk you might take foolish action to try and disperse me again—without considering how likely such an action might be to also disperse your soul. And most importantly: because no matter how difficult you make it, and how my state as pure soul in want of a brain of pure logical willpower makes it, if I continue to mentor you and mold you to be more like myself, I am doing a disservice to the reality of the relationship that we had, and your triumph in how it ended."

I couldn't help but cock a brow. "Really? I…" I sighed. "Look, we both know I'm not a full archmage yet, right? That was your whole point—"

"You are better than this fickleness, Coil." Wintershimmer let out a little breath, a sort of implication of a chuckle. "How often did I rail against your ego, to now long for it as the far better alternative to this rampaging self-pity? First in the lounge and now here. Hmph. But I sense this is difficult for you. It is difficult for me also. Make no mistake: I relish getting to see your progress, but I would rather embrace oblivion and know I was not a burden on your future than loom over you in perpetuity. Even if you had not given so much credit to my mentorship, or my… the 'fatherhood' that you verge upon alluding to with Celestia, I would still not want not want to be at the forefront of your growth. You have exceeded the need for me. I have become an anchor. That was the foremost reason I lied."

"Bullshit," I answered.

Wintershimmer raised a brow. "Gale—that is, Her Majesty—is damaging manners that were exceptionally hard to instill in a foal growing up amongst barbarians. But I am telling you the truth; that is my foremost motivation, whether you believe me or not."

I rolled my eyes. "I believe you, Master. I'm telling you that you're factually wrong. You think there isn't more I could have learned from you? Tartarus, whatever books I get out of this vault, I know I'm still going to be learning from you. You were the best duelist in the world for, what, seventy years?"

"Closer to eighty," Wintershimmer noted. "I wrote what you now call the Razor at nineteen… though it was substantially less refined than its current form. And dueling other wizards is hardly—"

"How do you think that's the part I care about?" I beat a hoof against my forehead, and then sighed. "Maybe this is what everypony else complains about with me. In any other context, I'd be demanding to know more about how you figured that out at barely past my age. But that's not the point now. Master, if you hadn't flown completely off the handle and tried to steal godhood, I'd be more than happy to still be learning under you."

"You wouldn't have gotten much out of me, Coil."

"I know you were getting old, but the ritual would have made extending your life any number of ways trivial."

"Ah, a practical lesson." Wintershimmer nodded. "I had intended to teach you 'the Razor' before I sent you on your way after Clover, after we had refined the ritual and tested it at least a few more times. For all the credit your mind tells me that you give me about my plan, you fail to consider that almost every step was an improvisation upon an earlier preparation I had made for a wholly different reason. The root cause of those cascading failures was a heart attack at some uncivilized hour of the morning, the day that I framed you for my murder."

I raised a brow. "You were already dead when that whole mess started? From square one?"

"I had so hoped to live long enough to break your infuriating linguistic tendency to treat life and death as a binary. But yes, were I any other pony, I would have died in the most basic sense that morning."

"And it was really all just to extend your lifespan? To avoid death?"

At that, Wintershimmer scowled. "No. And now I will take offense. If I had wanted to put my hooves behind my head and enjoy my days in the Summer Lands, the Sisters' opinions of my philosophy would have not mattered whatsoever; it was well within my power to circumvent them, as you well know. They had no idea I was even dead until you mentioned it. No, I conspired to seize divinity because it was my ethical obligation."

"Do I need to say—"

"'Bullshit' is not a term of debate, Coil. You asked the question in good faith, at least let me answer it uninterrupted. I am—I was—Wintershimmer the Complacent. I won that title in the public eye because I spared Star Swirl and went into exile when I could have slain him and either subdued or supplanted Lapis to rule the Diamond Kingdoms. But I wore that title willingly and with… if not pride, then at least 'nobility' because I, and with Archmage Comet's passing, I alone, still believe in the ethical principles underpinning the understanding of wizardry from which that title was derived… Well, there is an argument to be made that Hurricane of all ponies shares my philosophy de facto, even if he does so in ignorance of our history, but we shall get to that. You already know these, but I shall reiterate them to build my point"

"Firstly, it is a wizard's duty to accumulate power, and to use it to help the weak—en masse, lest you remind me of my hypocrisy in using innocents for mana at Platinum's Landing; I am well aware. Secondly, willing stagnation is the same as the abandonment of power—an ethical failing. Thirdly, power which is not used does not exist. And lastly, a wizard can only lay down their duty when they train somepony else to replace them, or if they lose their ability in the furtherance of their duty.

"Necromancy as an apprentice taught me of the factual existence of the Sisters. A youth spent watching knights die in wars against the then-mostly-ununified crystal barbarians made me idly wonder why they were so distant, but they may as well have been psychopomps or spirits as ponies. My exile forced me to confront the worst horrors of the crystals first-hoof. For all the wickedness of the barbarians, theirs is a lifestyle which cuts away foalish illusions like Star Swirl's idea that we have somehow evolved beyond the need for the wizard-as-monster-slayer. I was sorely tempted to wipe the sub-equine lot of them off the world, and I confess at the time only the practicality of limited mana truly stopped me. But with more time for inward philosophy and few options for intelligent conversation, I turned my thoughts to why, for centuries, our factual goddesses permitted these crimes to continue in the land of the living. I was hardly the first wizard-philosopher to wonder so, and I contented myself to reading the writings of the Wise Kings and our forebears whenever I saved a library from burning in a crystal raid. Then came the pegasi, and the stories of a literal hostile god… stories I all but instantly assumed were true; after all, if us, why not the griffons? But that lit a fire. So much of our prior philosophy hinged on the idea that the Sisters had to keep themselves distant. But if Magnus would go to war for his subjects, why not the Sisters?

"So, when I had a chance, I arranged a meeting with Hurricane. My sincere hope was that he would put my questions, my worries, at ease. Instead, his answers only strengthened my conviction that ours were gods in dereliction of their duty—that, or false gods altogether. I began to suspect, as I voiced in our duels, that the Sisters—and this Magnus—were not ponies at all, but some spirits, perhaps not as wantonly evil as the Centaur or the Draconequus, but hardly benevolent. Perhaps chaos, or war, or death served their purposes, feeding them or strengthening them. I only learned after the fact that when Star Swirl and Clover and their gargoyle had sought us for their team, in the memory you pried from Clover's soul, that the Sisters were amongst them. Perhaps it will be some small amusement to you that, despite your accusations of my misrepresenting her as a warlock, I did not so much seek to deceive you about her character as I disbelieved that Clover could be so stupid and so trusting. But no matter; knowing that only more proves my point. After that incident came the Windigos… and though Celestia and Luna had intervened before, they let the Diamond Kingdoms fall."

"So you're mad they weren't using their powers enough?"

"What did I say about interruptions? But yes, ultimately. Though not until I learned more of their natures. And now that I know yet more… I was half right. Celestia I understood at the time to be exactly the sort the Complacency of the Learned condemned: dithering out of fear of her own power. Having overheard her story through your ears, I see there is more wisdom to her restraint than I had gleaned second-hoof, though I still think hers is a damnation of inaction. Luna, by contrast, flaunts her deity constantly, and yet is either staggeringly incompetent in its use against any real threat—per the aforementioned cases—or worse, as Hurricane alluded to only once, the one time I got even a word from him—her 'Loyalty' lies not with ponykind at all.

"Either way, just as it is the right of any wizard to challenge a seated archmage, and in victory to take both their title and their responsibilities—and they are in the ethical right to do so—godhood seems like a natural next step. If I could take godhood from one of the Sisters—and in doing so, end eternal winter, or prevent the fall of Cirra, or stop the tyranny of whatever next great threat tries to topple yet another of our beacons of civilization in a state of brutal nature, is that not worth the life of one mare who has already had eight thousand to live? Or, what, a few dozen peasants in some swamp?"

"I had almost forgotten how far you leaned into evil."

"I had almost forgotten the word 'hero', Coil. Shall we dwell in mutual disappointment, or get on with our lives? My point is this: you might disagree with me on the finer points of this philosophy: how many innocent casualties are permissible for the trade, per se, but given the things you have said about Star Swirl, and in confronting the wizard suitor whose name I am sure neither of us remembers, or even in defending yourself before any number of comers, I think we see the broad strokes in agreement. That being said: everypony is a hypocrite, as I observed yesterday, but I have tried to at least follow the rules that I set forth to describe of myself. One of those rules is that, by besting me, you have proven the superiority of your perspective on morality. And I do intend to yield to that. So do not take this as an attempt to persuade you… although in truth I do not know if it is persuasion so much as capability that keeps you from toppling Luna."

"I am tempted sometimes, yes, Master."

"You are not that strong. Not yet, at any rate. I encourage you to ponder my perspective, now that you know my final stance, but I will not try to win you over to it further. To do so, as I said, would be to make myself an anchor when I should instead not exist."

"One question, though, Master—"

"Coil, you won. You need not call me that anymore. My given name will do just fine."

"If you call me 'Morty'."

"I see 'Master' is your preference then. What is your question?"

"You were happy Celestia took me on as her apprentice. Was that just to make sure I didn't take the court mage's seat here in the Union? Weren't you worried I'd be tempted not to use what power I earned from her?"

"Coil, at eighteen and with barely a third of a decent plan, you fought Wintershimmer the Complacent to the death, more than once, in full knowledge of what each of those words implies. You did that because you thought it was the right thing to do. Do I really have even the remotest glimmer of a reason to believe you would ever not use any power you accumulated for a cause you believed was ethical? I would as soon gamble on the moon falling from the sky."

I bit my cheek, not totally sure about the compliment, but I offered a nod. Finally, I found words. "I… Honestly, even with the duel, I think I'm glad to have you. We'll have to figure out what this means for… seances, and if I should tell Vow or Gale or Celestia."

I heard Wintershimmer derisively snort. "Vow, almost certainly—he will likely be furious, though he is too good a liar to show it even without a smooth wooden face. Her Majesty, I would not. And Celestia… will find out eventually, inevitably. She sees more than you think, Coil. She may not be my equal in a straightforward duel, and she may disparage herself in comparison to Luna, but I suspect she would be the foremost magical power on the earth, save for our earlier tenet—that power unused does not exist."

"For now though, there's just one last question: is this a stable state? Do I need to worry about having you up there… damaging me?"

Though he wasn't a mirthful stallion even on the best of days, there was a hint of self satisfaction when, without moving legs or horn, Wintershimmer lowered the height at which he was hovering to be ever so slightly below my eyeline.

"I cannot say for certain. It is something we shall have to study, likely with Vow's assistance in some regard. For now, my best answer is to look for a suitable metaphor in other situations of nature where two souls are within a single body. To that, I point you to the example of Yazigald."

"Yazigald?" I frowned. "I know that I know that name, but it isn't coming to me."

"You do, but since I have already retrieved that part of your memory, I shall spare you the need to play with mnemonics to try and pull up the thought. Yazigald was half of an ettin."

"A two-headed yak? Am I remembering that right?"

Wintershimmer nodded slowly. "Correct. Ettins are rare magically empowered, two-headed yak. Like most calves born with abnormalities in the harsh lack of civilization north even of here, ettins were most often killed at birth. Yazigald's mother was generous—by the unenviable barbarity of the yaks, at any rate—and beheaded one of her son's two heads, and then cauterized the stump in the hopes her child might survive. And he did. To cut further to the point, Yazigald became a respected warrior, conquered his way past the crystals, and ultimately attacked Emerald Orchard in the north of the Diamond Kingdoms. There, he fought Archmage Tam Brine, who I am certain you recollect by name."

It was my turn to nod. "Tam Brine, 'the good lich'."

"Indeed," said Wintershimmer. "As was the Archlich's custom, feeding her immortality only on the souls of 'monsters' instead of bolstering her undeath with innocents, Tam slew Yazigald—and was startled to find that the soul he left behind was akin to what his body had been: two partially merged souls. She hypothesized in her writings that because the body of the ettin was still alive after the loss of one of the two heads, the soul of the other head—I assume you have already inferred this, but ettins normally have two souls—the soul of the other head never actually left the body; it just became a sort of passenger. Over time, Archmage Brine studied this hybrid soul, and found that it continued to grow united over time."

"So… I'm going to become more like you?"

"If Brine was right, it would appear likely. However, you need not concern yourself. In this relationship, yours is the stronger soul—I suspect the only complete one—and will without doubt remain the dominant personality. Perhaps you will become more practical or less egotistical—but then, those are hardly reasons to complain."

I nodded. "Either that, or I try and pull you out?"

"And risk dispersing your own soul in the process? While I agree with you utterly on the subject of the risk in transplanting a horn, and that Star Swirl is as usual being an obstinate naysayer of progress and change, this is a risk you would be wise not to undertake without much greater understanding. The difference is that I will aid you in pursuing that understanding, instead of hindering you with fears of a future that will never come. Now, that was the last trap. Let us see what of my possessions remain in this vault."

"Why didn't you hide your candlecorn in this vault?" I asked. "I'm not sure Gale and Celestia and I could have gotten through those traps."

"This vault was enormously painful to access even for me, by design. There isn't some secret passage that bypasses the gas trap or the serpent king or the puzzle in the floor just there. I had the advantage of knowing what all the traps were, but I still had to teleport and sneak and tap the code on the floor, the same as you and the other two. This vault was for items I wanted protected—or wanted to protect the world from—but which I needed only very rare access to."

"You really didn't have a secret bypass?"

"Had I, Clover would surely have stumbled onto it with her manufactured 'luck'. An imbecile though she might be with regards to her sympathy for dark spirits, I suspect she may have surpassed Star Swirl's usefulness to the world." Wintershimmer's 'ghost' turned in midair to observe the shelves, then nodded sagely. "There is a jam to prevent the slide that drops one into the cavern where I stuck the basilisk. I advise we set that, leave, and return with the candlecorn you brought, and possibly Silhouette."

"Hopefully she's found an answer for me," I muttered.

Wintershimmer turned to me rather directly. "Oh, yes. I suppose, now that I am no longer pretending, I should just tell you. Your father was Sir Circa, the Earl of Lichdale. Your romantic interest may need to correct me, but I believe that makes you the 'His Lordship, the Right Honorable Mortal Coil'."

"You're joking me…" I threw my head back and let out a small groan.

Wintershimmer nodded. "I'm afraid that's it, Coil. You've lost. You're to swear your loyalty to Grand Duchess Chrysoprase, and she will no doubt both order you to cease your pursuit of Her Majesty's hoof, and find you a backwater domain well out-of-reach of Everfree City. I hope, in time, you will regard this as a lesson, that you are no longer tempted to throw away your life in pursuit of physical pleasure."

"You think I want her for physical pleasure?!" I snapped.

The old wizard nodded. "You will rarely hear me sympathizing or agreeing with an empathovore or an insect, but even a broken sundial can be right once a day, if enough of the gnomon remains. What you feel for the queen is animal lust and misplaced friendship, and those things will not survive the trials that litter the path Vow has prescribed for you. Further, I suspect that he would admit the same himself, were he not quietly terrified that if he did, you would return him to the depths of Tartarus."

I waved my hoof through the air. "Like you know anything about friendship."

To my surprise, Wintershimmer dignified that little outburst with an uncharacteristic rebuttal. "I have been betrayed by better friends than you will ever make, Coil."

14-6

XIV - VI

The Worst Is Still Yet To Come

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

'Softening' (that is, de-petrifying) Star Swirl and Clover proved fairly trivial with Wintershimmer's help. I know I've written before at my inadequacy as an alchemist, but between my rising literacy and Wintershimmer's guidance in my mind, I was able to at least produce a satisfactory depetrifying elixir. I refrained from using it until Silhouette and I had moved the treasures from Wintershimmer's secretest vault up into a set of crates and boxes bound for my home in Everfree, but once that was done, all I had to do was enjoy a more deliberate trip (dare I foalishly say 'enjoyable'?) trip down the slide back into the pit, and then I had Clover and Star Swirl back up to their usual selves quite quickly.

I'll spare you a full accounting of what I found in Wintershimmer's stores; suffice it to say there was a lot; though most of it was of historical value rather than practical magic. Most notably, we found copies of On The Nature of Mana, Pax de Crustulum, Iron Maiden's Vitals of Hemomancy, a complete copy of Inferno's Tartarus, and even, to my utter shock, a copy of Inspiration's Manifestations—one of the more accursed tomes of magic known to the history of unicornkind. (That particular volume is now lost in a quite well-sealed chamber beneath the ruins of Everfree's palace in the accursed woods, so I'm reasonably confident nopony is going to just stumble upon it). The only other item worth noting now was an oil painting of two young stallions flanking an elder unicorn mare, who was sitting on her rump both to get her head down to the foals' level, and so she could wrap a foreleg around each of their respective foreshoulders.

Star Swirl the Bearded, Wintershimmer the Complacent, and Archmage Comet.

It didn't so much surprise me for its existence, as for the facts that all the ponies pictured looked quite happy, and the fact that Wintershimmer had kept the thing. Regardless, it had no meaning to me, and so after scanning it for any concerning enchantments or hidden purpose, it was the only item from the stores which I willingly gave to Star Swirl's care.

Then I gave what was left of Wintershimmer's staff over to Clover's care—prompting yet another argument with Star Swirl about whether it would have been better to just look at the basilisk, since that would mean the staff would still be intact for the trade with the dragons. I think I've made the point of my disagreements with Star Swirl enough by now, though. Clover, once again, took my side in her very gentle and mildly political way, expressing that she was confident Krenn would be wise enough to understand. As we emerged from the depths of the crystal spire, after saying her goodbyes to her old teacher, she gave me a hug, told me she admired my cunning and dedication, as well as my character, and offered to teach me her spell one day when I was ready. And then, presumably after fetching Blizzard and Tempest, she was gone from the Union.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

We spent three more days in the Union relatively blissfully as I debated whether or not to tell High Castle and Chrysoprase what Wintershimmer had revealed to me. My integrity won out, but for reasons that will become apparent, you'll have to take my word for that.

The last and most important event of that last full day in the Union began when, over breakfast, after some random attendant from the Equestrian delegation observed to me that it was the last day of the gathering, Wintershimmer had one other piece of wisdom for me inside my head; one which only further seemed to soften my perception of the old stallion. "Seek out Star Swirl, Coil; there is one piece of business you still have with him."

"Hmm?" I trusted I could get away with the noise with my mouth full, and sure enough the conversations around me in the big main dining chamber of the Spire disguised my vocalization.

"Do you understand that, even if I had won and taken Celestia's power, even I still couldn't prevent all suffering of innocents?"

This might sound like a strangely philosophical question, especially if your exposure to Wintershimmer is just from this tome and its predecessor, but I found the discourse a welcome return to form; these were exactly the kinds of questions he sometimes put to me over meals in my youth.

I refrained from answering aloud, but thought "Yes," as hard as I could.

"And I hope you understand that even if you surpass me a hundredfold in magical power, the same restriction will apply to you?"

This time, after a swallow of a bite of crystal berries and cream, I offered a small nod and no vocalization at all.

"Then in the interest of doing some genuine right, so long as you understand there won't always be an answer… Star Swirl can likely help the filly you spoke to earlier. The one with stalagtitis."

"He can cure stalagtitis?"

I heard Wintershimmer sigh in my head. "No; only delay it. But rather than merely dulling pain, he—and he alone—has the skill to transform her skull inside her head without killing her, in order to temporarily reduce the size of the shards growing down into her brain. Make no mistake, he will still die of old age soon just as I did, and with him gone she still carries a death sentence from her condition. But he may well double her lifespan. My only stricture is that you not give her false hope that this is a true cure."

I took the time to finish my meal before I sought out Star Swirl, who was curiously absent from the big communal diplomatic breakfast, and after a few questions of the Spire's palace staff, I had my directions.

The door that was the end of my search was one I knew into a salon that mostly existed for its connection to one of the Spire's few balconies. I rapped on the door twice with a hoof, and then heard the subtle warble of a magical aura on the interior doorknob just before it swung open.

It wasn't Star Swirl's magic which had created said aura, I discovered as I stepped in, but rather that of Grand Duchess Chrysoprase. She, Star Swirl, and Queen Platinum were sharing a much more private breakfast. I idly wondered if I hadn't been invited because it was only for pureblooded unicorns, only for 'duke-equivalents', or only for miserable old ponies who ought to have long since had the decency to die off.

"You know, Coil, I always assumed you just said the first thing that came into your mind in every situation." Wintershimmer observed with a certain disapproval, audible only to me. "I am unsure if I ought to be disappointed, or grateful that you refrained from voicing even more of them while I was alive."

I, not wanting to be identified as a schizophrenic (the least bad possible outcome of replying aloud) instead nodded. "Archmage. Grand Duchess. Your Majesty."

"Morty," Platinum greeted me first, before glancing around the room briefly for a chair. "What brings you here this morning? If you're worried about settling our… arrangement, that can wait this week."

I may not have been a political savant, but I did immediately make the connection between how staggeringly unsubtle her allusion was and the present company; it left me with the conclusion that she wasn't especially worried about our agreement being known to Chrysoprase and Star Swirl, even if she perhaps still held the practical details close to her chest.

If I had been a political savant, carrying that idea just a bit further would have terrified me. But I was not, so I pressed on with blissful ignorance.

"I'm actually here for Archmage Star Swirl," I observed.

The old stallion sighed. "Something else with Wintershimmer's belongings? I'd really rather not deal with any more, after the basilisk."

"Wintershimmer had a basilisk?" Platinum asked.

Chrysoprase was notably less impressed, though that came perhaps out of ignorance. "Those are the snakes whose eyes turn ponies to stone?"

Star Swirl nodded. "Quite dangerous. Especially when combined with void crystal to deny mages their magic. But the issue is in the past."

I nodded. "Nothing like that. I, um… Let me cut to the chase. There's a filly here in the Union suffering from stalagtitis."

Star Swirl raised a brow. "That's not a disease I'm familiar with."

"It only affects crystals. You know some of the barbarians would sharpen their fetlocks, or get jagged bits from battlescars? It can happen on the inside of their coats too. Over time, as the crystal coat grows, those broken points get longer and longer, and thinner and sharper. For most ponies, the natural movement of the body means the interior ones either re-merge with the coat, or in the worst case snap off and cause some scarring and numbness. But for some unfortunate ponies, the shards form without an obvious external injury. In the worst cases, like this poor filly, they grow into the brain."

"How horrible," said Chrysoprase.

Platinum nodded. "Is there a cure?"

I shook my head. "When I was growing up, Wintershimmer and I did a lot of different odd jobs in the Union. Not just monster hunting, but treating rarer illnesses, delivering foals for mares with complicated pregnancies… But even Wintershimmer couldn't do anything about stalagtitis. At best, he used to just give the victim enough milk of the poppy to dull the pain for a while, and when it got bad, to kill themselves painlessly. Or, if they preferred, a quick cast of the Razor."

"Milk of the poppy?" asked Chrysoprase.

"Opium," Star Swirl explained. "The filly has my sympathies as well, Coil, but I'm afraid I don't know anything more about this condition than you do or Wintershimmer did. I can't cure it."

"I know," I answered. "But you're history's greatest transmuter. I was hoping I might ask you to treat the symptoms for her, even if you can't treat the disease."

Star Swirl raised a brow. "You want me to transmute the inside of a filly's skull? Blind? I know I have a certain reputation, but the odds I just kill her are hardly low."

"But there's a chance you don't," I told him with a firm nod. "I don't have that chance. Can you try?"

After just a moment of consideration, Star Swirl nodded back to me. "I'll do what I can for her. Is the condition urgent, or can I finish this meal and our discussion before I join you? If there is time, I would like to draw some stabilizing and targeting glyphs, and give the exact approach a bit of thought instead of diving in with my immediate first idea."

"No rush," I answered. "I'll go get Ivy and we can meet in the… that is, in Wintershimmer's study. The staff should be able to show you the way. Aim for noon?"

"I will endeavor to be there on time," Star Swirl agreed. "My foreleg permitting."

I quirked my brow. "Is it healing well?"

The question, which I had meant in total good faith, earned an undignified glare from the old wizard. "At my age, Coil, it will be a miracle if it heals at all. I have half a mind to just replace it like that foreleg your crystal friend has."

"Sorry I asked," I muttered back with trepidation. Then I glanced between Platinum and Chrysoprase, hesitated for a very noticeable moment, and at last said "Good day," before turning toward the door.

Over my shoulder, the Grand Duchess told me "Good day, Mage Coil. I'm sure we'll speak again soon."

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

It was absolutely surreal walking the streets of the Union. Ponies actively stepped out of my way, some nodding in deference or greeting me as "Archmage". The old guardsponies who had so loathed me still weren't quite as welcoming as the general populace, but they expressed a newfound respect in the sense of 'fear', quite actively avoiding my attention and my path with a wide berth.

Eventually, I found my hoof rapping on a wooden door in some back alley of the city, and a moment after that, I found myself looking down into the eyes of little Ivy herself. A bit of blood was smeared down her emerald-ish coat from the base of her right ear, and judging by the line on her fetlock, I assumed she'd wiped it herself. Less time than I'd estimated, then.

"Mister Arcmage Morty! Dad, Mister Arcmage is here!"

"I am," I repeated in agreement. "I'm glad you're up, Ivy. Is there somewhere you and I and your dad can talk?"

"We've just got the one room," said Climbing Vine, the vaguely mint-colored crystal father, as he stepped out from the side of the room that was obscured by their door. "Come on in, Archmage. Thank you for coming to see us; we could have come to the Spire again if you wanted."

"I'll have you both do so shortly, but I wanted to talk first. Somewhere comfortable for you."

That comment was lost on Ivy, but Vine's face fell; tragically, that had been my intention. After a visible swallow (a rare thing on a crystal throat) Vine produced a couple of chairs, indicated one for me with a hoof, and then picked up his daughter and sat her down in the other.

I took a deep breath as Ivy and Vine stared at me, and then began. "I have good news and I have bad news. I'm going to tell you the bad news first, because otherwise the good news won't make sense. Sorry I can't offer you to pick the order. Ivy, I'm afraid you have stalagtitis."

Climbing Vine took a sharp breath in. Ivy, for her part, asked "That's why my ears bleed sometimes?"

A nod was the first answer that came to mind. "You know how sometimes when your crystal coat gets scratched, it grows out sharp and pointy?"

"Yeah, it happens to my fetlocks sometimes. Daddy has a file we use to keep them smooth so I don't hurt anypony."

"That's right. Well, that can happen on the inside of your coat too—and not always just because of a cut or a break. You've got a spur growing into your brain."

Ivy's eyes widened. "Oh! Well, that's why it hurts. What sort of medicine do I have to take?"

I glanced to Climbing Vine with my best expression of sympathy. Unfortunately, the father took that as a sign I wanted him to answer, and he spoke up. "There… there isn't medicine for that, Ivy."

"Well… We do have something," I cut in as quickly as I possibly could, before the filly had a chance to panic. When Vine's eyes widened, I took another deep breath to steady my own words, and leaned back in my chair. "Your dad is right that there isn't a cure, per se, but Archmage Star Swirl is here in town. And he's the world's best transmuter… um, that is, he changes the shapes of things with magic. We're hoping he can help you."

"He can cure her?" Vine asked, leaning forward over his daughter's shoulder.

It took a lot of strength to shake my head. "He can reset the spurs. If we're incredibly lucky, the stalagtitis was caused by some minor bump as a foal, even though she doesn't have signs of any external trauma, and he casts the spell perfectly to reshape things—if we're that lucky, the condition goes away. But… that's a lot of luck. More likely, the condition comes back over time."

"So she has to get him to cast the spell again?" Vine asked.

I shook my head. "Star Swirl is a hundred years old. And a unicorn, so he doesn't have the extra fifty years or whatever in him like lucky earth ponies do; he won't live much longer. I'll study what I can to do the same, but Star Swirl is widely considered the best transmuter who has ever lived. I specialize in…" Here, in a rare show of self-awareness, I refrained from even pronouncing the 'n' given the topic of the discussion and instead said "...other kinds of magic. And it's a risky spell for him." I forced down a very difficult swallow of my own, and turned my eyes to Ivy. "Which leads to the other risk we need to talk about. Ivy, there's a very real risk something with this spell goes wrong. And if it does, it will probably kill you."

Ivy winced. "Um… but, if I don't, I'm just gonna keep bleeding? And the headaches? C-cause you can give me medicine for the headaches, right?"

"The headaches and bleeding will get worse and worse if we don't do something. Eventually, you'll start to have trouble controlling your body and your mood. And after that, the condition is fatal." I took another swallow as I saw tears on the filly's eyes, and then I closed my own and took a deep breath. "Wintershimmer's usual treatment for stalagtitis was to give the victim a completely painless death. I don't recommend that, when there is hope, but it is one option. Another is that I give you milk of the poppy. It's a powerful medicine that makes things not hurt—much, much stronger than willow bark tea or whatever else you can probably get from whatever apothecary or doctor you usually work with. But it will make you sleepy. It'll buy you more time with your father, but not much. And you'll have to decide when you're ready to go, without me there to introduce you to Celestia personally."

"You mean the Artist?" asked Vine.

I gently massaged my temple. "Look… I'm not really here to get into a religious debate. When I came here, I promised myself I wasn't going to lie to either of you. There's no such thing as the Artist… or at least I hope not. If there is, it means there's some weird spirit or monster masquerading as a god for the crystals specifically…." I trailed off at the concerned look Climbing Vine shot me, coughed once into my hoof to clear the air, and continued. "Celestia and Luna judge all ponies souls; as I understand, they trade off, based on whether you die during the day or at night. Celestia happens to be a very good friend of mine, and having actually died once fighting Wintershimmer, I know my way around the—"

"Wait, what? Mister Arcmage, you're dead?" Ivy interrupted.

"No; I died, but I'm not dead. And that's not the point right now! This is about you, Ivy."

"No! I wanna know more about that!" she practically screamed.

It was clear to me she was deflecting, but then the filly was eight, so that should have hardly been a surprising reaction. I'll skip the only somewhat brief, watered down explanation I gave to try and teach basic metaphysics to an eight year old with no schooling to speak of. "...so what I hope you understand, Ivy, is that we don't want you to die—certainly not yet—but death doesn't have to be scary. If anything, dying is the scary part. It's certainly the part that usually hurts. Hence the first two options: I can make it not hurt while I'm here, or I can give you medicine to buy you some more time and keep it from hurting much when the time comes. But the third option, the one I strongly encourage, is that you let Star Swirl try to help. If his spell works, you'll get to live several more years; hopefully another eight before you start seeing symptoms again. Then, when you're older, we can revisit the choices, and I may have more options for you; borrowing a scalp from somepony recently dead or something, for example."

"You can do that?" Vine asked. "Can we do it now? Actually solve the problem today? I'd give her mine—"

I let out a very different sigh than I had before. "I don't know how to yet; it may not actually be possible at all. My only point is, I don't have a better solution right now than Star Swirl, but in a few years there may be a very different answer to our problem. It's not just an extra few years."

"Careful, Coil," cautioned Wintershimmer in my ear, not actually becoming visible even to my mind's eye. "No more false hope."

"There may be more than just an extra few years," I corrected.

Climbing Vine put a hoof on his daughter's shoulder. "Well, then it sounds like there choice is obvious."

"Do you agree, Ivy?" I asked.

Vine quirked a brow. "Archmage, she's eight. She can't possibly…"

Ivy started talking not after her father, but at the same time. "If that's what dad thinks."

Both comments were answered with a single nod. "Go to the Spire, to the same room we met before, at noon. I'll do my best to be there, but there is another problem I need to take care of before we head back to Everfree. So if nopony is there to meet you, it probably just means Archmage Star Swirl is running late. Do you have any other questions?"

Climbing Vine smiled. "Thank you, Archmage Coil. I… I know stalagtitis is normally a death sentence. It means so much to us to even have this chance."

I nodded. "Honestly, I just wish one time it wasn't a chance." I turned toward the door, then stopped. "Vine, you're older than me."

"Y…yes, that's true, Archmage."

"Did you ever know a pony named Circa? Softcoat, unicorn, probably with a split horn. He'd have been older than—"

"Oh, sure!" Vine answered. "Poor old guy; some kinda unicorn knight, I think. He lived over by the south wall, in one of the stacks." Glancing nervously toward his daughter, the father concluded "One of Halite's lieutenants, uh… fancied him."

"I know," I answered. "Castigate." Then, after a pause, I added "My mom."

"Your… oh! Oh, um… My condolences then."

"He's passed, I take it? I didn't want to pull him away from the Summer Lands just to force him to relive those memories." I'd also refrained to spare both my horn and the frog of my hoof, which tended to stay sore when I bled enough for a good seance.

"Yeah, he…" This time, Vine didn't turn his head, but I caught his eyes flick in Ivy's direction. "Well, he doesn't live in the Union anymore, at any rate. He decided it was time for him to move away."

"I understand," I told him firmly. "Remember, noon at the Spire."

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

Once I had independently verified Wintershimmer's claim—ensuring it wasn't his desire to push me away from Gale for the sake of furthering single-minded study of magic—that was enough for me to seek out High Castle to settle our bet. I ventured back to the Crystal Spire, once more asked for directions from the palace staff. Though the crystals of the spire were at first unsure where to direct me, a member of the Equestrian delegation happened to be passing (I say this as though it was luck or coincidence, and the diplomatic party hadn't effectively flooded the Spire) and so I was soon shuttled back to the salon where I had left Star Swirl, Platinum, and Chrysoprase before.

Curiously, High Castle wasn't waiting for me. His grandmother, however, was. Grand Duchess Chrysoprase still wore her usual wrinkled mild frown on her graying green muzzle, and dressed to give the impression of a so-called period drama, despite 'period dramas' being a term at least three centuries away from being introduced to the avant-garde of Equestria's theatrical society. In more detail, the mare wore a green dress darker than her natural coat color, trimmed in white with ornate lace on the cuffs and collar, and bright silver fittings. Her mane was pulled back into a tight bun, and the way it pulled on her face only seemed to highlight tension in the room.

On the salon table beside her were two teacups, a crystal teapot that was (thanks to its translucency) full enough that I could be sure it was not the same tea as she'd shared with Star Swirl and Platinum and hour or so before, two empty crystal wine glasses, a bottle of wine bordering on purple in its redness, and finally a suitably ancient tome bound in alchemical faux-leather stretched over wood, and fixed with metal protectors on the corners and studs along the spine. Its cover, in egregious cursive that I struggled to parse, read The Seventeen Days on the Mountaintop, the oft-referenced 'canon' of unicorn nobility of the era.

"Ah, Coil. I'm glad you were able to make it. My apologies if I was too subtle when we spoke before. I imagine you prefer not to get Duke Zodiac and the Queen-Mother involved. Please, have a seat."

I took a seat in the upholstered chair opposite Chrysoprase, extended my hind legs down in that comfortable but oh so unfashionable 'bipedal' style, and steepled my forehooves. "So 'see you soon' was supposed to mean you already knew?"

"Of course," Chrysoprase replied with a terse, businesslike nod. "We've been here nearly a week. I knew within the first few hours." After searching my eyes for a few moments, she noted "Did you not? I had assumed you were hesitant to keep your end of the bargain. Your mother was more than forthcoming in her pride for you." Chrysoprase lifted her teacup to her lips, took a small sip, swallowed, and then softly added "Detestable mare."

"We're in agreement, then. I didn't want to give her the satisfaction of asking. It took me a while to find the name."

"Earl Circa, of the House of Dust, formerly of Lichdale. Legend holds that your family descends from Archmage Hourglass, if you believe in King Ardor stories." (We do not, unless Starlight lied to my face.) "I confess I don't remember your father personally, but your paternal grandmother was a good friend, many years ago. What I can tell you of your father is that he was a knight of the Order of the Argent Chain. If you wish to hear more about him, Sir Chiseled Gem would have known him well. I would be more than happy to arrange an introduction once we return to Everfree."

"Appreciated," I answered. "I can just talk to my dad directly now that I know his name, though."

"Ah, yes. Your necromancy." I waited for her to make some comment about it being unbecoming of a young noble, but the other shoe never dropped. Instead, with her magic, Chrysoprase slid the book so that it sat on the table's edge, more or less between our bodies.

Then she flipped open the book, with the same green glow of her magic. Two things were revealed inside the cover, on the very first page. One was a very flat, very sharp silver razor blade. The other, a bit of gauze fabric laid out flat in two strips.

I raised a brow, but let her take the lead with an explanation.

Chrysoprase appreciated my momentary silence, and indulged me. "By tradition, to become Banner and Sponsor, we swear the respective oaths out of Seventeen Days on the Mountaintop. Then we seal the deal with a drop of blood."

"Woah," I said. "Hold on; it's one thing to swear an oath, but blood?"

"Just a drop," said the Grand Duchess. Then she paused, face still lit by the fading of her green magical glow. "Ah, no, this is about magic, is it not? I can tell you the tradition about the drops of blood came about in the days when kings and archmages were one and the same, and I am sure it meant something magical then. It's been a long time since anypony used magic in such an oath, though. If it concerns you, you are more than welcome to read it in advance."

"And if I decide I don't want to sign?"

Chrysoprase sighed. "That would be very unfortunate for the standing in court that you're working unsubtly to build up as a way to legitimize your courtship of Her Majesty."

The words were rather like a slap in the face, and when I looked up from the text, I found a little upturn on the corner of Chrysoprase's cheek.

"What, did you think the two of you were being subtle? Well, perhaps I should give some credit there to Her Majesty, but you? Openly betting on disqualifying my grandson where who knows how many other nobleponies heard? Your so-called birthday gift, killing Count Halo in front of the entire court?" As if with mock sympathy, Chrysoprase shook her head. "I have every intention of stopping that, both for Castle and out of responsibility to unicorn kind. In that regard, I frankly ought to request that you not sign, since if you want to get out of this deal with any respect in the Stable, you also have to keep your own nobility a secret—and without that, your standing as a potential suitor is nonexistent. That bet may have been foolish for Castle, but you royal forked yourself in making it."

"I'm sorry, Grand Duchess, I royally what myself?"

Chrysoprase sighed. "A royal fork is when a single piece—usually a knight—threatens both the king and queen from the same position in chess. Do you play chess?"

"I'm aware of it," I answered. "Wintershimmer didn't like symmetrical games. He thought they were unrealistic, and therefore unhelpful."

"Ah. Somehow, I feel like I shouldn't be surprised." Chrysoprase took a moment of silence, and then nodded to the book, and then the door. "The choice is yours."

I closed my eyes—ostensibly making a show of thinking, while in reality I was reaching into the voice of my most accessible advisor. "Wintershimmer, thoughts?"

"You're the noble," Wintershimmer answered inside my skull. "You do not want my full opinion here."

"Try me," I pushed.

"I know you know better than to make contracts signed with blood. But setting aside all caution as you seem to fancy, let us, for once at least, pretend to entertain reason. You do not need this to be a wizard. You would prefer to be called 'Archmage' to 'Prince Consort'. Continue to share company with the Queen as a friend if you like. For romance—and do not pretend you are above this; I am inside your mind—Vow can direct you toward far easier quarry. Or hire you a whore. If that is too mundane for your clearly distinguished tastes, I have no doubt that as both my apprentices, you and Vow can together work out how to summon a succubus safely. I only need you to warn me in advance so I can focus my attention on some dusty corner of your memories."

I opened my eyes. Spite at Wintershimmer's scorn gave me the last of the drive I needed to overcome my own better judgement and caution. I slapped a hoof down on the ancient tome (earning a frown from Chrysoprase). "Fine. Let's get this over with."

Chrysoprase nodded, lifting the book in her magic. "I'll hold it for you. You can put your hoof on the lower section there; that's mine. Read from the top."

What I uttered was a stilted, painful oath—one where the archaic language and my own struggles with reading heavier vocab overcame whatever natural chemistry I normally brought to speech. "I, Earl Mortal Coil of the House of Dust, do hereby swear on my honor as a noble of the unicorns, on behalf of myself and any foals I may bear, in perpetuity, pledge my loyalty, and the loyalty of the House of Dust as banners of the House of Gullion. I give my word to serve and obey, and if the need arises to protect them, unto the limit of my ability, and to raise up whatever foals I may beget to do the same. Let me and my line serve them in loyalty and deference, until the day comes that our services are no longer required, or that the crown sees fit to elevate us, or our sponsors dismiss us. I, Earl Mortal Coil of Lichdale, of the House of Dust, do so swear before my fellows and my friends, that all unicorns shall know of my heritage."

"Sorry," Chrysoprase whispered, and before I had a moment to take stock of what I meant, she slit the frog of my hoof with the razor. When I pulled back, she quickly wrapped the small wound in gauze and applied a gentle pressure to it. "It's less painful if it comes as a quick surprise," she added.

"Be careful with surprising wizards," I warned in reply.

Chrysoprase turned the book hovering in front of me, pulled it closer, and placed her right forehoof on it. Then she sat up to her full height and perfect posture, applied a pair of delicate reading glasses to her muzzle from some pocket inside the breast of her outfit, and continued quite loudly. "As Grand Duchess of the House of Gullion, I, Grand Duchess Chrysoprase of Oxfjord, do solemnly accept the House of Dust under my care and the care of my lineage. I further do swear that I and my descendants shall support the Right Honorable Earl Coil in keeping with the obligations of a Great House. Further, I give my word that I shall take him under my care as a young noble, to instruct him in our ways and our traditions, that he might be a boon and a blessing to the civilization of Equestria, and to the preservation of our lineages as unicorns. Until he is prepare to stand on his own as a noble, I shall stand to represent him, be it before the Stable, the three thrones, or even our own Queen—to whatever extent I can in truth and justice. Let ours be a joint cause, to rejoice together in triumph and mourn together in loss, so long as Celestia blesses our bloodlines."

Chrysoprase then slit her own hoof and let a drop fall from the razor onto the page of the ancient book. That much was not a surprise.

What I did take as a surprise was the sudden palpable weight on my shoulders, and the distinct chill like the touch of cold metal left out too long in the night running down my spine.

It was a feeling I had felt only once before, under circumstances more similar to that moment than I had realized until it was already too late. My mind flickered back to a carriage outside a dance hall, on the night of Gale's birthday, sitting across from another older unicorn mare.

I came very close to ripping out her soul before I even spoke another word. With every passing second, I felt fury building in my body. "A cold iron vow?" I asked her.

Chrysoprase nodded, set the book down on the table, and set about pouring two glasses of wine from the bottle she had arranged. "I told you the truth, that nopony has used magic on a noble's vows in years. But, as with so many things, you are a special case, Earl Coil."

"This is about Gale?"

"At least in my presence, you will show Her Majesty the respect she is due," the Grand Duchess corrected. "To answer your question, yes, but only in part. Before we continue: as your sponsor, it is my will that you not attempt to escape the terms of this vow. You will not discuss it, except with me. Is that clear?"

I didn't answer. I couldn't find words.

"Calm," cautioned Wintershimmer, unhelpfully. "If you hurt her, the vow will kill you."

"Answer me, Earl Coil."

I grit my teeth for a moment, and I felt my cheeks begin to itch, like they'd been rubbed with poison ivy. Still, for a moment, I stubbornly resisted. It was only when the feeling went to burning that I relented. "I understand."

"Good," said Chrysoprase. "Yes, this is in part about Her Majesty. It is bad enough that she has pegasus blood, after what Cyclone did to us… but to risk a crystal?"

"This is all about racism?"

"You don't understand enough about our responsibilities for me to correct that, even if you were asking in good faith." Chrysoprase held out a wine glass toward me. "We don't have to be enemies, Earl Coil. I don't intend to take undue advantage of this. My only real goal is one order: give up your pursuit of Her Majesty's hoof. You can still do… well, whatever it is you do as a wizard. In fact, I encourage it. Continue studying with Lady Celestia, or teach at Archmage Diadem's college, or whatever suits your fancy."

I swatted away the wineglass with the back of my hoof. It shattered over the cover of The Seventeen Days on the Mountaintop.

Chrysoprase lifted the book not telekinetically, but almost mournfully in her hooves. The fairly pronounced frown lines on her cheeks were once more emphasized in their use. "That was a glass of Chateau Chateau." When I didn't speak in reply, she nodded. "Very well. I will leave you some time to see reason." Then she lifted Seventeen Days, opened it once again, and violently pulled the front page out of her ancient book—only, to my surprise, instead of the tearing of paper, I watched the familiar green glow of her magic spark where the page was joined to the binding of the tome: an illusion, dying.

The page in question sparked and fizzled as the illusion faded from the 'torn' edge—though in truth, it had never been bound into the book in the first place. The parchment was far newer and whiter than any other page in the book, though the words and the stains from our respective blood and the spilled wine were just the same as they had been otherwise.

"Keep that if you like," the Grand Duchess told me. "It can remind you of the exact terms of our arrangement." Then she stood up, taking the wine stained book with her. "When we return to Everfree, I will send somepony by your home to arrange the first of your lessons. You will attend them. Good day, Earl."

On her way out the door, I called to her with one question burning on my mind. "Was Luna behind this?"

Chrysoprase did not answer before she stepped out into the Spire.

I was left cradling the page in my hooves. I do not know how long I sat in the salon. I know I cried. I know I wanted to scream, and the wording of the vow and her orders kept me from it. Somehow, my own mind told me, drawing that kind of attention would be too close to revealing the secret I'd been ordered to keep. I was chained by my own idle thoughts.

At some point I threw the entire bottle of Chrysoprase's fancy wine out the balcony doors, and down onto some unsuspecting roofoutside. The teapot I flung into the wall, and felt disgusted at my own flimsy strength that, while it cracked, it didn't even have the decency to shatter properly.

I turned over the contract in my hooves as my thoughts stewed. I couldn't even talk to Wintershimmer—not about this, at any rate. And that was all there was in the world.

At some point, I remembered that when Platinum I had come to me with her more benevolent vow, she'd brought parchment from Luna. It only followed Chrysoprase would have needed the same help; her illusion was more potent magic than many give the school credit for, but it was still a parlor trick at the end of the day to a real wizard. A cold iron vow, though, was sophisticated, even for me. Perhaps, I thought, even if I couldn't work to undo the magic, I could at least understand it. So, ignoring the damage to my health and with the physical pain of my horn dulled by the fuzziness of my mind under the effects of the priceless wine, I scanned the page I held with my magic.

Luna, it seemed, had been lazy in concealing the ritual on the back of the sheet; there was almost no enchantment there, as if it hadn't been hidden from me so much as some random passerby.

When I turned over the sheet again to read the magical writing on the back properly, though, Wintershimmer finally piped up in my head with six short words that would seal my fate, though he had no intention of that in his speaking.

"That is Star Swirl's horn writing."

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

Myself excepted, even the greatest archmage is still a mortal pony. Star Swirl retains the title of the greatest transmuter in all of history, at least at the time of writing, but he was also a century old. When I found him after storming out of the salon, brusquely shoving my way through the halls and scorning any greeting or well-wish I received, he was using his magic to support his broken foreleg as he made his way toward the great gates that were the public entrance and exit of the Crystal Spire.

"Star Swirl!" I shouted at the top of my lungs, turning not only his eyes, but those of the two or three dozen bystanders who were going about their business into or out of the center of the Union's government.

"Morty?" asked the old wizard, calling out in a raised but still gentler tone, presumably to avoid having to walk up the entryway stairs to where I was glaring down at him. "Are you alright? Something wrong with Ivy? I was expecting you to join—"

"You know exactly what's wrong!" I bellowed, rushing down toward him.

"I assure you, I do not."

Star Swirl wasn't expecting a fight. If he had been, I could never have beaten him then, even with preparation. But my horn was always fast. When my magic grabbed onto his broken foreleg and picked him up fully off the ground so his entire body weight dangled by that single agonized limb, he wasn't Archmage Star Swirl the Bearded anymore. He was just a hundred year old unicorn. I doubt he could focus enough to even push back against me with telekinesis through that excruciating pain. He screamed, I recall. It's a haunting thing, to hear somepony that old scream from so deep in their chest.

At that moment, I did not care.

I swung him by that limb the way a knight swings a flail, and the force with which his back struck the doorframe of the palace's gates sent spiderweb cracks along the ancient sapphires, and more than a few chunks of the gemstone rained down. Star Swirl flew through the open doorway and down the main street of Union City, rolling on his now broken hip at least a dozen times before momentum and the drag of his puffy belled robes finally brought him to a halt. Were it not for those robes I so often derided, or had he not enchanted them himself to be akin to my jacket, I have no doubt the blow would have killed him.

The ponies around me screamed and shouted and panicked. Some ran. A few brave souls tried to approach, to confront me. I glared down at the first that approached, a crystal guardspony. "I killed Wintershimmer. You really want to try your luck?"

When I stomped after him out into the street, nopony was brave enough to even try to stop me. I walked out into a similarly panicking and awestruck Union City and staggered over to stand above Star Swirl.

The old wizard was crying from the pain. I know he tried to say something to me, but between his agony and my rage, I couldn't make it out. I grabbed onto his soul with Wintershimmer's Razor, and my horn flared for the second time in as many moments. I leaned down so close I knew he could feel my hot breath on his ear. "You know what that feeling means."

Behind me, I vaguely heard hoofsteps running on the precious cobblestones, and Chrysoprase's voice simply cried "Stop!" between pants of exertion.

Immediately, I felt the itching, the burning, the sheer pain take hold in my already aching horn. I released my magic, and a wave of fatigue surged over me. Still, I stood, drawing heavy breaths defined more by rage than effort. And as I turned to my newfound ruler, glaring, she walked forward—slowly, despite the moving of her own sides as she drew in breath from what I assumed was a sprint to approach me before I finished what I had started. It wasn't until she was close enough to whisper that she offered me words at all.

"You will…" She had to pause to breathe. "Surrender yourself. To the guard. No objections. No snide wit. Then you will return to Equestria. And you will accept whatever punishment is due."

14-7

XIV - VII

On the Nature of Chains and Bars

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

Some hours later—nevermind how many—I found myself back where it all began: in the very same prison cell where Silhouette and Jade had thrown me after Wintershimmer framed me for his passing.

The old wizard in my mind was utterly silent. I don't know if it was some limit on his ability to talk without tiring, a lack of thoughts he found useful, or out of worry that some idle comment might trigger the punishment of the cold iron vow. I was, however, chillingly aware that if Chrysoprase had learned anything about the nature of the curse she had inflicted on me, she knew a violation would eventually kill me. And I had not a single doubt in my mind that if I did something to trigger the curse in that cell, she would arrive just late enough not to be able to forgive me before my untimely passing.

It was a strange fall from grace, to be back where it all began. The cell had no window, no internal light at all save the little that leaked through the crystals over the structure itself, and not even a bed of straw to keep me off the cold, subterranean crystal. All I had was a bucket in the dim, and a stout wooden door with a few tiny bars.

Castigate hadn't bothered to put a void crystal on my horn when she 'arrested' me—and even taking me down to the dungeons was really only for the sake of political expediency. "We know these don't work on you," she had joked on our way down, casually flipping the accursed tool as if she hadn't used it to destroy dozens, if not hundreds of lives of better stallions than me. "I was damn surprised you walked away from that hanging, kid. Are you really that strong?"

I hadn't answered, and despite the mare having the social finesse of a kumquat, she at least mercifully didn't press the issue. Instead, she opened the door to the cell as if it were to welcome me into fine quarters, and very casually shut it behind me. Notably, she didn't bother to lock it. I think the understanding, at least amongst the crystals, was that if I didn't consent to being contained, there simply wasn't anypony among them who could force the issue.

If only they knew how stringently the bonds on my cell were kept.

Queen Jade and Prince-Consort (or, in keeping with crystal tradition, 'Concubine') Smart Cookie were the first to come to visit me, only perhaps a half an hour after I got to the cell (though it is hard to judge time in the cold dark of the Spire's dungeons beyond 'is it day'). The former spoke first.

"Morty… I know I owe you a lot, but that was extremely inconvenient for the Union." The broken-horned alicorn queen delivered that greeting even before she actually got to the cell door, and when she arrived, she strode in with no particular concern before sitting down in the middle of the floor in front of me. "I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt, but I hope you've got some kind of an explanation for attacking an old stallion out of the blue."

From the glare I got off of Smart Cookie, it was obvious that despite saving his life, he was more sympathetic to Star Swirl.

I was silent for what I knew was an awkwardly long time. It wasn't out of a desire to be silent, but rather carefully weighing my options about how much I could say without the vow killing me. Finally, when the pause became too long, and I could tell Cookie was about to snap, I muttered a very half-hearted "I'm not at liberty to discuss that."

"I beg your pardon?" asked Smart Cookie. "I don't know who you think you are, but you crippled an innocent stallion. A pony, I might add, who has saved the world an awful lot more times than you have!"

"Cookie, he saved your life," Jade chided, trying to be gentle but with an audible edge to her voice.

"And then he maimed my friend!" Cookie answered, fully facing her and not to me. "Star Swirl is one of the nicest ponies I have ever met. Certainly, he respects us earth ponies more than anypony else in River Rock did all the years Puddinghead and I dragged ourselves up the hill. And now, if he survives, he'll probably never walk again."

Jade sighed, and then turned to me. "Alright. Morty, if this is some… wizard thing that I'm not going to understand, or it's about Wintershimmer, I'm sure it was just between you and the old stallion. But now it's a political problem. Now, believe me, you've done enough for the Union—and frankly for the two of us personally—that I'd like to help you. And the Artist knows Wintershimmer caused enough little political problems that I can handle having an archmage here that Equestria doesn't really approve of. But I need you to give me something. Anything."

"I…" I hesitated after that solitary letter. Silence hung in the room like choking smoke. Eventually, I decided on a verbal trick I had heard of from the stories of the elk: just as one can speak entirely true words and yet deceive someone, it is possible to speak entirely false words in a way that suggests the truth. And, I reasoned, if I did not say anything true about the contract, I could hardly be punished, so what could be truer than claiming the contract wasn't to blame for my silence? "Star Swirl and I—"

"Don't," Wintershimmer interrupted me in my mind, before pausing and then stating 'aloud' in a very awkward tone for the old stallion "Don't reply to me in your head here; don't even think 'yes'. But even without speaking about any particular example of oaths or contracts you may or may not have agreed to, I can say confidently as your teacher that you have completely failed to heed the number one lesson I taught you about fey magic. You might be clever relative to our mortal pony peers, but neither you nor I are more clever than a fey. Remember Ochre Mountain Valley."

Wintershimmer's words were not instant. I once more had left Jade and Cookie in awkward silence. So to at least cap off the thought, I repeated "I cannot say anything more on this subject."

Jade sighed. "Then you understand I'm going to have to send you back to Equestria? For whatever they want to do with you?"

I nodded firmly. "I understand."

"No… hard feelings?"

I chuckled quite bitterly. "Believe me, Jade, you are so far down my list right now. Don't worry about it." Then, with slightly better mirth (albeit gallows humor), I added "You have to appreciate the irony, though." When the crystal queen beckoned the rest of my thought with a raised brow, I finished "You tried killing me here, you tried getting Cyclone to kill me in River Rock. But now that you don't want it—"

"No," Jade interrupted. "No! They won't kill you, right?"

I shrugged. "If Star Swirl dies, I objectively killed him."

"Celestia would never let them," Jade interrupted. "Gale—that is, Queen Platinum—wouldn't allow it? Right?"

Again, I could only shrug. "Gale's hooves might be tied as much as yours. And Star Swirl was Celestia's friend too."

Jade stared at my apparent disregard for my own life, then nodded. "Alright. I'm… I'm sure it'll work out somehow."

"Maybe the old saying's wrong, and the third time isn't the charm."

"Is this just the third time? What about when you came back with the Celestia and Queen Platinum?"

"Oh, you're right! Well, that just goes to show I'll be fine." I told her (an abject lie, at least as far as I was concerned). Troublingly, my faux bravado worked wonders in lifting her concern for me. "Go run your kingdom, Your Majesty."

"Is there… anything you need?" she asked after a moment.

I couldn't help but chuckle at the question, given my resting place at the moment. "The floor's cold for a softcoat like me; I wouldn't mind some hay. And when I brought Cookie back to life, you remember I asked you for a cake? That was delectable; if the kitchens aren't too busy, I'd love another one of those."

"Don't push your luck," Smart Cookie jabbed, before turning toward the door. "I'll arrange the hay."

Jade slipped out after him, but leaned back through the doorframe to wink at me.

I had been utterly faking both the gallows humor and the dry jokes. In part, it was because being my usual self seemed like a sense of normalcy in a moment when the world felt like it had fully ended. Moreso, I had lied out of fear that any display of my real emotions would lead to her trying to get closer and offer me some kind of sympathy. Thus, my stomach churned at the offered wink, despite knowing Jade meant well.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

It was a lot later that my next visitor came. I knew immediately who it was even from the moment she entered the hall of cells, because her voice rang off the stones. "What in the actual fuck, Morty?"

When Gale slammed open the cell door (and was, briefly, surprised that it opened instead of resisting her hoof), I found Queen Platinum III glaring at me. The extent of her finery (and the fact that the outfit was largely black, ominously suggesting a state of mourning) made that clear.

"Is Star Swirl dead?" I asked in reference to the outfit.

Gale fumed. "So help me, Morty, the next words out of your fucking mouth had better be 'I hope not', or I'll kill you right myself."

"I hope not," I obliged her, but I couldn't help but add "I made it too fast."

Gale didn't bother to shout at me after that, and by that point I knew what was coming. Didn't make the blow hurt less, though.

"What is your fucking problem?" she demanded, shortly after my face hit the stone floor. When I didn't answer, she pressed "Sorry, was I not clear? Why did you try to murder Star Swirl?!"

"I…" I sighed. "I can't tell you."

"You're serious?" Gale demanded. "Morty, we tell each other everything!"

"I can't tell you," I repeated. "I'm sorry, Gale."

"And what the shit am I supposed to say to that? This isn't some argument about a birthday present. You tried to kill an innocent pony. You obviously still want to. Are you seriously not going to say anything?"

My hung head didn't seem to get the point across. And then I felt a slight pang in the back of my mind—an itch, like the subtlest showing of the vow's magic—and when I realized what it meant, I felt my eyes get just the slightest touch wet.

"I can't be a suitor anymore," I told her. "I'm… I'm out. I'm sorry."

Gale walked out without another word. The door slammed behind her.

Sometimes there is sorrow, and sometimes there is rage, but still others there is a third thing; a perfidious admixture of the two which cannot be trusted. I knew I wouldn't survive if I kept that feeling inside me. So I wept until only rage was left.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

They dragged me back to Everfree in the morning. I did not know at the time the fate of the candlecorn I had brought with me, nor my belongings inherited from Wintershimmer. They were hardly on my mind, except in idle consideration of how any might get me out of a cold iron vow. No idea came to mind.

Typhoon and Chrysoprase rode with me in a carriage separate from the rest of the Equestrian delegation. The former tried to get my 'sponsor' to give us our distance (going so far as to warn that she couldn't protect the Grand Duchess from me), but Chrysoprase insisted on her own presence as my noble sponsor. I don't know if it was her side of the vow forcing that position, or an excuse to keep an eye on me. It hardly mattered; we said almost nothing in the flying carriage; only a single exchange persists in my memory.

"Is Star Swirl still alive?" I asked.

Typhoon responded with a shrug. "He was still alive when he left the Union."

"Duke Zodiac," Chrysoprase corrected. "Especially now, you ought to show him respect, Earl Dust."

"Earl Dust?" Typhoon looked between the two of us with mild confusion, came to the obvious conclusion, and ended the thought with a scoff of disgust.

Chrysoprase arched a brow. "You disapprove, Commander?"

"You elevated… what did you call him? 'Baron Card'." (Like so many of my usages of quotes with pegasi, Typhoon delivered air quotes with her leading feathers to convey her distrust). "And now here we are again."

"I trust you'll be letting an appointed judge try his case, instead of presiding yourself, then? Given that opinion?"

Typhoon offered the slightest of nods. "He'll get a fair trial. Neither me, nor the Queen."

"So Puddinghead?" I asked flatly. "Should I hire a clown to represent me?"

Chrysoprase shook her head. "Either it's all three thrones, or none. It will be an appointed judge. A unicorn, almost certainly, since you and Duke Zodiac are both members of the Stable… however shortly."

"Winnowing Spade," Typhoon replied. "He'll face trial this afternoon."

"That quickly?" Chrysoprase asked, apparently genuinely surprised since I cannot imagine a reason to play the emotion for politics.

The question earned a disinterested shrug, and that was the last we spoke.

At least, aloud.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

A horde was waiting for us outside the courthouse in the brisk autumn air. They wore heavy coats and equally heavy scowls, and it was only out of fearful respect for the guardsponies pulling the carriage that they did not rush its doors. Instead, they lurked amongst the pillars of the courthouse and on its polished white steps, and took shelter in clusters alongside the hedges that separated the prominent marbled cloudstone building from the public street.

Typhoon stepped out first to the apparent approval of the crowd. Then Chrysoprase. I was the last to leave.

I wasn't even all the way out when the first tomato flew. I caught it in my magic, and then locked eyes with the pony who had thrown first (or at least somepony in that direction), and glared as I focused on a spell. To the crowd, the tomato began to glow, and burst into blue flames. Its boiling juices leaked out from beneath its skin, dripping onto the gravel on the road, and that gravel too lit up like magma for a moment before cooling back into burnt black rock. What was left behind was a blackened husk, which I crushed into a powder and consigned to the chilly breeze—all without looking away from the pony in question. In meeting my gaze, he only had a moment to realize that before the charred dust blew away, it briefly formed the shape of an eerily anatomical equine skull.

Wintershimmer told me he approved, and I was furious enough not to feel ashamed at the praise. Of course, it had been an illusion. The juice of a tomato is mostly water; it boils away to steam long before it's hot enough to melt any rock, gravel on the street. But it was enough for the crowd; nopony else dared to hurl their rotten produce at me. Nevertheless, their glares were quite palpable.

It wasn't until I was very nearly through the doors of the courthouse that I finally found a friendly face… or rather, I found a sign of friendship in the complete lack of a face.

"Master Coil," said Solemn Vow, stepping out from behind one of the courthouses pillars—only to be very quickly cut off by an extended bladed wing from Typhoon. He hadn't used his 'real' voice, certainly, and she had no reason to suspect our secret, and yet for a very horrible moment, I wondered if I had somehow made yet another fatal mistake.

"It's my butler, Typhoon," I noted. "Professor, what are you doing here?"

Vow's wooden face formed a mouth to smile. "Attending to you, I should think. But more specifically, you didn't bring enough spare clothes to see you wearing something clean for a trial, so I saw fit…" As he continued to speak, holding out that syllable a moment, Vow turned back to saddlebags tied around the plain black coat he wore as a sort of butler-ly uniform, and began fishing for something inside. "...to bring you a change of clothes. A meal as well, should you like one."

"We don't have time for this," noted Typhoon.

Grand Duchess Chrysoprase shook her head. "I have to object, Commander. Appearances are everything. Especially given the history that Earl Dust's jacket has with Equestria." Then, as if she weren't my mortal foe, the old green nag nodded. "Earl, I need to speak to Judge Spade before we begin. I imagine you have an hour or so to make yourself presentable. To be completely clear, you will not run. Are we understood?"

"Of course," I agreed.

"Then let's be out of this… foul air," Chrysoprase concluded, and led our little party into the courthouse proper.

Unfortunately, while the air outside was foul with hate, inside the gilt iron doors, we found it fouled by a more sinister evil: journalism.

"Archmage Coil!"

"Is it true you tried to murder Archmage Star Swirl?"

"What—"

Vow stood up on his hind legs and brought his wooden forehooves together with all the percussive power of the most notable sound effect in a performance of the ever popular Hearth's Warming Carol, Sleigh Ride. When he had the group's attention, he nodded in deference to Chrysoprase.

"Master Coil has no comment at this time. I have to ask you all to step out of the way and let us pass. You will be the first to know when a decision has been made, but you're impeding the business of the state." Back then, at least, the press at least understood the implicit threat in such a statement enough to take 'shut up for now' for an answer. As they parted before us, Chrysoprase had the audacity to pat me on the shoulder, even as she nodded with her head to a door set off-center in the wall on the far side of the room. "You'll be expected to wait there. I will come to fetch you when it is time. Have your butler wash your muzzle; you've got some kind of slime in your coat behind your ears."

It was an awkward way to learn I had missed a spot cleaning myself of basilisk saliva and esophageal mucus without the use of my horn, but then if a long 'life' and a lot of deaths have taught me anything, it is that reminders of mortality are almost always accompanied by the mundane and the awkward.

Vow and I stepped into what would, in more modern legal parlance, be known as the 'defendant's lounge'. I want to emphasize that Equestrian jurisprudence in the year twenty-four (or whatever it was) had not reached the heights of modern fairness or what I will frankly call 'dramatic form' that you would recognize if you read the summary of a trial in my time, to say nothing of what surely lies ahead with the advent of Celestia's rule. At the time, I was 'the accused', and the room was less a lounge and more a prettied-up cell. At least it had that era's ideal gold standard of what we would now call plumbing, being a cloudstone building (Stars bless the pegasi).

"I'm going to refrain from telling you what I think of your decision making right now, sir," said Vow the moment the door was closed. "Let me start with the most obvious question: what possessed you to attack Star Swirl?"

I let out a heavy sigh. "I hope you understand that I trust you completely. But no comment."

"I…" Wood wrinkled like flesh on Vow's muzzle. "Morty, as angry as I am with you being in this situation, I'm on your side."

I replied first with a nod. "This is going to be very strange for all of us, but bear with me."

"All of us?"

I lit my horn for a second spell of the day, cringed at the throbbing of my horn, and felt it not only crack, but release a drop of something rather black and tainted to be called just blood onto my muzzle. Nevertheless, the razor reached out and grabbed hold of Vow's soul.

"Morty, what are you—?!"

"He isn't going to hurt you, Vow."

Solemn Vow's mannequin body formed a brow just to accommodate creasing it. I will, to my final death (if there even ever is such a thing) swear this occurred without his conscious thought. "Wintershimmer. What is this? Did you win the duel with Coil? Has it been you this whole time?"

"Firstly: whispers. I have no doubt the walls have ears, even if they cannot hear me. Secondly: do you honestly think I would be foolish enough to find myself in this situation if I were the one making choices in Coil's body?"

"Then what?"

"We don't know. I found myself a passenger alongside his soul after he dispersed me. To my knowledge, this has never happened in the history of necromancy. It will make a suitable topic for his Archmage's thesis, if he so desires, once we extract him from this self-made disaster. But for now, let me explain the situation we find ourselves in. You are well aware of his juvenile bet with Chrysoprase's grandson?"

Vow nodded. "I was there."

"Chrysoprase somehow convinced Star Swirl to provide her with a scroll marked with a ritual calligraph, for a cold-iron vow. She then convinced Coil to take his noble's oath as her banner upon that parchment, so instead of a vapid waste of words, it is enforced by fey enchantment."

After a very long pause, Vow noted "I see I failed to warn you about the dangers of the Grand Duchess. I'm surprised she knew enough about fey magic to even make that kind of request of Star Swirl, though."

"And it is uncharacteristic of him to have granted it," Wintershimmer agreed. "But those are both useless questions if Coil is put to death today."

"So… Morty, you decided to take out your frustrations on Star Swirl in broad daylight? At least that gives you something resembling a defense in the trial."

"Chrysoprase commanded him not to discuss the vow with anyone save her. He can reveal my existence to you here to bypass that restriction, but the same can hardly be said in court."

Vow let out the sound of a deep breath, despite the lack of lungs. "And even if word does get out, a bad contract isn't a strong defense for such an assault, if you don't have a wizard's perspective on free will. Star Swirl being a doddering old stallion in the public eye is terrible optics for that too. Alright. So… Morty, do you have a plan?"

"I have two. Before you get your hopes up, though, they're both desperate. Even by my standards."

"Oh," said Wintershimmer, with uncharacteristic nervousness in his tone.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

The courtroom proper had fewer ponies present than I had expected. The first I saw was the judge, who was to me a familiar face, even if this is the first time I have mentioned him in this story. Astute readers will recall I mentioned to Gale that I had previously facilitated the victim's testimony in a murder trial; Winnowing Spade had been the stallion in question to oversee that particular trial. He was a deeply gray earth pony, clad in five o'clock shadow that seemed perpetually trapped on the verge of turning into a beard, and he was never seen without a cigar—even in court. It produced an interesting conflict to the white powdered wig he wore atop his naturally black mane.

Tragically, it seemed, my familiarity with the stallion made me less of an amicus curiae, and more of a familiaris curiae, as he fixed me with a stern look (though not fully a glare) on my approach to the speaking podium before his much higher raised booth.

At the side of Spade's booth was a lower booth with a writer's lectern, and behind it a young clerk stallion of little historical note. Below that, standing on the judge's side of the room but actually on the marble floor, was Commander Typhoon. The mare was clad in her father's black void crystal armor, and carrying her enchanted sword in a scabbard at her side. While having the head of Equestria's overall military be reduced to a bailiff would seem extreme in most cases, I was patently aware that by my mere existence, I was a special case.

The only two other ponies in the room were Chrysoprase at my side, as my ostensible 'ally' and representative, and the state's prosecutor. Judge Spade addressed the unicorn mare first, barely moments after I reached my podium.

"Are you ready to start, Miss She?"

The prosecutorial mare had a pale blue-gray mane, a bit like my own, tied in a tight bun to keep the hair out of the way of dagger-like eyes. Her coat was teal, and a bit of an eyesore, but it certainly made her stand out.

"I am."

"She?" I whispered to Chrysoprase.

'Miss She' apparently had ears as sharp as her eyes. "I am She-Dog, of the House of Karma," said the mare with an openly spiteful glare in my direction. "Banner of the House of Three." After a pause, she gave a short nod to Chrysoprase, who stood more-or-less beside me. "Grand Duchess. I trust you will forgive me for having to obliterate your arguments today."

Chrysoprase answered with a small smile. "I was present when this system was built, Lady Karma. I would never begrudge you doing your best work."

"Are you ready, Archmage?"

When Chrysoprase let out a cough, Spade had the audacity to glare at her. "What?"

"Lord Coil is not a recognized archmage. Further, as we know for the alleged victim of this trial, a noble title takes precedence. Should it please the court, please refer to the accused as Earl Dust."

"He's a noble?" Spade moved his cigar to the other side of his mouth with just his lips and tongue. "I thought the kid was half-barbarian."

"The state intends to show that is the dominant half of his ancestry," Karma chimed in.

"Yes, yes," Spade muttered, dismissively waving a hoof. "I did read the report. Before we get started, Chrys… sorry, Lady Gullion; you had a request, in your capacity as the colt's defense?"

"You are welcome to use my given name, Your Honor," Chrysoprase answered. "I only insist Earl Dust be given his rightful title to assure he is viewed fairly by the court." Then she placed one hoof on the podium before me and leaned forward. "As advocate for Earl Dust, I request for a Trial of Sealed Lips."

I raised my brow. "Is that supposed to be some kind of trial by combat? Or some weird ordeal?"

Spade massaged his brow with a hoof. "You do understand what you're on trial for? No, Sealed Lips is why the room is almost empty. Normally, we let the press in. In old earth pony tradition, especially out of the Horseatic League, it was common for trials to come about that touched on contracts between parties other than the plaintiff and the defendant; and those contracts were often secret—deals about who was doing business with who, amounts of salt or timber or whatever that different parties had agreed to move. So if such a third party was in good standing with the court, what the pegasi call an amicus curare."

"Curiae," Typhoon corrected gently.

I nodded. "Curare is a powerful paralytic poison."

"As your advocate, I would like to encourage you to hold your tongue," said Chrysoprase.

Spade chuckled at the exchange for a moment before adjusting his cigar again and continuing. "I don't think there's precedent for Sealed Lips in a criminal trial, but given how vital your work is to the apparatus of the state, I'm prepared to allow it."

"Haven't you already allowed it?" I asked with more biting sarcasm than usually belongs on the tongue of an accused stallion, glancing around the empty room.

"We have to say it for the record," Chrysoprase explained, before projecting her voice just to say "Thank you, Your Honor."

He nodded. "Well, no point in a delay. Miss She, start us off?"

Prosecutor Karma was, true to her given name, not the most friendly mare. "Coil—Earl Dust, if we must pretend—attacked Duke Zodiac, or as he is better known Archmage Star Swirl the Bearded, in broad daylight in the Crystal Union yesterday morning."

"Allegedly," Chrysoprase interrupted.

Karma shot her a glare. "Reports from the scene are that no less than eighty ponies witnessed at least part of the attack." When the unicorn prosecutor nodded, Typhoon produced a scroll from some small bag beneath a wing. "If the accused is sincerely going to challenge the record of events, I'd like to submit our gathered testimonies as evidence."

Spade held up a hoof when the scroll was offered up for inspection. "Before we waste the court's time arguing over the facts of this event, I want to ask: Coil, do you deny this?"

After a very long pause, I shook my head. "No."

Nodding down to his clerk, Spade muttered "The evidence is accepted, but I don't think it's going to matter much." Then he lifted his eyes to me and to Chrysoprase. "It seems like the attack is not in question. Would you like to offer some kind of defense about why you did it?"

Here, I looked up to Chrysoprase. She looked down at me.

I contemplated, seriously contemplated, just having a conversation with her directly about the contract, and hoping that I could convince myself talking to her about the contract loudly enough to guarantee I was overheard would be within the letter of the contract. And while I could probably get away with it, it was a risk that I wasn't yet desperate enough to take. So, instead, I settled on seeing how far her side of the agreement would take her, and told the court "No comment."

"No comment?" the judge asked. "I… Chrysoprase, would you like to help your client come to us with a different answer? I'm not a Sisters-damn newsfilly, Coil. If you don't have any kind of defense, this is going to be a very short trial. And since I haven't announced it outright, the charge against you is attempted murder. Which, if what I've heard is true, might turn into outright murder by the end of the day."

My immediate answer was, in retrospect, very stupid. "Please don't patronize me. Even without a motive, it's assault. If I wanted Star Swirl dead, he'd be dead."

Spade stared at me for a very heavy moment, and then let out a small, quite arid huff of amusement. It took one of his hooves rising up to pull out his cigar for him to build to anything more by way of words. "Right. Grand Duchess, anything you'd like to say to try and ease that one, then?"

Chrysoprase nodded. "Coil, I'm not ordering you to be quiet. But if you want to see tomorrow morning, that's my advice," she whispered to me, before raising her voice. "The reason I asked for Sealed Lips today is that, before the incident yesterday, Earl Dust and I entered into a contract. It concerned matters of state at the highest level of the Stable, so I am bound by my own position as the head of the Stable of Nobles, and as the current heir to the unicorn throne, not to explain the terms of that contract. Suffice it to say that, for the same reasons I can't provide the contract, I decided it would be appropriate to enforce the contract with magic—which has been a more than common practice throughout unicorn history. I admit, I did not convey that enforcement mechanism in advance; for that, I could perhaps understand some frustration, and for that I will have to shoulder some blame for the day's events. Regardless, the contract was willingly entered into; I did not coerce Earl Dust, I provided him the full text with ample time to read and consider it before he agreed and signed. But it seems the issue of magical enforcement caused a greater issue than I had expected. Duke Zodiac—in his capacity as an Archmage—was the one who provided the magic for the contract to me, so I infer Earl Dust somehow learned of his involvement, and perhaps blamed him for what he perceived as an undue deception."

"That's a lot of flowery unicorn language," muttered Spade. "Let me make sure I'm understanding. You made a magic deal with Coil but he didn't know it was magic. He thought it was just some kinda big deal about… what, unicorn business?"

Chrysoprase nodded. "His elevation as a recognized noble of the Stable."

"So what happens if he breaks it?"

The Grand Duchess shrugged. "As far as I am aware, it is simply impossible for either of us to break the contract."

The judge raised a brow. "It forces you to follow the rules even if you want to break it, or something?"

Karma at this point stepped forward. "Your Honor, with respect, what difference does it make? The accused willingly agreed to a contract, and when he discovered he had misunderstood the terms, he maimed a pony who was tangentially involved in setting up a small part of it? Would you accept that as a defense if he had instead attacked the pony who sold her the parchment on which the contract was written? Or the quill? Or the ink?"

Spade frowned. "No. I wouldn't. Deceiving the colt with the contract is slimy, Chrysoprase, and I'd be inclined to rule the contract isn't legally enforceable, since you omitted details about the penalty for breach in the contract itself. But Miss She is right. All that has nothing to do with Archmage Star Swirl. So I'm going to ask again: do you have anything else to add?"

I looked up to Chrysoprase (with her hoof still braced on the podium, she was a bit higher than me, even if on level ground I was well taller than her). The old green nag did not move the slightest muscle in her face.

"No comment," I muttered.

"So be it," said Judge Spade. "For the crime of attempted murder, you are found guilty. I hereby sentence you to execution, in a manner to be decided by the Legion."

It was there that Typhoon winced. "Your Honor, perhaps a gentler—"

"You recused yourself for a reason, Commander," the grizzled earth pony interrupted. "Set aside your sister liking him and look at the facts. He came up to a hundred year old stallion minding his own business, and not just attacked him, but beat him to the very verge of death. Even if he lives, Celestia knows he'll never walk again. And the colt shows no sign of remorse. If there's more to this, I can't see it. Let Celestia sort him out."

At that, I scoffed. And when most of the court looked at me, I couldn't help but shrug. "What, did Jade not tell you what happened when she tried to hang me?"

Typhoon frowned. "So you're intending to escape? After all this trouble?"

"Oh, nothing of the sort. I'll tie the knot or lift the axe myself if it satisfies. In fact…" With that lingering comment, I reached into my provided, notably not 'evil cult robes' blue vest, and telekinetically produced a long slender glass vial filled with bubbling green liquid. Typhoon moved to draw her sword in concern of what kind of stunt I was pulling, but stopped when, after uncorking it, I held it still very near my own lips. "If you all really want to go through with this, I'll drink this right now. I just want to make sure everypony understands what happens if I do."

"You brought your own poison?" asked Typhoon.

I nodded. "It… matters to me a lot that if I'm going to die, I go before sundown. And as you and Jade have taught me, if you want an execution done right, you really have to do it yourself. This is… well, I don't know that you all really want to hear the details beyond poison. The point is, it'll take about ninety minutes to kill me, and it won't impede my ability to speak or walk until pretty close to the very end—some vomiting and an awfully bad headache notwithstanding."

"Alright," said Typhoon. "So what is, this some kind of attempt to hold yourself hostage?"

"Well, the way I see it, there's just a couple possible outcomes here. First, I can waste all our time letting you hang me or behad me, just to find out what I already know—that it won't take—and then you keep trying and just generally waste my time. Two, you, Typhoon, can use magic to kill me, which might actually work, but I suspect you'd like to talk to Gale ever again. Or Celestia. Also, I suspect my benevolent sponsor would have objections of her own to an outcome that would actually have a chance of killing me. Three, you settle for something like banishing me instead of making a big fuss about this. Or four, I drink this, which I'm sure is objectionable."

Before anypony else could speak up, Chrysoprase offered me a withering glare despite one raised brow and asked "What are you implying, Coil?"

"Do you want me to answer you here, in the open?"

Slowly, the Grand Duchess nodded. "Choose your words carefully."

"Oh, believe me; I spent all night on them." I grinned. "Whoever told you how a cold iron vow works didn't do a very good job. I can break the vow anytime I want. Doing so would kill me, but it isn't exactly instantaneous; not unlike the poison, in fact. Right now, the only thing keeping me from breaking our agreement is that I expect to keep on living. If that sincerely changes, I don't have much motivation to keep up my end of the crooked bargain."

"You think I'm afraid of word getting out?" Chrysoprase shook her head as if disappointed. "No, Earl Dust, you misunderstand: if I was sincerely afraid of explaining this situation getting out to the public, I would never have made our deal in the first place. It's more convenient for me that it stay quiet, but it's only a convenience, not a real obstacle. I don't mind being the villain in the press. I've played that role many times before for the sake of the Stable. The ponies on the street have hated me far more, and at times with better reason."

"And you misunderstand what I'm threatening, Grand Duchess. So let me be clear." I downed the vial, and then took a deep breath for show around the utter lack of burning in my (wax) throat… but the words I had planned to follow with were cut off by the courtroom doors flying open.

"Stop!" demanded Gale of the factually already quite quiet courtroom. In the painful silence that ensued, everypony looked between me, the now empty glass of poison at my lips, and my best friend in the entire world.

Judge Spade took a long puff of his cigar and then muttered "My apologies, Your Majesty, but the trial's already over. It appears the sentence is too."

"What?" As Gale uttered the word, she glanced back over her shoulder, and I saw that following behind her in far less of a hurry was Celestia, whose most notable quality in that moment was that her horn was wrapped in golden magic even as she walked with utmost grace and dignity. It was a rare appearance for the alicorn, though; her ethereal mane had been reduced to a still and mundane pink, and bags were present beneath her eyes. She did not look particularly happy when she looked at me. Even by Celestia's standards (always walking slowly to tolerate inferior mortal legs), her pace was plodding, and as I watched, Gale's hoof began to tap in impatience at the alicorn's pace. "Well… restart it," she muttered at last. "Or just call the whole damn thing off, I don't care."

"Gale," said Typhoon from her place on the floor near the judge. "We… Morty just…"

Chrysoprase took hold of the vial from my grip and held it up. "Earl Dust took matters into his own hooves."

"Morty?" asked Celestia with a raised brow.

I shrugged, and let myself take a deep breath as I composed a suitable lie, thinking back to what few lessons I had yet received from Solemn Vow. Most of what came to mind was gratitude that he had smuggled the other of my two remaining candlecorns to me in the time I was ostensibly taking to change my jacket and compose my appearance in the defendant's lobby. "Well… this is a bit embarrassing to admit after all the buildup, but it does have an antidote. Just say what you want to say, and I'll stop you if I start running short on time. Can I ask, though: what are you doing here? Not that you aren't welcome, but I didn't exactly want to get you involved…"

A third figure came slowly into view, and the entire atmosphere of the courtroom changed.

Star Swirl the Bearded was wrapped in two magical auras: his own gray and Celestia's gold. He limped, badly, wearing a brace (very much like the one Hurricane favored) on one hindleg and leaning on a wooden cane with his right forelimb. The right hindleg, unbraced, did not touch the ground at all, instead being held aloft. He wore no robe at all, a choice virtually unheard of for the venerable Court Mage of the unicorns, and no hat or even cap graced his silver mane. His beard had been tied with a bit of string, perhaps just to keep it up from near his shaky hooves.

It was the first, and perhaps only time, that I ever saw Star Swirl the Bearded look his literal age.

"Duke Zodiac!" said Chrysoprase, the first to surmount the shock of the old wizard's appearance. "I… forgive me, but is it wise for you to be here? If we had known you were even conscious, we could have come to you—"

"Chrysoprase, shut up," grumbled the old wizard. "I didn't want to be out of bed, but Her Majesty was kind enough to let me know if I didn't, you damn children would do something I couldn't fix. At least the suffering was worth it, since you haven't killed Morty yet."

Judge Spade idly noted "Ostensibly."

Flatly glancing my way, Star Swirl told me "I hate you."

"Likewise," I answered, bringing my hoof to my brow in a mockery of a salute.

Gale grumbled "Shut the fuck up, Morty. He's here to help you."

Turning toward the Judge and Typhoon, Star Swirl took Gale's lead and announced "I don't wish to press charges."

Judge Spade raised a brow.

"I made a mistake," Star Swirl explained. "A frankly stupid mistake. I gave magic that I knew to be powerful—and dangerous—to somepony I thought was trustworthy." Turning to me, he explained "I was told it was intended to make an addendum to… your prior agreement."

Gale turned in confusion my way at that explanation. "You already had a deal with Aunt Chrys?"

I shook my head, and Star Swirl even opened his mouth to answer, but Chrysoprase spoke up most quickly of us all. "Duke Zodiac, do not make a second mistake." Then, after a moment's thought, she quickly added "Coil, you will not speak of it either."

Celestia slowly stepped forward (not for drama, but out of a visible fatigue). "I am tired of these little games and secrets getting ponies hurt. Gale, some time ago your mother employed Morty for some magical services; Luna wrote the spell for them. I don't know what their agreement was, I doubt Morty can actually say, and I don't think it matters. What matters is that Morty is half-crystal, and you're half-pegasus, and that's too much of a risk for the royal line. So when Morty made his foolish bet about being noble, your mother and Chrysoprase—and I suspect my sister, though I can't confirm—cooked up this plan, to use magic to enforce Morty's noble vows. Star Swirl trusted Platinum when she lied and said the spell was for the previous agreement. Instead, Morty faced total obedience, to any command, forever, on penalty of a very painful death."

Slowly, every head turned to Chrysoprase. For her part, the old mare started with a simple nod and a complete lack of remorse. "I had no intention of ever giving him any orders beyond abandoning his pursuit of the throne."

"You magically enslaved him! Did you sincerely expect him to sit down to tea and talk about it?" Celestia replied, with surprising anger in her voice. "If Gale hadn't had the—"

"Her Majesty," Chrysoprase had the audacity to correct the alicorn.

Celestia did not stop her words. "—foresight to realize Morty was under some kind of magic, and to get me involved, Star Swirl and Morty would both be dead. You're going to release Morty from his oath, I'm going to heal Star Swirl as much as I can with my magic, and everypony is going to forget this entire incident."

"No," said Chrysoprase, stepping past me to walk up to Celestia.

The reduced goddess' nostrils flared. "I beg your pardon?"

"You brought this renegade wizard into Equestria," said Chrysoprase. "The three crowns saw the danger he represented and tried to have him put under Archmage Diadem's close oversight, but you insisted you would take responsibility for him. What have we seen since? Overwhelming violence. Murdering an esteemed member of the court in the middle of the palace floor. Near constant intimidation. Feuding with your sister in the middle of the street. Scandal on a level practically unheard of in the recorded history of the Diamond Kingdoms, with no less than the Queen herself. Feeding stray cats to children! And you, Celestia, seem to only be encouraging this rampant chaos. Bloodletting yourself to fuel his rituals? Interfering on his behalf at every turn. Excuse after excuse, forgiveness after forgiveness. But I don't have any responsibility to him, or frankly, to you. My oaths are to the unicorns and the Stable and the Equestrian nation—and all three demand stability and equity, and above all else peace. I, and the Queen-Mother, and I have no doubt Commander Typhoon as well, have all tried our very best to solve this problem with less drastic means, but your interventions have left no other choice. It is my responsibility as the leader of the Stable of Nobles, and a unicorn of standing in this nation, to give the people stability—" there she glanced to Gale, before continuing "—and if it costs High Castle any chance at becoming Crown Prince, then so be it. I would rather be hated, and use trickery, and lie when it has to be done, then see him run amok freely."

Chrysoprase had already walked quite close to Celestia by the time she finished her speech, so when Celestia took an additional step forward, it was quite obvious the purpose of the motion was to highlight their difference in size. "I've been where you stand, Grand Duchess," said Celestia. "I thought lying to maintain my loyalties was the right thing to do. I was just as sure of my choices as you are now. You cannot imagine the damage I caused."

Chrysoprase answered with an utter lack of fear for the fact she was facing down the mare who would one day judge the moral character of her soul. "Show me that you intend to keep a tight grip on his leash, and I will loosen my hold."

Celestia looked at me—far less sympathetically than I would have liked, given the dog metaphor—and said "Go home, Morty. I need to tend to Star Swirl. I'll speak to you later."

"Remain there until I send for you," Chrysoprase added in parting.

And so, unguarded and unshackled, I fetched my real body from the waiting room where I had hidden it and walked back through the unfittingly sunny streets of Everfree City until I reached a prison cell that was more comfortable and more spacious, but every bit as secure and constraining as the one I had left behind that morning.

Interlude XVI - The Regency Council

Interlude XVI

The Regency Council

Some six hours after Celestia's death, there was a gathering in an upper dining room of Canterlot Castle. It was an old room, original even (we'll get to that), with smooth green marble pilasters set between tall arch-topped windows, all of which had been drawn shut. Hanging chandeliers aglow not with fire but magic lit the room, casting glittering spots on the wooden tabletop. A few pitchers of water and coffee as well as cups and glasses were provided, but there was no food; this was no time for a meal.

Luna sat at what would normally have been the hoof of the table, in a veritable second throne emblazoned with her mark and decorated in her colors, no matter how they clashed with the rest of the accenture. She was obviously haunted, her mane slightly fraying despite its unusual magical nature, and her eyes often going unfocused as she stared off straight past whatever her head happened to be looking at.

Seated around the table, one could find virtually every pony Luna would trust as contact (and some more besides). Shining Armor, clad in his amethyst armor of office (we'll get to that), sat beside his wife Princess Cadance, in all her glorious pink alicorn-ity. Star Swirl the Bearded had shapeshifted his seat to be more comfortable for what remained of his spine (we've sort of already gotten to that), but his expression was one of intensity that belied his age. Raven Inkwell, Celestia's right hoof, had been offered the next seat at the table, though she seemed rather uncertain of her ability to contribute to such a gathering. To her side, the then Eldest Sister of the Night Guard practically roosted in her seat, so stiff that she looked for all the world like the corpse she was.

Awkwardly serpentine-ing himself into the next seat was by far the strangest invitee of the gathering: the draconequus himself, Discord. I'm not going to delve into the eldritch horror of his being, nor the odd casualty with which he presented himself despite being an elder spirit; I don't intend this record to leave readers gibbering and foaming at the mouth.

Commander White Flag sat two seats down at Luna's other hoof on the opposite side of the table from the aforementioned group, feeling rather awkward and overshadowed by the presence of Soldier On barely squeezed into the next seat yet. Then one could see Tempest Shadow, Somnambula, and finally Dr. Caballeron, with a heavy plaster cast covering one leg.

Nearly the last to arrive were Princess Twilight Sparkle and Rainbow Dash, previously mentioned, who entered the large chamber with some notable confusion.

"This is… a bigger group than I was expecting," said Twilight.

"No kidding," Dash added. "And what's with all the long faces?"

Everypony looked at everypony else to see who should answer. Finally, White Flag said "How did you get here so fast? I only sent Marathon a couple of minutes ago."

"Oh, you sent somepony for us?" Twilight let out a small chuckle. "My magic map said there was a friendship problem in Canterlot, and Rainbow and I needed to come help. And I'd say from looking around the room, it's pretty obvious something is wrong. So how can we help?"

After another round of deferrals, Shining Armor took it upon himself to be the bearer of bad news. This made it somewhat awkward when, as he opened his mouth and took a breath, the awkwardness of the silence caused his wife to beat him to the punch. "Princess Celestia is dead," said Cadance.

"No," was the first word out of Twilight's mouth, instantly, and she didn't say it so much in a tone of denial as if she was chastising a misbehaving puppy. "Of course not. That's…"

Twilight's words drained away as she saw truth in each set of eyes as she swept the room. At last, Shining Armor picked up the silence. "As far as we know right now, Twily, anypony who tries to seance into the Summer Lands loses their soul instead. Earlier today, we had a rash of unexplained comas all across Equestria. It turned out they were all from detectives and therapists who have necromancy licenses. But because they were all from different districts, we only had a few reports from guard messengers by the time Celestia tried to cast a seance. We didn't realize the root cause until it had already happened." Shining concluded the thought with a sigh. "An hour later, and we would have known to stop her. The good news, if you can call it that, is that it's reversible."

"She tried to talk to Sunset Shimmer," Somnambula clarified.

Rainbow Dash lunged over to the side of the table, hitting an as-yet empty chair so hard it rocked. "Sunset's gone too? But… we can fix this right? Right Princess? If we find their souls?"

Luna swallowed, but it was Star Swirl who fielded the question proper. "Celestia and the others, yes. Alas, Miss Shimmer's body is quite dead, not just her soul."

Raven Inkwell gestured to the remaining empty seat at Luna's side. "Please, sit down, Princess Twilight. We're just waiting for one last guest, and then we're going to try and formulate a plan to solve this problem."

"I… but how can we help?" Twilight asked. "I can certainly help try and figure out what happened, but I don't practice much necromancy; I barely even remembered to renew my license last year; the forms were due on the thirteenth, and I only got them in the mail on the sixth!"

Rainbow Dash slapped her own forehead. "How many times have we saved Equestria, Twi? I'm surprised the table didn't ask for all six of us."

"In most circumstances, you would be correct," said Luna. "However, the more I look at what has happened, the more I see parallels to the events surrounding the attempt on my life some years ago. It was for that reason I sent for you, Rainbow Dash. As for Twilight… She is a Princess of Equestria, and I may need her help lowering the sun this evening. Whatever magic guides this enchanted table of yours, Twilight, it seems it agrees with me."

"Oh," said Rainbow, and her bravado vanished into the air like morning mist before sunlight. "You mean… we don't even have a plan to fix this yet?"

In the moments of ensuing silence, one of the dining room doors swung open to reveal a skinny orange earth pony with a fluffy unkempt brown mane, bedecked in a red Haywaiian shirt patterned to be covered with, of all things, bowling pins and accordions and at least one set of moustache-and-glasses foal's disguises. "Sorry I'm late," he said in a particularly nasal voice. "You would not believe how long the line was at the donut shop in Albaquirky."

"Chee—" Twilight barely had a fraction of the name out of her mouth before the stallion stood up on his hind legs, rapidly waving his forelegs back and forth to stop her.

"I'm pretty sure you've got me confused with somepony else, Princess!" When it was clear he'd stopped Twilight, the stallion made his way over to the last remaining open seat, and plopped down into it with the sound of a very sad accordion and the squawk of a noisemaker from the throat of a rubber chicken. "Name's Service. Secret Service. Nice to meet ya, everypony!"

"Secret Service?" Rainbow asked. "Do you have a… weirdly identical twin brother? Who you steal shirts from?"

Twilight, who was a bit quicker on the uptake, expressed a different kind of disbelief. "You're the head of Equestrian Intelligence? But, but…"

"You'd be surprised what kind of secret vaults a party pony can sweet talk his way into. But that's not what we're here for right now. I—Oh, hey Stoikaja! Fancy seeing you here. Thanks for looking out for Solo for me."

"She's a good mare," Soldier On answered. "And please never say my Stalliongradi name again in that accent." The fact that the mare still had a southern Equestrian accent in voicing this complaint cannot be understated.

"Yooou got it!" Secret Service nodded up the table toward Luna. "So, I'm guessing this is about what happened to Princess Celestia a bit ago?"

Luna nodded. "I asked you all here to help save my sister's life. We all have been involved in various parts of the events that led up to today, and there have been too many secrets for any one of us to see the big picture of what is happening here. Today, in this room, it is my hope we can speak openly and honestly, and that we might ultimately understand why these things are happening across Equestria, and find a solution to save my sister. To that end…" Luna swallowed. "I will begin.

"About eighteen hundred years ago, a pony named Mortal Coil discovered a way to make himself immortal. Not merely avoiding aging, like Celestia and I, nor perpetual undeath like a lich, but truly, properly immortal. 'Morty', as he preferred to be called, has been involved in Equestrian history in many ways since his birth, but only a few matter to us today. Firstly, Morty fought alongside my sister against me in the Twilight War. I understand that, as Nightmare Moon, I wounded him grievously—but he did survive, and help Celestia to rebuild in the aftermath. Because he is—to some degree—still alive today, we have every reason to believe he should have known to expect my return.

"Secondly, Morty taught my sister a portion of the spell that grants his immortality. To my knowledge, Celestia only ever cast that spell once…" Luna glanced to her side. "Rainbow Dash, would you like to tell this part of the story, or should I?"

Rainbow swallowed, but nodded. "A couple years ago, this pony named Masquerade tried to kill Princess Luna. She had this poison from a gold flower—uh, a 'gilded lotus'—that took away Luna's magic. Since she hit her while Luna was up in the air raising the moon, she started falling. I was the only one fast enough to catch her, but… well, basically, I couldn't pull up fast enough after I slowed her down and pushed her aside. I went straight into the ground with a sonic rainboom. I've walked off a lot of crashes, but that's…" While it was obvious Rainbow's other stuttering utterances were from a failure of vocabulary, this one was filled with repressed emotion. "Because I had kind of figured out something was wrong before Masquerade poisoned Luna, Princess Celestia thought I might have been able to help save her from the poison—cause even though she didn't die from the fall, the poison was still killing her. So she used this 'Morty' pony's spell that we just heard about to bring me back. I guess it's kind of unstable, though. Which means if I were to die again right now, it'd… rip up my soul or something." Rainbow shrugged, trying to feign nonchalance, though it was obvious heavy emotion had built up beneath her facade of apathy. "I got involved in this whole thing with the Honor Guard and Shining Armor, and I even met Emperor Magnus, before I finally figured out what the poison was. We saved Luna, Shining and I and Princess Celestia caught Masquerade, and that was as far as I was involved. Once I found out what the spell Celestia had cast meant, I went back to my friends."

Star Swirl raised a brow in disbelief. "Celestia lied about such a spell?"

Luna nodded. "You would be surprised to learn how often Celestia indulges deception. And her judgment in regards to my well-being is sometimes suspect in itself. That poor choice aside, though, I will not hesitate to take any action necessary to save her. If anypony here cannot say the same, I invite you to leave." After a pause, she looked to the other side of the table. "Anything of note to add, Captain Armor?"

"Well, I don't know if the whole issue with Captain Ink and Soldier On matters or not. Especially since she's sitting right there. But if we're mostly focused on the spell to come back from the dead, I've got nothing to add."

Luna took a deep breath, then continued forward. "I know the choice to resurrect Rainbow with the burden of risk on her soul has weighed heavily on my sister's conscience of late. Alas, Coil has been nowhere to be found for some years—well before my return, even. Recently, however, a necklace which belonged to Gale came to light as part of a failed robbery turned murder from Lord Barnacle." Luna nodded to Dr. Caballeron.

Rainbow raised a hoof, and Luna dipped her horn in acknowledgement of the question. "Who's 'Gale'?"

"Queen Platinum the Third," said Star Swirl. "Daughter of Platinum I and Commander Hurricane. She and Morty were not especially secret lovers."

"What?!" Rainbow turned to Twilight with huge, saucer-like eyes. "Typhoon and Cyclone had another sister?"

"Huh, I thought those were just rumors," said Dr. Caballeron, shifting in his seat to adjust the cast now wrapping his badly broken leg. "That Platinum was unfaithful to her husbands, I mean, not the sibling relationship. You know, Princess, sometimes it is very frustrating that you and your sister… you're first-pony resources to so much of Equestria's history, but you won't even share it with us to make our own histories right."

"You help me get my sister back, I'll tell you anything you want," said Luna. "But we'll get to you and the amulet in a moment. Celestia knew that Coil had solved the problem of his soul getting dispersed when he came back from the dead in such a reanimated body, so she wanted him to come back and help fix what she'd done wrong to you, Rainbow. To that end, because she couldn't send you on such a dangerous quest yourself, she assembled a team. Sunset Shimmer, Somnambula, Tempest Shadow, and Lieutenant Commander Ink of the Honor Guard… where is he, anyway?"

Everypony looked around at everypony else, to the tune of shrugs. Eventually, Secret Service spoke up. "You, uh, probably don't want him and Miss Stoikaja—er, Soldier On in the same room together anyway. That's definitely a One More Minute kinda situation." When several ponies raised a brow, the agency stallion leaned back in his chair. "It's a song; look it up."

"Celestia is dead, spymaster. I do not care about petty rivalries. Eldest Sister, go and find him."

The Night Guard gave a sharp salute, rose to her hooves, and slipped out of the room.

Luna took a deep breath again, and then continued. "While we wait for the Lieutenant Commander, Somnambula, would you summarize what you learned on your trip hunting for Coil?"

Somnambula put on a small, rather forced smile and began to speak. "Let's see… Morty apparently knew Nightmare Moon was coming back. I mean, I guess that's obvious since he was there when you got banished, Luna. Er, Princess Luna, sorry. Still not used to that. But anyway, he and Celestia got in a fight about what to do when you came back. Celestia had a plan to… well, basically what actually happened, if I'm understanding correctly: teach a student to make friends, and have those ponies wield the Elements of Harmony to save you."

"Heck yeah we did!" said Rainbow Dash, earning less enthusiasm and more than a few glares than she'd been expecting.

Somnambula continued "Morty wasn't very optimistic about that plan, so he made his own, in case her plan fell apart. Which it also sort of did."

"What? No it didn't," said Twilight. "Like Rainbow just said, Princess Celestia's plan worked perfectly! Even if I thought it was a bad idea at the time, because I didn't really 'get' friendship yet—"

"You were her backup choice," interrupted Tempest, causing a great many heads to turn in shock in Tempest's direction. "Before she ran off to her… hairless monkey world or whatever she was trying to tell me, Sunset was the student Celestia wanted to get to use the Elements."

"I…" Twilight swallowed very heavily. "I guess that kind of makes sense, then, why she only sent me to Ponyville with one day of time to make friends before everything happened. I always wondered what her plan was if I didn't make five great best friends in that single afternoon."

"Assassination," muttered Tempest. When, again, all heads snapped in her direction, she continued. "I mean, we don't know that yet, but it's so obvious, right? Morty's behind this whole assassination plan to kill Luna, because he thought the Elements of Harmony were going to fail, and he was going to be saving the world from Nightmare Moon instead."

Star Swirl quirked a brow. "Morty never struck me as the sort to make somepony else do his dirty work." Then, patting his back, he added "Believe me on that. If he'd appeared himself, I would be more inclined to trust that hypothesis."

"I don't think we can say either way right now," said Somnambula. "We do know that Morty split himself up to hide from Nightmare Moon."

"Split himself up?" Princess Cadance asked. "Like… his legs and horn bouncing around on their own? Surely that wouldn't be useful."

"As far as I understand—which isn't that far with this magic stuff—he broke his soul into seven pieces and scattered it around in various places," Somnambula explained. "A magic necklace, a tattoo… We don't know what all the parts are yet. I guess he planned on having somepony put him back together once everything was clear again—either Nightmare Moon was gone, or she gave up on looking for him. I think Mentor—um, that's one of the parts of Morty's name—Mentor said he did leave one of the seven parts with his body, so that it could go fight Nightmare Moon and at least look like he'd tried to stop her, so you, er, she wouldn't get too suspicious."

Soldier On grunted. "But this pony wasn't there that day in Ponyville."

"Yeah," agreed Rainbow. "It was just the Commander, and Deadeye, and Morning Star, and Loose Cannon."

Shining Armor, White Flag, and Soldier On all turned very slowly to stare at the stunt flier-turned-schoolteacher with confusion. The latter asked "How could you possibly know that?"

"When I was in Zebrica looking for the cure for the poison Masquerade used on Princess Luna, there was this weird undead elk, and I kinda saw some of Deadeye's memories."

"Deadeye?" asked Princess Cadance.

Shining Armor nodded. "Dead Reckoning; an Honor Guard cloud artillerist. Most of his file was classified, but I know he died helping Rainbow cure Princess Luna."

Rainbow nodded. "He was a great stallion."

White Flag spoke up at that point. "Reckoning's memory aside, the point is that Coil never appeared in Ponyville at the Summer Sun Celebration. Not even one-seventh of him. How do we explain his absence?"

Somnambula picked up roughly where she'd left off. "While we were searching the ruins at Onyx Ridge, looking for Daring Do, Morty—or at least his body—attacked us."

"He did?" Star Swirl leaned forward. "How on earth did you survive?"

"Well, Stalliongrad didn't," said Tempest Shadow. "The magic medallion thing had to put his soul back in for us."

Somnambula nodded. "By 'Stalliongrad', she means Mr. Ink. But yes, Star Swirl; Morty cast the 'Razor' spell and killed Mr. Ink, and Mentor had to help Sunset Shimmer put him back. After that, we ran into Morty's body again in Klugetown, and he killed Sunset. Celestia had given us magic charms to protect us against the Razor—" Here, Somnambula lifted hers to show it off.

Tempest cut in "I'd bet twenty bits that's why Sunset got her neck broken—because the easy spell didn't work."

Somnambula sighed, but as she did she nodded. "What we do know is, he was there because he was collecting Grogar's bells in both places. We think Grogar must be related, and maybe he's controlling Morty or something, but we don't know that for sure."

"Grogar?" asked Star Swirl. "The goat lich of Tambelon? Troubling."

"You know of him?" asked Luna. "Celestia and I had heard of him from the stories of our grandparents and the village elders where we grew up. I think Megan may have mentioned him once too."

"Then you probably know more than I do," Star Swirl admitted. "But the coincidence sticks out to me. Not so very long ago—well, not from my perspective at any rate; it was eighteen hundred years as the clock flies. But Luna, you'll recall when Celestia sent me in her stead to the Crystal Union, to help Coil deal with Wintershimmer's belongings?"

Luna scrunched up her muzzle in thought, then shook her head. "Too long ago for me."

"Ah, understandable." Star Swirl swept his gaze across the table, and he ran a hoof along his back as he spoke. "Would that I could forget that disaster too. Still, this very same subject came up between Coil and I. As my studies teach, Grogar the Grim was a mountain goat lich who enslaved the crystal ponies and created the crystal spire that makes life in the north possible during the chill of winter. He was eventually defeated by a group of ponies led by Gusty the Great."

"Ooh, I read this as a foals story when I was little," said Twilight. "She stole his bells and hid them in secret, dangerous places, right?"

Star Swirl let out a small sigh. "Princess Twilight, with respect, I doubt a foal's story from today will be a high quality source. I can dig up some old books, if they survived the destruction of the Everfree academy."

Silent up until that point, a surprisingly well-oiled voice entered the conversation. "Perhaps I can shed some light on this conundrum without having to go delving in the old forest, eh?" Discord, at one time the greatest and most powerful of the world's spirits, leaned forward at the dining table and formed a scholar's cradle with his mismatched forelimbs. "Though I suspect you won't like what I have to say, it is the truth."

"Go ahead, Discord," said Luna.

"Of course, of course." the snaggle-toothed spirit smiled. "You and Celestia grew up in that little village in Dream Valley, surrounded by the ruins of greater civilizations, didn't you, Loonie? I'm sure you remember that. Well, as it turns out, not all of those ruins and monuments were from human settlements. Some, quite a few in fact, were the remnants of a far more respectable pony civilization. It wasn't quite the Equestria of today, of course; it had nowhere near as long to develop. My bad on that, I guess. But to liken it to old glorious Cirra or the heights of, oh, Mistmane's dear shogunate… well, that wouldn't be too far off the mark.

"Grogar was almost single-handedly… well, single-hoofedly at any rate—responsible for the fall of pony civilization at that time. Not just ponies, of course; he was a conqueror. But he hated ponies in particular. I never really understood that. I mostly stood back and watched, because he made good chaos for a while. But right when it was starting to look like he was going to turn the whole world into a perfectly orderly tyranny—absolutely disgusting, in other words—this wizard named Gusty showed up. Gusty had tried to beat Grogar before with some other ponies from that day, but it hadn't gone well. So this time, she gathered a few allies she had left, and then reached forward in time and tried to grab the unicorns who could best help her defeat Grogar." Discord began to rub his hands together as he let the anticipation grow in the room.

Finally, Luna snapped. "I will not keep Celestia waiting to satisfy your storytelling, Discord."

"Right, right, sorry." Discord frowned. "The help she got was Megan Williams—a human, for those of you in the room who have any idea what that means—Mortal Coil, of course, King Amethyst the Lightbringer, and most importantly, our very own Starlight Glimmer, aka Archmage Hourglass."

"Hold on, hold on," Star Swirl protested. "Spirit, you're telling me this lich was strong enough that it took King Amethyst, Hourglass, and Coil to best him?"

"Well, Gusty was no slouch either. But to be clear, the right order of being surprised there is Hourglass, then Morty, and then Amethyst. Megan mattered to how it turned out too, even though she wasn't magic. I had to hand it to that girl, she was clever." Discord shrugged. "But basically, yes. Grogar at his full might is… shall we say 'unpleasant at best', my dear archmage? Thankfully, there is more to the story."

After about a single beat, Luna glared, and Discord ran talons through his mane. "Yeesh, tough crowd. Well, Morty and Starlight and Amethyst and Gusty fought Grogar all the way back to the crystal spire, and they basically had him surrounded. So Grogar cast a time spell of his own, saying that he'd return when his four foes were at their weakest and most vulnerable, so he could have his revenge."

"Which is when Morty's split himself up into seven pieces, Starlight can't know she's Hourglass yet, and Amethyst and presumably this Megan person are both already dead." Twilight completed, before taking a short breath. "So that matches too. It explains the timing, it explains why Morty disappeared for so long, if Grogar got him, and it explains how Grogar's bells are involved. But why would Grogar be using Morty's body? Why not his own?"

"That is the nature of a lich," said Luna. "While they reanimate themselves into undeath, it is not an undeath tied to a single body. Apparently quite unlike Coil's immortality, they do not regenerate the same body, nor is that body spared from aging or decay. In that regard, I suspect Coil had the better body, even if Grogar has the more ruthless soul."

"It'd also be a better way to get revenge than just killing him," said Discord. "You know, if I was into that sort of revenge thing. Which I'm not, anymore. For the record."

"Unfortunately, it means that regardless of his soul, Grogar now has Coil's brain," observed Luna, ignoring Discord's mutterings. "Hence, he has Wintershimmer's Razor, functional immortality, my Night Guard spell…" Luna sighed. "Right, Somnambula. The last part."

Somnambula swallowed. "Grogar raised Typhoon as a Night Guard."

"Like, Commander Hurricane's daughter Typhoon?" Rainbow asked, leaning forward. "The one who kicked Cyclone's ass when he tried to take over the world?"

Star Swirl coughed heavily in his hoof. "Miss Dash, I'm sure given this is ancient history for you, it must seem very 'cool,' but some of us lost good friends in that conflict."

"Oh," said Rainbow. "Oh, sorry! Um… yeah." The already relatively small pegasus mare did her best to sink into her seat.

Star Swirl then turned to Somnambula. "Typhoon? You're certain, Somnambula? That should be impossible, given how much time has passed."

"I asked her to her face," Somnambula answered. "Even if I hadn't though, you remember that whole disaster when I thought she was Hurricane and I tried to propose to her? I'm pretty sure I remember what she looks like. And she could hold Heims."

"That poor mare," said Star Swirl, and visibly gritted his teeth. "We will set her free."

"That's horrible," agreed Cadance. "But I don't think it changes much."

"Hmm?" queried Luna.

"I'm pretty sure we can't fight Grogar head on. Giving all our magic to Twilight like we did with Tirek seems like a bad idea if he's just going to get back up even if Twilight hits him. So if we aren't trying to fight him head-on, I think it's a better idea to focus on what we can do, than continue to try and talk through solving the problem with violence."

At about that moment, Eldest Sister re-entered the room, with Red Ink following—head hung low, barely raising his eyes enough to recognize the rest of the ponies in the room. Eldest offered him her seat, and he took it in total silence. The stench of gin and the unkemptness of the little stallion's mane were not subtle.

Luna largely ignored the new arrival, at least for the moment. "I concur with Princess Cadance. As long as Grogar has Coil's immortality, it is a waste of life to face him head-on. What other options do we have?"

"Well, Morty probably knows how to undo the immortality," said Somnambula. "Or do something. So we probably still want to get the other pieces of him together. Mr. Ink already has one, though it looks like Grogar took the one Sunset had when he killed her; the amulet was all broken and burnt out when we brought her back."

Soldier On spoke up. "We should still prevent him from getting the rest of the bells that we can. I don't know what he needs them for, but they're part of his power."

"My primary concern is for the souls of Equestria," said Star Swirl. "Grogar, like all liches, and many spirits, is able to feed on mortal souls to supply himself with mana. The fact that any attempt to cast a seance means one's own soul is lost suggests strongly that Grogar has control of the Summer Lands."

"Which seems especially likely given Morty knew how to go into them physically," Somnambula added.

"Wait, what?" asked Twilight. "That doesn't even make any sense. The Summer Lands aren't a physical—"

"Trust us, Princess," said Star Swirl. "I helped cast the ritual once myself. As counterintuitive as it sounds, it works." The ancient wizard then turned across the table. "We need to assume that, the longer we take to stop this Grogar, the more innocent souls he'll be feeding on. Possibly including Celestia's." Luna visibly twitched at that suggestion, and only too late did Star Swirl realize what he'd said. "I… I mean… I'm sure she'll be fine, Luna."

"We've got literally the best wizards and soldiers and spies in Equestria all on the job," added Secret Service. "We'll get it done, or my name won't be Secret Service." (The stallion leaned across the table and whispered to Ink "Because I'll resign in shame, get it?" The joke failed to raise the red stallion's spirits.)

"Brass tacks, then," said Shining Armor, after a moment of heavy silence. "What are our objectives, and who can best handle each? Somnambula, you know the shards of Morty? Their locations?"

"Regrets, Genius, Ego, Cunning, Compassion, Burden, and Essence. Mr. Ink already has Cunning, it's a magic tattoo. Regrets is apparently with Commander Hurricane."

"What, like his tomb?" Twilight asked. "I think that's in the Everfree Forest somewhere, but—"

"He's immortal too," muttered Ink. When the room went somewhat quiet, the stallion lifted his head (making the stench of gin unmistakeable to those closest to him on his breath). "Hurricane. Morty made him come back to fight you, Princess. Then he stuck around. 'The Commander'—Mentor, to Stoikaja and me, he's Hurricane."

The room was totally silent which made it all the more dominating when, in the process of lowering his head once more in shame, Ink bashed his forehead quite loudly on the table's edge. "Cyka."

"That's ridiculous," said Twilight. "Both for Typhoon and Hurricane; their souls wouldn't have lasted that huge gap of time between the founding of Equestria and the Twilight War. Souls only persist a few hundred years, at most, after death. Right?"

Luna sighed. "Normally, yes. However… Because of what happened to Gale, neither Morty nor my sister ever forgot as they normally would. That is, I assume, how they were still able to be reanimated after all these years. It also explains why the stallion never liked me." Luna let out a very sad chuckle. "And here, I thought my sister just had what the ponies of this day call 'a type'. I had not realized it was literally him."

"You didn't recognize Hurricane?" Somnambula asked.

Luna shook her head. "Coil's magic made Hurricane's body much younger than he was when I first met him in life. At the same time, his mane and coat did not revert from their fading and graying in his old age. Instead of nearly black, the stallion who met me in this era was more visibly blue. Also, necromancy of that magnitude does warp a soul, and as a side effect, it can change one's cutie mark. Mostly, though, he never spoke to me enough to give me any suspicion. He just… lurked behind Celestia. Constantly. Weirdly."

Rainbow raised a wing as if it were a classroom, and then took it as a sign to speak when everypony looked her way. "So, what, do we have to un-stone-ify—"

"Petrify," was the interrupting correction, only humorous in that it came from both Star Swirl and Twilight Sparkle.

"Whatever," said Dash. "We need to 'fix' Masquerade and ask her where he went?"

"Celestia and I interrogated her, several years ago," said Ink. "She claimed she brought him to Khagan for a bounty."

Luna's eyes swiveled to Soldier On. "Ah. And now it all makes sense. If we assume Khagan learned what you did, that he was behind the horn rot, then it all fits together. He wanted revenge on Hurricane."

"And we just assumed he was dead," said Armor. "But if he's magically unkillable…"

Cheese Sandwich sighed. "Then we have to extract him on foreign soil. An act of war."

Soldier On let out a scoff. "Maybe if Equestria is behind it. But I'm still wanted for treason and conspiracy to commit regicide, right?"

"You're willing to risk your life for such a cause?" asked Luna.

"If you let Polnoch go free," Soldier On answered. "And you give me back the Honor Guard's guarantee."

"What's 'the Honor Guard's Guarantee'?" asked Cadance, glancing between the big mare and her husband.

Commander Flag answered the question. "A blank check for our souls. Celestia doesn't judge us; she doesn't even look at what we've done. Just straight to the Summer Lands."

Luna frowned amongst the ponies in question in the room. "I will forgive you, Soldier On. But I cannot spare Third Brother in a time of such chaos—"

"I'll do it," said Ink, slowly. There was some confusion in the room as to what he even meant, until Ink clarified. "I'll be your… undead monster thing. Take me instead. Let him go."

"Mr. Ink!" said Twilight. "Are you drunk? You can't be serious—"

"It's the only thing I can do," he interrupted. "To make any of it right."

Soldier On raised a brow and sat back in her seat, but said nothing.

"We will discuss this later," said Luna, visibly uncomfortable facing the fairly natural consequences of her policy. "For now, it appears that, however unpleasant the politics, we must rescue Commander Hurricane from the boars. Soldier On will, hopefully, lead that expedition. Who else do you need?"

On shrugged. "Ideally, a unicorn who can teleport and a pegasus scout."

"I'll go," said Rainbow.

Luna frowned. "Rainbow Dash, I appreciate your willingness to help, but that is a very bad idea. Remember, your soul is vulnerable; that is why we wanted Coil to return in the first place."

"Not to mention you're kinda an internationally known representative of the Equestrian state," added Cheese Sandwich. "Downside of being a Wonderbolt: you do actually have military rank." Then the spymaster looked just past Rainbow, to the regent-monarch at the head of the room. "We could send Solo. Obviously, we know she's one of us, but we'd at least have plausible deniability."

"Absolutely not!" said Shining Armor. "I sent Solo to S.M.I.L.E. from the guard precisely to get her out of situations where she'd be in straight up fights. She's a smart mare, and she works well in Equestria, but what's she going to do against a bunch of boars?"

"Armor's right," On agreed. "I'll take Rainbow Dash."

"Did you not just hear anything anypony said?" White Flag snapped. "Risk yourself all you want, but I will not be responsible for risking the life—not to mention soul—of one of the Bearers of Harmony!"

Soldier On chuckled. "Five years ago, I had almost that exact same conversation with Thunder Crack. We both did everything in our power to get Rainbow to give up on getting involved in trying to solve the poisoning, because we thought Celestia's orders to train her were stupid and emotional, and we couldn't risk the life of one of the Element Bearers. It should have been easy; Rainbow hates guardsponies by her own admission. But she fought through everything we did to try and get her to quit because she thought it was the right thing to do." On couldn't help but break into a slightly wider grin as she added. "And against all odds it even worked. I would bet any of you three bits that even if we forbid her, she'd fly out of Canterlot when the meeting is over and join me on the way south."

Princess Cadance was just about to object when the noise of three gold bits sliding across the tabletop from Rainbow Dash interrupted all thought. As the ponies in the room stared at her with disbelief, the little blue pegasus shrugged. "Well, I was actually just gonna argue with you all until you let me go, but her plan was better."

"Alright," said Luna. "May I ask why?"

"Deadeye would want to save the Commander if he was still around. I owe it to him. And… the Commander and I have history."

"You have history with Commander Hurricane?" asked Star Swirl.

Rainbow nodded silently. "It's… I promise it's got nothing to do with all of this. Otherwise, I'd rather not talk about it."

"Sure. But that still leaves the political risk," said Cheese Sandwich. "Any suggestions there?"

Dr. Caballeron barked out a laugh. "Just powder her up like Daring Do, like they do at the conventions. She's close enough to the right size, and Daring already has no respect for borders or property rights. Or negligent homicide."

"You want her to commit a war crime in cosplay?!" asked Twilight.

"No, hold on," said Rainbow with a grin. "That's actually super cool."

"It's identity theft!" protested Twilight.

Soldier On dryly observed "If she doesn't, Celestia might be dead."

That comment silenced the youngest princess' objections like a hot knife through inter-spinal cartilage.

"That just leaves a unicorn with plausible deniability," said Shining Armor. Then, looking to his right and across the table, he said "Absolutely not" twice.

"I wasn't going to suggest it," said Twilight. "Neither Cadance nor I have a good way to hide the wings even if we did change my coat color or something. But maybe Starlight—"

"You want to send Archmage Hourglass?!" Star Swirl snapped, getting up onto his forelegs. "Absolutely not! Remember, Grogar will recognize her if he finds her. In fact, concealing her identity without giving away her future has to be a fourth mandatory goal of our plan."

"Too bad, given how good of a wizard she is," said White Flag. "But strongly agreed."

"Twilight, what about Starlight's friend? The stage magician one."

Twilight barked out a laugh. "Trixie? The mare wouldn't know subtle if it… did something obvious to her… in a subtle way…" (Not everypony can be Mortal Coil.) "Look, it's a bad idea. Why would you even think of her?"

"When she stole that magic amulet, and put Ponyville in a bubble, I got in a fight with Princess Celestia about arresting her for felony dark magic and for putting you and your friends at risk." Shining Armor sat back. "So she met the 'criminal' criteria."

"Criterion," Twilight couldn't help but correct. "Singular."

A small vein bulged on Shining Armor's temple, even as he smiled at his little sister.

"Okay, hear me out," said Cheese Sandwich. "I know a mare who we should be able to get to work for us, since she works on contract. She already knows exactly where you need to go. And she specializes in sneaking around near immortal giant alicorns undetected."

"Huh?" said Rainbow Dash, in genuine confusion. Most of the rest of the table, however, was dumbfounded at the spymaster's audacity.

Finally, it was Red Ink who spoke up. "Whoever hired Masquerade to kill Luna—"

"Masquerade?!" Dash snapped. "No way!"

Ink hung his head. "What I was saying was, there's magic on her that she can't help us."

Secret Service enthusiastically shook his head. "She can't help us find who hired her. Which, for all we know, might have been Morty. But that's not what we're asking. This is a completely separate job."

"You'd trust her?" Luna asked.

The spymaster shrugged. "Well, maybe I think it'd be a good idea for you to put some kind of a spell on her, just to be safe. And maybe in addition to the stick, give her a carrot, like a pardon?"

Soldier On glared at the lanky, tacky-dressed master of intelligence. "You want me to work with the mare who killed my husband?"

"Sooner or later, you're going to have to decide whether you're going to throw away your whole life for revenge, or whether you're going to find something new and good to live for. Like… being a really big, muscular party pony or something. You've already got the Cheesy… er, I guess 'Secret Sense' for it, if what I read in my reports is true!" Secret Service smiled at the big mare, who only seemed to glare in response. "I'm not saying you have to pretend you didn't get the short end of… well, an awful lot of sticks. But I know you could have killed Mr. Ink in Ponyville and you spared him so he could save those three fillies. And I know you went into the burning building in Baltimare with Captain Armor, even though you were wanted for being part of the poisoning. If I didn't think there was a good pony in there, would I have really lied in my reports to the princesses for five years to say I didn't know where you'd disappeared to?"

"You did what?" Luna asked.

Secret Service chuckled, and only the slightest hint of terror slipped into the sound. "Well, you see Your Majesty, it's funny. I didn't actually have any proof Soldier On wasn't part of the plot to kill you. I just had this twitch in my ear. Which isn't permissible as evidence in court, believe me, I tried when my cover identity got busted for carrying a concealed party cannon without a concealed carry permit. So, it took a long time to get here, but I think we can both agree I made the right call and you shouldn't, like… turn me to stone or banish me to the moon or something. Right?" A frankly unsettlingly wide smile graced Secret Service's lips.

"That seems like a perfectly reasonable and trustworthy explanation to me, Luna," said Discord, the incarnation of chaos.

Luna closed her eyes heavily, in a show of visible frustration. "We shall deal with this… minor treason later. Soldier On, Rainbow Dash… I will do my best to compel Masquerade into your service. If that fails, we shall send Archmage Mistmane to aid you—if she is willing. You will enter into Suida, avoid any conflict with the boars you can, and rescue Commander Hurricane, and his shard of Mortal Coil. Are we agreed?"

Rainbow and Soldier On both nodded.

"Good. What other shards of Coil do we know of?"

"None," said Somnambula. "Save the locket shaped like Gale's cutie mark, though we don't actually know if that's got one of Morty's soul bits in it or not." The desert mare turned to Dr. Caballeron. "Do you know anything about who would have stolen it? Or if it had any special magic?"

Caballeron nodded. "It was enchanted, certainly, but not in a way any of my usual contacts at the Royal College could identify. They said it had the wrong… number, or something. They thought it might have been enchanted by elk or fey or something."

"Morty always preferred seven-pointed notation to six-," observed Star Swirl. "So that isn't surprising. It can be awkward to act in such a large prime number when our convention lets glyphs be so easily divided in half or into thirds."

"Well, yes… anyway, I got three offers on the thing before it was stolen. One was from some art dealer who just like the aesthetic; he offered far too low a price for something enchanted at all, so I doubt he would be behind the theft. The second was the college contact, who wanted to use it as the basis for some kind of research. I'm an academic, I respect that, but at the end of the day, I could not fund my museum on the offer from a student's pocket, so I had to send him away and tell him to come back with a grant. He seems like a likely thief, since he could not easily get such an item by other means. The third," he said, looking up the table at Ink. "was your brother."

"One of my Night Guard came to you?" Luna demanded.

"Other brother," mumbled Ink.

Soldier On nodded when it became clear Ink was done speaking. "He's the middle of three brothers. The eldest is 'Predvidenie'." (Several ponies around the room were as confused as Ink had been earlier that Soldier On did not speak her own native tongue with its corresponding accent anymore, and instead treated Stalliongradi like an Appleoosan would.) "Secretary Foresight. The ruler of Stalliongrad."

"De facto," muttered Ink.

"Officially now too," said Soldier On. "The tsar stepped down." Then she glanced to Dr. Caballeron. "Why would Foresight want a magic necklace? Is he cheating on the art market like he used to cheat on stocks?"

Princess Cadance raised a brow at that. "Foresight seems like such a nice stallion; what do you mean cheating on stocks?"

Ink lifted his head and let out a tired, defeated sigh. "After we freed Stalliongrad from evil Baron Frostbite, Stoikaja and I had our fight and it turned into rebellion. Most rebels, it wasn't as personal as for us, though. Just about who got Frostbite's money, and food, and houses and… stuff. I tried to stop the fighting by… fighting. Obviously. Predvienie, big brother, he tried to solve the problem by just getting more money. So he would look into the future in his broken crystal ball, short some stocks and buy shares, and then next day… 'Look, I am become oligarch! Destroyer of markets!' I think Celestia knew and looked the other way because Stalliongrad needed the money, and he did actually spread it around instead of hoarding it for himself. Didn't work so well at first, but I guess since our trip to Stalliongrad a few days ago, maybe it is finally working." Ink dropped his face on the table again. "Maybe I am an idiot who just made it worse."

"Oh, for the love of…" Rainbow Dash stood up from the table, walked around to Ink's side, grabbed the bulky stallion by his mane, and hauled him into a better posture. "I don't want you to think I give two craps about you, okay? But this isn't about you, or me, right now. So cut your moping out, straighten up your back, and help save Princess Celestia, or get out!"

Shining Armor glanced across the table to Commander Flag and, with the faintest tingle of a spell, whispered a message over the tabletop. "Do we… need to be working harder to recruit her as some kind of drill sergeant?"

"We both know she's gonna replace Spitfire on the Wonderbolts," Flag answered in similar quiet. "Those skills aren't going to waste."

Luna struck both hooves on the table to recenter attention, even as Rainbow was still getting re-seated. "We should inquire of this college student of yours, Caballeron, and Secretary Foresight. Mr. Service, Archmage Star Swirl, I'll entrust the college to your attention. Princess Cadance, Lieutenant Ink, and… Miss Somnambula, can I send the three of you to Stalliongrad?"

"Stol'nogrod," Ink grumbled quietly.

"Sure," said Cadance. "I went to school with Foresight, so hopefully that will get us off on the right hoof."

"Do you… not want me to fight Grogar?" asked Ink. "At least until Mentor is back, I do not think there is another pegasus who can counter Typhoon, right?"

Luna replied by lifting a wing, which crackled with visible electricity. "There is no pegasus, correct."

"Absolutely not," said White Flag. "Everything we have said about Miss Dash and Starlight Glimmer applies ten times over to you. Equestria cannot risk losing a second Princess."

"Princess Twilight Sparkle, I believe my sister has instructed you on how to use her spark to raise the sun. Is that correct?"

Twilight nodded. "Yes, but—"

"Of the two of us, I am by far the more skilled in battle," Luna interrupted. "And I will not sit idly by while my sister's fate is decided. So, while these other threads are pursued, I, Captain Armor, the rest of the Honor Guard, and the Night Guard will pursue Grogar's remaining bells and attempt to extract them back here to Canterlot, where we can hide them in the crystal tunnels within the mountain. Discord, can we count on your aid?"

Discord winced. "Well, um… I mean yes, but I wouldn't count on me being of much actual use." The draconequus bit his cheek for a moment as he considered his words. "See, the thing is, I can absolutely survive with just a little bit of friendly chaos. You know, the odd prank here and there, little jokes and parties and spontaneous decisions. And I'm just fine with that. But if I don't make big chaos, my powers get… more than a little bit deflated." As he said this, air began to puff out of Discord's antler (singular because its opposite was a more traditional horn), and with a flappy rubbery sound, his entire skull deflated like a balloon. Sticking his thumb in his mouth, the draconequus 'reinflated' himself before continuing. "If I thought beating Grogar would make the world more chaotic, or at least keep it that way, maybe I could do something. But even though Grogar's end-state is a pretty boring world without much chaos at all, getting there would give me a veritable fiesta of chaos to work with. So even if I want to help stop him, my magic is probably much more interested in making him win."

"Perhaps best you help in other ways then," said Luna. "Your knowledge of Grogar's history will be invaluable to locating the other bells so we can go and retrieve them."

"Of course," said Discord. "I'll do whatever I can. I just wanted you to know not to count on Discord Ex Machina."

"Ahem," said Secret Service. As eyes turned, he sort of hung his head at the burden of the words he was about to speak. "There is one other thing we should probably think really hard about."

"Yes?" asked Luna.

"What do we tell Equestria? If ponies wake up to headlines that say 'Princess Celestia, dead at forty-five thousand!', well, it'll be an Angry Unicorn Polka in the streets, if you catch my drift."

"We are not forty-five thousand," Luna answered. "We're hardly over eight. But I take your point." She frowned. "But we cannot hope to deceive the nation indefinitely. We shall announce that Celestia is ill, but in stable condition. That has the advantage of even technically being true. Mr. Service, can I trust you will evolve that into a story with suitable details?"

"That's my job!"

"Then barring any further concern or objection, I shall adjourn this meeting." After a rather short pause for anypony to speak up, Luna nodded. "Harmony be with you all. May we all meet here again in success."

Foreword

Once upon a time, most of these stories could be found in every history book in Equestria. The Royal Library of Everfree City could have provided you a dozen retellings—some of them would even have the audacity to be mostly accurate. That was back when there was an Everfree City, though; when a haunted forest hadn’t crawled its roots over the rubble that once made up the Royal Library, and when Nightmare Moon’s armies hadn’t wiped out most of a generation of ponies who could remember being told these stories as foals.

So as I sit here in my lonely tower in Canterlot, regrowing most of my skull, some of my neck and all of my right lung (missing because Nightmare Moon saw fit to help my complexion with some... ‘extreme exfoliation’), I find myself with nothing but time and a sinking fear in my gut that my love might be lost to the sands of time. Though writing this is painful both to my heart and the brutally shattered remains of my horn, I have resolved to put to page my memories of an era that only Celestia and I now live to remember.

Before I continue, dear reader, I do have one private note to one particular hypothetical reader. Please excuse my moment of therapeutic pettiness.

Dearest Luna,

I hope you never get off the rock in the sky, but if by some cataclysmic turn of rotten luck you someday find yourself reading this: in the next few mornings, I will have regrown the incredibly beautiful face that you accused me of loving too much. Once the scars heal, and I apply a bit of magic to cover it up, I’ll once more be the most handsome stallion in Equestria You, however, will be cursed with ponies looking up at your silhouette plastered on the moon and associating every beautiful crater, every precious pockmark of a meteor strike, every delicious hill and mountain,with a brutal case of facial acne.

Oh, perhaps someday I’ll get over our differences. Perhaps I’ll forgive you for Celestia’s sake—or at least pretend I’m over your betrayal long enough for her to stop sobbing on the roof every night. Right now, though, the hole where my right eye ought to be feels like it’s on fire. And every time my jugular throbs trying to pump blood that ran out a few hours ago and sends a twinge down my side, it helps ease the pain just a little to think that most of the paintings of you were lost with the rest of Everfree City. Why, somepony with a lot of time on his hooves could make you look any number of interesting ways… and as far as history is concerned, I’ll be right.

‘Love’
Morty

My apologies for that distraction, dearest reader.

Assuming Celestia hasn’t defaced this tome to censor it like my prior work, the book you hold in your hooves, wings, mouth (how unsanitary), or magic contains a collection of true stories about a young mare and her friends living in Equestria’s capital. These Tales from Everfree City may follow several of us in those teenage days of freedom when we had no idea how much of history we were shaping, but at the end of the day, this is the story of one mare.

To some, she was Platinum III, the daughter and heir of the Princess Platinum you probably know from Clover’s idiotic, ahistorical pageant. To others, she was Aura Gladioprocellarius, the rebellious youngest foal of the venerable Equestrian living legend, Commander Hurricane. But to me, she was Gale: the most inspiring mare who ever lived or ever will, and with the possible exception of Celestia, the most significant pony in Equestrian history.

You should understand, reader, that while the stories I’m about to record are true—taken from my own memories with the aid of magic to enhance eight-hundred year old recollections, along with the records that survived Nightmare Moon in Canterlot’s hidden libraries, and Celestia’s memories of events, supposing she ever decides to stop staring off into space—I will not pretend to be an unbiased narrator. Gale was the one true love of my life. And so while I have no intention of consciously lying to you—the fact that I record her foalish, foul vocabulary ought to be evidence enough of that—I cannot promise a historian’s untainted view of history. I can only promise the truth as I saw it.

On a related note, I should warn you: Gale could be quite creatively crude when she set her mind to it. If either my off-hoof mention of the damage Luna inflicted on my body in the course of yet another of my deaths, the implication of necromancy in the fact that I’m writing this story despite admitting to being ‘dead’, or the use of the word ‘fuck’ disturbs you, I encourage you to close this book now; your parents are probably looking for you in the picture book section of the library.

With all that prelude out of the way, my name is Mortal Coil, or if you prefer grandiose titles, Coil the Immortal. Gale gave me the nickname ‘Morty’ when I first met her, and it’s now stuck for going-on eight hundred years. At that time, I thought my special talent was necromancy; with the benefit of experience, I now know that it is actually ‘dying.’ It is a practice that I am by far the world’s foremost expert in, and much like a world-class painter or a first-chair violinist, that supremacy stems from repeated, deliberate practice.

Gale’s story begins where mine ended: with the two of us having just saved Equestria from my evil former mentor, Wintershimmer the Complacent, and my acceptance of Celestia’s offer to be my new teacher as I rounded out my magical education...

1-1 Princess Platinum and the Seven Deadly Suitors

I

Princess Platinum and The Seven Deadly Suitors

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

I - I

To Be the Worst Wingpony

“Sometimes I wonder if I ought to be wearing my mask around you, Morty.” Mage Meadowbrook finished that observation with a wince as she rubbed a soft spot on her cheek. It was quickly swelling into a bruise, where a test of my knee’s reflexes had gone off a bit better than she was expecting.

My wince of sympathy was genuine, but it also wasn’t much of a substitute for a block of ice. “I’m sorry…”

“You seem less infectious than most of my patients, but I’ve never treated somepony who’s actually died before. The other ‘zombies’ were caused by a fungus.” Then she forced enough of a smile to put me at ease, and gently pressed a hoof on top of my hind left leg, a sign I could lower it back to the bed. “Well, you seem to be healing well physically… how about mentally? How much can you remember from the last time you were up and about?”

“My mind’s fine, Meadowbrook. Though if I have to stay in this room one more hour, I suspect there might be permanent damage.”

“Is there something wrong with Celestia’s hospitality?” Meadowbrook asked, casting her gaze around the enormous chamber. I suspect it must have been built by somepony who had Celestia’s unusual proportions described to them, but had never actually met her in person. If they had, perhaps the doors would not have been built so wide that a full royal carriage would have fit comfortably into her closet.

“Oh, it’s a beautiful room the first two weeks, don’t get me wrong, but eventually one does get tired of counting the patterns on the wallpaper. So are we done?”

The blue earth pony mage (the idea of a medical doctorate hadn’t taken off yet in those days, and her skill as a physician made her more than deserving of a title of respect, hence ‘Mage’ without a horn) sighed. “You may feel that way, Morty, but magical duels involving illusions have a well established record of tampering with memory in the long term. Please, humor me.”

I sighed, sitting up on the lush blankets and pegasus-down-stuffed pillows of Celestia’s massive bed.

“Mortal Coil, age eighteen. Wizard. I trained under Archmage Wintershimmer in the Crystal Union until he decided to make himself immortal by stealing Clover the Clever’s body, so he faked his death and framed me for his own murder—all as a means to get me to leave instead of taking over his title. Then he taught me his famous spell: how to sever a living pony’s soul from the body. He wanted me to use it on Clover. I… objected. Unfortunately, that ruined Wintershimmer’s plans; he needed it to look like I killed Clover, so nopony would look too closely at him when he put his soul in Clover’s body and… Actually, I never asked what the plan was after that. I never mentally got past the ‘murder’ part.”

“Understandable,” Meadowbrook agreed with an amused look on her face. I, for my part, was just glad she had enough of a magical education not to interrupt me every two words, like most of my friends did when I tried to explain such a story.

“I wound up on a rather long journey, first to Clover way off in the draconic wastes past River Rock, and then back here to Everfree City. But to summarize, I met some friends along the way—probably most notably Gale. Er, you probably know her better as Princess Platinum the Third—”

“I know who you mean.”

“Right. Well, Gale helped me prove my innocence, and then we and Celestia went and fought Wintershimmer. I died… well, sort of… you probably don’t want me to explain that much necromancy. That’s the difference between a doctor and a necromancer; I define death as when the soul leaves the body—which is what did happen—whereas you would say death occurs when the… I’m going to guess when the brain stops functioning?”

“The heart, actually, but that’s a good guess.” Meadowbrook nodded. “I suppose in your studies it’s natural that you must have learned a few things about practicing medicine, so I shouldn’t be surprised. I’m sure there are a couple of other differences between us, though.”

I let myself chuckle before I replied. “Like the fact that I’m allowed to arrive fashionably late?”

“Why wouldn’t I…” Meadowbrook shook her head and then brought a hoof to her mouth, trying miserably to mask her amusement. “That’s horrible, Morty,” she told me between chuckles, before finally bringing her sense of humor under control. “You have to promise not to tell anypony I laughed at that. Especially not Somnambula.”

“If you tell me I can finally get out of bed, we have a deal. I assume that summary satisfied you that I’m mentally fine? Because I’m bored out of my mind in here, and if I don’t get up and do something, I’m worried there will be permanent damage.”

At that, Meadowbrook cracked a more satisfied, far less hesitant grin. “Well, Morty, I’m glad to inform you that by kicking me in the face, you’ve passed your physical. Let me just summarize a few things. You still have a few bruises that will need more time to settle, and the gash on your neck has its stitches in, so try not to be too aggressive with your movements. I’m not sure how you got alchemical quicksilver so deep in an open gash, but it’s going to likely be a few months before it’s fully closed up. In the meantime, since I couldn’t remove all of the liquid from your bloodstream, I had to counteract it with an antitoxin instead. You may experience some mild tremors for the next few weeks; if any motion sickness or shaking lasts longer than a few minutes, come see me right away. Otherwise, just try to get lots of rest, and that should take care of your physical health. But—”

It’s amazing how unsettling those three letters can be, coming from a doctor. Let the record reflect that Meadowbrook may have been a medical genius, but her tendency to pause and carefully select her words occasionally left a patient in a great deal of concern. I shifted upright in Celestia’s bed, getting up to a sitting position, if only so that I could look Meadowbrook in the face more evently. There, I saw concern that I did not want to see. “But...?” I prompted finally, drawing a little circle with my hoof as if reeling in a line.

I watched her throat bob, but finally she found her words. “It’s your body’s magical system that took the worst of it. Your horn most especially.”

I dared to run a hoof up my horn; there were a few unusual bumps on the surface where the cracks from my duel were healing, but otherwise it hardly felt out of the ordinary. Then again, my horn had never quite been ordinary. “You mean my groove? I know it’s spiraled too tight, but it’s actually always been like that. It’s a birth defect. My spells tend to flare up, so I can’t cast as many spells in a day as another wizard, but it does have the benefit of making them stronger.”

“That isn’t what I mean, Morty.” Meadowbrook shook her head, and once again I caught her hesitating. “Usually, overuse of magical energy damages the surface of the horn. You had quite a few cracks when you came in, though you’re probably already familiar with that experience from training as a wizard. As you can likely feel, the surface of your horn is mostly healed. It’s the core that concerns us.”

“Us?” I pressed.

“I’ve treated a few horn injuries in my day, but rarely one from your kind of overuse of magic. I asked Star Swirl to assist me in treating you. Now, normally, the body outright passes in unconsciousness from exhaustion long before you’re able to overuse magic to the point that it damages the core of the horn.”

I swallowed nervously and nodded. “Yes. Like I said, my usual limit is three spells a day. I had to work around that limit fighting Wintershimmer… Is the damage permanent?”

“We don’t know yet.” Meadowbrook knew it wasn’t the answer I was looking for, but she was brave enough a doctor not to look away. I could see the regret in her eyes when she continued. “Which is why, though I’m sure this is a disappointment for you, I have to ask that you not use your horn. At all.” She didn’t move particularly fast when she pressed her hoof on the bedsheets to emphasize that point, but it still found me surprised. My mind was elsewhere, wondering what damage to my horn might mean for my future. “Do you understand, Morty? No magic, not even basic telekinesis, until Star Swirl and I are able to finish a diagnosis.” She waited for a very long moment and then reached up onto the bed and put her hoof on my shoulder. “Do you understand?”

“Hmm? Oh; yes.” I nodded probably too vigorously, to make up for the awkwardness of staring forward into space. “Yes, sorry. I understand.”

“I’m sorry, Morty. But any use, even something slight, could cause further damage. So until we know—”

I shook my head. “You don’t need to apologize. If anything, I should be thanking you. Besides, now that Wintershimmer is gone, it’s not as if there’s anypony trying to kill me, to force me to use my magic. I’m sure I can fill the time studying with Celestia and finally learn to read.”

Meadowbrook cocked a brow. “You’re… illiterate? An illiterate wizard?”

“Wintershimmer had an interesting teaching style…” I gently massaged my temple, where I could feel a vein throbbing. Unlike Luna (may a constant stream of meteor showers grant her ten thousand years of migraines), Meadowbrook hadn’t meant any offense with her question. Still, the wound on my pride that I couldn’t read plain Equiish stung at the memory, and I had to take a few deep breaths to keep from snapping. “But now I have a much nicer teacher. It’s still odd to think I’m supposed to be Celestia’s apprentice…” Wanting nothing more than to change away from that topic, I voiced the last question on my mind. “Do you have any idea how long it will be before you have an answer?”

“Just a few days.” Meadowbrook put on a little smile at that. “Then, one way or another we can plan the rest of your recovery. Unfortunately, Lady Celestia isn’t actually in Everfree City. She travelled to the Crystal Union to help Queen Jade and Smart Cookie rebuild the Union with Wintershimmer gone. I’m afraid she isn’t due back for another day or two.” Then she smiled. “But there is actually somepony here to see you, if that’s any consolation. Since we’re done, I’ll go get her.”

Meadowbrook’s departure left me alone for about seven seconds of peace, which ended in much the same way an era of peace does in a more academic history book. Seven envelopes landed atop Celestia’s bedsheets and my life changed forever.

Perhaps ‘landed’ doesn’t do the motion justice; they were hurled like feline throwing stars in a magical rage that, had they flown a little closer to my face, would surely have put an eye out.

Not that the thought is as frightening now, all these years later, thanks to Luna… Then again, in my youth I could neither walk off missing most of my head, nor regrow a damaged eye in a vat. Sometimes, context is everything.

“Meadowbrook says you’re healthy enough to walk around,” Gale announced as she entered the room after her violent introduction, wearing a scowl that could have melted the gold leaf off of a noblepony’s birthday cake. Her lavender coat was wrinkled on a furrowed brow, though I knew the mare well enough to know that her done up blonde mane and earrings were probably better indicators of her anger than any facial expression. “Get up. We don’t have all day.” Though her vibrant yellow sundress had to be a sight more comfortable than the formal gowns she so despised, it still swished in imitation of her simmering rage as she failed to stand still.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “I’m guessing ‘go out for dinner when I’m healthy enough to walk again’ is cancelled?”

Gale’s nostrils flared with a huff. “I have to spend today delivering those.”

“Which are…?”

“It says right on the fucking front!”

“Gale… I still can’t read.”

Though I know Gale knew my humiliating secret, two weeks of bedrest must have been enough for her to forget; she reacted as if I’d slapped her across the face with an eel, snapping her out of her fuming funk with the power of surprise. “Oh shit! Right, sorry Morty.”

“It’s fine.” I couldn’t help but chuckle at the way her mood changed, and the little hint of red that tinged the tips of her ears as they folded back in embarrassment. “Really. What are they, though?”

Repeating the question, alas, undid my work, and Gale’s milk-curdling brow-furrow reappeared below her mane. “Invitations to a birthday party.”

“Ah. Your mother’s…?”

It needs to be understood that Gale, as the third Princess Platinum, had been brought up in a home with not just two accents, but two completely different languages. Furthermore, her youth was just as often spent on the streets of Everfree City as in the halls of its palace. Apart from her probably excessive preference for profanity, Gale’s word choice, diction, and preferred accent would rarely if ever give away her identity as the heir to the unicorn throne. While she was perfectly capable of respectfully wielding the more ‘elevated’ speech of unicorn nobility, when she did don that voice, she usually affected it as an act of bitter, spiteful parody, taking special care to pronounce the ‘ch’ in all of her ‘hayches’, and avoiding even the subtlest hint of an ‘r’ into the flow of her speech.

Thus, when Gale snapped “Mine,” in response to my question, I knew immediately by her voice that it was really the elder Platinum, the reigning Queen of Equestria, making the decisions surrounding the affair. “‘A unicorn princess does not have the luxury of frivolity; a birthday party, much like a ball or a holiday, is a chance to strengthen your alliances and practice the art of diplomacy. It is not a time for drunken revelry, or adventure, or Sisters forbid, skullduggery. Besides, you’ve only just returned from rampaging across the continent with that… necromancer. Isn’t your appetite for rebellion satisfied? Isn’t your ‘thirst for adventure’ quenched?’” She concluded the imitation of her mother by sucking in a rather snort-sounding breath through her nostrils, and then spitting directly onto Celestia’s bedroom floor.

“I... see,” I said, staring at the ‘loogy’ and trying my best not to actually see it soaking into the carpet. Finally, my eyes escaped its sheer disgusting gravity, and I looked back to Gale. “So who are the invitations for?”

“My suitors,” Gale replied, picking up the invitations with her magic and flicking through them, showing me the names written on the faces of the cards as if the runes scrawled there meant anything to me. “Spice Ménage, of the House of Three. Secretary Peanut Gallery. Archmage Grayscale. Duke High Castle—he’s my second cousin or some shit, which is apparently ‘enough distance’ according to mom—of the House of Gullion. Caporegime Coral, whose grandmother runs the fucking mob, if you can believe that shit. Prefect Gray Rain. Oh, and joy… His Eminence, Count Halo, Knight of the Church of Celestia.” She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath, and I watched her hoof dig at the floor as if she was going to lower her horn and charge somepony.

“He’s the worst somehow, I take it?”

“He’s forty-five, Morty,” said the soon-to-be-eighteen-year-old princess.

“Oh…” I swallowed, picturing in my mind a heavy-set middle aged noble from my own very limited experiences with Equestria’s upper class. I could practically smell the folds of fat on the back of his neck as he tilted his head back to make sure his nose stayed in the air, where it wouldn’t be subjected to the stink of the common rabble.

“Yeah,” Gale answered. “It’s fucking disgusting. So here’s the deal. I don’t know if it’ll be them or me, but if I have to spend my whole day talking to these assholes alone, somepony is going to get killed. So you’re coming with me, to try and help keep me sane.”

Shrugging, I nodded, and then swung myself out of bed. My legs ached as they picked up my weight, just like they had in the past few days when I got up to use the bathroom or wash myself—my only reprieves from constant bedrest. Thankfully, at least this time, I could stretch them. “So do I get an invitation? Assuming I’m still in the running since we talked in the garden…”

“Okay, stop. Look at me.” Gale accompanied that demand by grabbing my shoulder, proving that despite my considerable height advantage, she was by far the stronger of the two of us (as even before two weeks of bedrest, I had always been svelte). “I am not a hugely shitty marefriend, and I am not an asshole politician. If we’re done, I’ve got the balls to tell you to your face. Got it?”

“Sure. Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“That means you don’t get to back out of this shit, though, Morty. I’m relying on you. If you get scared off by my mom’s bullshit or the other suitors, you’re going to leave me up shit creek. Understand?”

“We fought the most dangerous wizard in the world together; you think I’m going to run away from some stuffy nobleponies?” I had to chuckle as I considered the implicit threat in Gale’s words. “Oh no, it’s Princess Platinum from the Hearth’s Warming Eve pageant. What’s she going to do, whine at me?”

Gale looked at me like I’d proposed copulating with a nest of murder wasps. “Morty, I don’t think you understand how much of a petty asshole my mom is. She’d exile you from Equestria in a heartbeat if she thought you and I had a chance of ending up together. So we can’t let her know until you’ve got enough momentum that she can’t just exile you anymore.”

I raised a brow. “Alright… I’ll trust you know more about this than I do. How do I ‘build up momentum’?”

“Time,” Gale answered. “You need to spend as much time as you possibly can with me, around all these assholes.” To emphasize her point, she picked up her birthday invitations in her magic and waved them between us, fanned out, like a hoof of cards. “If you can, you need to get them to like you, though I can’t blame you if that’s just not gonna happen. What matters is ponies start to see you as part of the court.”

I quirked a brow. “You want me to fight Star Swirl?”

Gale’s mouth hung open as her brain failed to follow. “I… what? No! Star Swirl is like, the least insufferable pony in court. Why the fuck would you want to fight him?”

“I don’t,” I answered. “But if you want me to have a position ‘in court’, the only one I’m really eligible for is Court Mage. And since Star Swirl is Equestria’s Court Mage, the only way I can take that away from him is to fight him in a duel.”

“Ah.” Gale slapped a hoof to her forehead. “No, Morty, I don’t mean you need a position with a title. Being ‘part of court’ just means ponies need to get used to seeing you around. Once you’re part of the fucking ‘social circles’ of all the nobles, even if they don’t actually like you, Mom won’t be able to just get rid of you, because it will look like she’s trying to take out a political enemy by brute force. She can’t afford to look that much like an outright fucking tyrant.”

“Ah.” I nodded. “Alright. I think I understand.”

“Good. Basically, just be my wingpony and stay out of trouble, and we’ll wait for the opportune moment. Aunt Celestia likes you, and you’re her student; that’s our ace-in-the-hole. That gives you a damn good excuse to hang around, since nopony wants to get on her bad side. When we know Mom can’t do anything to get rid of you, we’ll get Aunt Celestia to sponsor you, that puts way more weight behind you than any of the other suitors. But we have to wait for the right moment, or Mom might just do something desperate anyway. So don’t tell her. As far as my parents are concerned, we’re just fucking on the side or something.”

“Um… Can we pretend to just be friends then?” I asked. “I don’t want to get on your father’s bad side, and Commander Hurricane was pretty clear about what he would do to me if we…”

“Danced the horizontal tango? Had a roll in the hay?” Gale rolled her eyes. “Just say ‘fucked’, don’t be a chickenshit. And for the fiftieth time, don’t be afraid of my dad. He hasn’t been scary since before either of us were born. And he’s not Commander anything anymore. He’s just ‘Hurricane’ on a good day.”

Gale slipped the envelopes from her magical grip into a little saddlebag pouch she wore against her right side. “Might as well get this over with as quickly as possible… High Castle’s closest. Get up, we’re going.”

2-3

II - III

The Hoofmaiden

The hoofmaiden to the newly minted Queen peeked her head into the door of Gale’s room, taking in the rather drab furniture. (Gale would have called it Nimban, after Iron Rain’s home city in old Cirra, but I hesitate to lean too hard on a term that’s fallen not only out of favor but history as well.) “So, do I call you Your Majesty in here too now, or—”

“Not funny, Lark.”

“That bad?” Lark slowly approached Gale, who was resting her head on her hooves, forelegs braced against the vanity. “Well… maybe I can at least help?” Without so much as waiting for a hint of permission or a word of direction, Lark rose up onto her hind hooves, placing her forelegs on Gale’s shoulders and beginning to massage them.

Gale lit her horn and slammed the door behind her hoofmaiden. After a second of silence, a second surge of magic signaled another spell off her horn. “There. We can fucking talk, even if Mom’s eavesdropping or some bullshit.” With a sigh I wouldn’t call contented so much as comfortable, she leaned into Lark’s ministrations.

“You really think your mom is going to eavesdrop on us?” Lark leaned forward to put her muzzle just beside one of Gale’s ears, and then with just a hint of teasing mirth, nibbled gently on the soft skin. A shudder of surprise and pleasure traveled down Gale’s body as Lark ceased the teasing to whisper. “Come on, Gale. She’s not that petty.”

Whatever good faith the tease of a bite had earned vanished in an instant as Gale pulled forward from Lark’s hooves, then turned to match her eye-to-eye. “That bitch thinks I can’t talk to my dad because he used to be in charge of the pegasi, and he’ll sell me out.” Gale accompanied the bitter summary by slamming a hoof on the flat surface of her vanity. “So yeah, I do think she’s that petty.”

“Well…” Lark swallowed, then with her magic gently grabbed onto Gale’s shoulder, pulling her back to sitting with her face toward the vanity mirror and her back to her hoofmaiden. “Here, I’ll do your mane, and we can talk about something else.” Then, as she investigated the mane in question, her brow rose. “Um… what happened? Your mane got worse since breakfast. Your mom didn’t... yank on it, did she?”

“No.” Gale sighed and scowled. “Well, she did—but not like she was pissed at me and trying to hurt me. It was an accident. I think there’s something distracting her, or she’s getting old. She keeps forgetting to keep up her magic.”

Lark frowned. “Whatever happened, it looks like it hurts. But...” Lark took a moment to roll her neck. “Nothing a mare trained for life to be the Queen’s hoofmaiden can’t fix.”

The comment put a bit of a smile on Gale’s face, though she shook her head dismissively. “You’re not fooling anypony, Lark.”

“I’ve been fooling the entire palace for three years running,” Lark answered as her horn lit to lift Gale’s brush. “So I beg to differ, my queen.”

“Didn’t I just say to lay off that shit?”

The brush dragged down Gale’s golden mane, straightening tangled threads into the beginning of order. The tension in Gale’s shoulders made no show of loosening, but she drew a much steadier breath and allowed herself to close her eyes.

“You said no ‘Your Majesty’,” Lark replied, making sure her muzzle was close enough that as she spoke, Gale could feel her breath on her neck. “But I remember a certain filly liking it when I called her ‘my princess’, and now that she’s got a new title, it seems like ‘my queen’ is what comes next.” Then she chuckled. “Or is Morty the only one who gets to call you that now?”

Gale blushed rather flagrantly for a mare I thought at the time had no sense of shame. “N-no…”

“If you’re about to try and tell me you aren’t into him, Gale, I will smack you with this manebrush, Queen or not.”

“No, it’s not—” Gale stumbled with her words as Lark tended to the knots in her mane. “Fuck, Lark, I’m the gods-damn Queen of Equestria, and you want me to sit here gossipping about colts with you?”

“Seeing how shitty it was making you feel to talk about being the ‘gods-damn Queen of Equestria’?” Lark asked with a raised brow. “I think sitting here gossipping about colts is the much better option—for you, and for Equestria. And if I happen to get some juicy details, well, that’s just an added bonus.”

Gale exhaled slowly. “I already told you all about him.”

“In front of your mom,” Lark nodded. “This is the first time we’ve been able to be alone. So tell me what actually happened. How’d you dig up the best ass in Equestria?”

Yes, she really said that. I only record it to be accurate to the conversation, since the hindquarters attached to me now are no more original than the other half of my face will be shortly.

“I don’t really think there’s that much else to tell than what I already said. I got pissed at mom’s bullshit, stole dad’s sword, met Morty in Manehattan—”

“Manehattan?” Lark asked.

“It’s a dirt farm in the middle of nowhere,” Gale explained. “I thought Morty was a bandit because he was acting sketchy as fuck… and if we’re being honest, he looked way too clean to belong there... but he proved me wrong. Well, really, Graargh beat the shit out of me.”

“The little bear cub?”

“He’s magic; he can turn big for a couple minutes. Like a full grown bear. Or into ponies, I guess… I don’t really know how it works. The bears we met outside River Rock called him a ‘skinwalker’ and Aunt Celestia said something about a ‘changeling’, but I don’t think Morty even knows what his whole deal is.”

“Weird…” Lark shrugged. “Okay, so what happened after that?”

“He convinced me he wasn’t a bandit, and then he wanted to travel together because we were both going to River Rock, and I told him to go fuck himself.” At Lark’s shocked expression, Gale chuckled. “I ran into him again in Lubuck, and for some fucking reason he decided to help me fight Tempest and his squad. And holy shit you should have seen the look on Tempest’s face.”

Lark looked up from her brushing to shake her head. “I heard most of this before, if not from you then from the gossip in the palace; Tempest’s report back wasn’t exactly secret. That’s not what I mean.”

“Then what do you mean, Lark?”

Lark actually leaned out from behind Gale’s head to make sure her reflection could be seen in the vanity mirror. “I mean how is he in bed, Gale. Do I have to spell it out for you?” Lark paused to wink at Gale’s reflection. “Was he better than that servant colt we cornered a few years ago?”

Gale slammed a hoof down on the vanity, releasing a wooden crack. “I haven’t fucked him, okay? I tried one time, in the Crystal Union, but Aunt Celestia walked in on us, and then Morty went off to go plan how to get himself killed, and since then he’s only been awake two fucking days.”

Lark raised a brow. “Weren’t you with him for like… two months?”

“Whatever it was.” Gale sighed. “Hiking through the woods of bumfuck nowhere on the way to Lubuck, and then on a freezing ass boat to Neighvgorod, and then hiking and rafting in the eternal snowstorm the rest of the way to River Rock. But we didn’t have a bed out in the middle of nowhere, and even if we did, Graargh was with us.”

“Ah.” Lark nodded sagely. “Yeah, I guess having a kid around kills the mood. But there must have been something, right? I mean, renting out the dance hall for a party with just your real friends was a pretty classy move. Is he usually like that?”

“He’s usually insufferable,” Gale answered. “But occasionally, he makes up for it. In River Rock, after he let slip that he knew who I really was and picked a fight with Cyclone—”

“He what?!”

“Picked a fight with my brother, Lark; use your ears. Anyway, after that, I was pretty pissed at him, and I—”

“How is he alive?!”

Gale groaned with growing irritation. “Maybe I didn’t make this clear. He was raised by ‘evil Star Swirl,’ and the only real skills he knows in life are how to kill monsters and how to talk to dead ponies. He’d probably be better off if he didn’t look good; every time he opens his fucking mouth, he gets into some shit like making Cyclone almost light him on fire or having to rip Count Halo’s soul out in the middle of court. So what’s a fucking miracle is that Cyclone is still alive—if I had to bet on Morty fighting anypony short of my fucking aunts, I’d bet on Morty. Got it?”

Lark nodded.

“Good. What I was trying to get to was that I got real pissed at him; I thought he was trying to take advantage of me like my suitors, and I told him to fuck off. Morty told me he only had a couple of minutes to talk before Cyclone kicked him out of River Rock, and when I told him I wasn’t gonna forgive him that fast, this idiot’s idea of a romantic gesture was to slow down time.”

“What, like… for everypony?”

“Well, he told me it was really just a trick for the two of us… but then he actually did it when he was bleeding to death after I chopped off Wintershimmer’s horn, so…” Gale shrugged. “We were out standing on the walls, and all the snowflakes just… slowed down. You could see the crystals in front of you. And he explained he doesn’t give a shit about me being Queen. He proved it too, letting me help him with Wintershimmer, even if it probably was a bad idea.”

“That sounds sweet,” Lark replied. “Romantic, in a way.”

Gale made a show of rolling her eyes. “It was a nice gesture, Lark, but I’m not six.”

“No, no, how could I forget? Real romance isn’t for the Princess—sorry, the Queen. Her Majesty just wants to get held down by a stronger pony and—”

“Lark, you’re going to shut the fuck up right now,” Gale snapped.

“Fine,” Lark answered, sticking out her tongue. “See if I’m free next time you need to blow off steam. Or am I out of a friend-with-benefits now that you’ve got this new would-be lover?”

“Why are you being such an ass, Lark?”

“Because if I try to be honest and genuine with you, you tell me I’m acting like a foal for not swearing and being grim and making everything as stark and absolute as it can possibly be.” Lark gently worked her brush through Gale’s mane. “So do you want to hear what I have to say the easy way or the hard way? Or do you actually want me to just shut up?”

Gale sighed. “Just say it.”

“Aww, and here I was hoping you’d pick the hard way.” Lark chuckled to herself. “Two things. First, I don’t know how serious you feel about him, or how serious he feels about you, but if you can’t get over your swearing, bad-filly act around him, you’re going to throw away a chance at something better.”

“So what, I should be the prissy princess everypony expects?”

“I’m not saying anything. You’re the one who dragged him home with you. But if you keep wearing this other mask around him, eventually one of you is going to get hurt. So I guess I am actually saying something: be honest with him. Doesn’t matter if that means you think you’re in love, or you just want a friend, or even just a piece of nice ass; I’m just saying you should tell him the truth.”

“I have.”

“Have you?” Lark pressed.

Gale groaned. “Fuck it. Fine. I’m gonna marry him.”

Lark’s brows rose, and then she let out a long whistle. “Oh.” Then, a few long brushes of Gale’s mane later, the slightly older mare cocked her head. “So… what noble house is he from, I guess?”

“Morty? A noble?” Gale scoffed. “He’s half-crystal.”

“What?!” Lark narrowly avoided yanking on Gale’s mane, and slowly removed the brush from her hair before she paced around to stand next to the vanity, where she could stare into Gale’s face as she spoke. “I heard he’s supposed to be Lady Celestia’s ‘chosen one’ or something from all the palace gossip about the damage he did to the wizard school. But… Is that honestly enough for your mom?”

“She doesn’t know,” Gale answered.

You could have kept time to a poco allegro marche by the twitching of Lark’s eyelid. “Your mom is going to have a heart attack. Honestly. You’re literally going to murder her.”

“I know.” Gale grinned. “Isn’t it perfect?” Then, closing her eyes, she took a solid breath. “Is that enough? Can we stop gossiping about colts like we’re fillies in our first heat? I know it sounds crazy, but I am actually trying to figure out how to rule—”

“Absolutely fucking not.” Lark shook her head. “This is literally the most interesting thing that has ever happened in the palace. You think I’m letting that go? Speaking of which, my second thing: I’m calling in my favor.”

“Your… fine.” Gale folded her forelegs across her chest stubbornly. “You did help me get out of town with Dad’s sword. What do you want?”

“When you do finally get with Morty, I need you to write it down for me. Like a diary.”

“A journal, you mean?” Gale then frowned. “You want me to keep a sex journal?”

“It’s a thing with nobles,” Lark nodded. “They’re called ‘pillow books’.” Then she winked. “But I want to hear about every gritty detail. And I want it written down, so I can come back to it if I want, since I might not have my best-friend-with-benefits anymore.”

“Ugh… fine.” Gale rolled her eyes. “If it’ll get you to shut up about Morty.”

“Well, I never promised that. Come on, tell me more.” Lark’s grin seemed to stretch passed the edges of her face, saccharine and cheshire and shameless.

“Like what? You already heard the story. I really didn’t leave anything out in front of my Mom. Except I guess that Cyclone was actually super nice to me.”

“Cyclone the Betrayer?” Lark asked. “Who murdered your grandpa and tried to enslave the unicorns?”

“He’s also my half-brother,” Gale reminded Lark. “Tempest is fucking terrified of him, which is hilarious.”

“Why? I would be too.”

“He’s not your uncle,” Gale answered, some more tension vanishing from her shoulders as she closed her eyes and leaned into the work of Lark’s magic.

Only a few strokes later, Lark set down the brush and went to work weaving Gale’s mane into a sort of braided headband. Lark, it should be noted, did not ask for Gale’s approval, nor her opinion. Gale, for her part, didn’t even open her eyes to see what Lark was doing, what style she had chosen.

“He’s fucking giant,” Gale observed. “Like, it’s weird. Cause Dad’s kinda big for a pegasus, you know, but Ty isn’t actually that tall when she takes her helmet off. So I guess I always assumed their mom was kinda smaller. But maybe not. Cyclone is really big though. Like bigger than Rain big.”

“Does your dad ever talk about her?” Lark asked. “His first wife?”

“Swift Spear?” Gale shrugged. “Not much. Not to me at least. Sometimes he and Ty do a little bit. But he hates talking about the past about anything.”

“You could ask Morty to introduce you,” Lark observed.

“What?”

“Well, he talks to dead ponies, right?” Lark observed. “You could meet all kinds of interesting ponies like that. Swift Spear. Your grandparents.”

Gale chuckled as she leaned back into her mane benign braided. “If I wanted somepony interesting, I’d have him call up Solemn Vow. Or maybe Warchief Halite.”

“Uh…” Lark swallowed. “Maybe don’t pick the most evil ponies anyone can remember?”

“Well, Cyclone was nice enough; maybe Vow’s nice too.”

“Cyclone’s your half-brother. I doubt he’s nice to everypony. Or even anypony.” Lark nodded. “Does… what’s her name from breakfast? His daughter? Does she like him?”

“Blizzard? Not really.” Gale shook her head. “But his other kids do. At least, the ones close enough to our age that I could talk to them. Sirocco and Maelstrom seem to at least respect him.”

Gale opened her eyes when the pressure of Lark’s magic on her hair disappeared, and smiled at the elegant but simple manestyle the older mare had chosen for her. “Don’t mention that Blizzard is Cyclone’s daughter. She’s super nervous about it. She’s hardly left the house since she got to Everfree.”

“So we should take her out for drinks?” Lark asked.

Gale chuckled. “My thoughts exactly. But somewhere quieter; I don’t think she’d have much fun at Pit’s.”

“Well, we’re almost done here,” Lark noted, moving to open the box that contained the crown. The box, however, resisted. “Um… Is it magic or something? Do you have to open it?”

Gale glanced to the box and dragged a hoof down her brow. “No, it’s just locked.” With a flick of her horn, she turned an ornate decoration of the royal crest on the front of the polished wooden box to reveal a small keyhole. “Mom keeps the key on her. I guess I have to go fucking talk to her again—”

“Well…” Lark glanced at the door nervously. “We don’t have to…”

“Hmm?”

Lark’s horn ignited, lifting a hoof file from Gale’s beauty kit, inspecting it skeptically, and lowering it in favor of a more delicate file. “Think I’ve still got it?”

Gale answered with a frown. “Lark, this isn’t some door in the slums. That’s the crown’s box.”

“You mean it’s magic?” Lark asked.

“No, I just mean it isn’t cheap,” Gale answered.

Lark scoffed, bringing the thin implement up to the keyhole and letting the magic on her horn grow brighter. “Even if you spent a thousand bits, you can only fit so many tumblers in that thin of a piece of wood…” The hoofmaiden squeezed one eye closed, lowering her head to stare into the hole of the box, along the thin edge of her hooficurist’s ‘weapon’. And then, seemingly lost the world, she began to hum a little ditty to herself.

“♫ All around the ferrier’s bench,
The busker teased the lockbox… ♫”

“Lark, seriously; how long has it been since you did this? A couple years?”

“♫ The lockbox thought its lock would hold, but… ♫”

Pop supplied the little wooden case.

“♫ …goes the lockbox! ♫” Lark finished, replacing the hoof file. “I’m not as out of practice as you think, Gale.”

Gale blinked briefly as Lark fully opened the lockbox, revealing the crown. “Why? Is Mom not paying you enough? I’ll make sure you get a raise, and—”

“No, no, nothing like that.” Lark shook her head. “My friends downriver would kill to be making what I’m getting taking care of you. But you of all ponies ought to know sitting around the palace all day is soul-crushing. Especially when your… closest friend decides to run off and ditch you.”

Gale fully turned around to face Lark. “Okay, that’s the second time you’ve brought it up. What’s wrong? Are you jealous? Are you worried I’m not going to have time for you or something?”

Lark shook her head. “No! I mean, if you’re gonna marry him and it’s not just having fun, you don’t want to cheat on him with me. But I’ll be fine. I’m happy for you. Besides, we both know a Queen can’t just fuck her hoofmaiden on the side her whole life. We were never going to be a ‘thing’. And it’s not like I can’t find somepony else.” Then she winked. “If you want to treat him to a threesome though, I’m just saying… Just don’t forget where you learned… well, everything you know.”

“You’ll be the first pony I think of…” Gale added “Horny bitch.” under her breath, just loud enough she could be sure she’d be overheard. “Just pass me the crown.”

Lark’s horn lit, and then paused. “Uh… do you want me to just put it on you, or are you supposed to use your hooves or something?”

“Do I look like I give a shit?” Gale rolled her eyes. “It might ‘represent’ a lot, but it’s a fucking fancy accessory. Just make sure it doesn’t fall off.”

“As my queen commands—”

“No, Lark.” Gale sighed. “Do you think I need something else too? Ear rings?”

Lark hesitated. “Well… the crown isn’t exactly subtle, so more jewels would probably just be distracting. I kind of always thought your Mom was going overboard. We could do some light makeup…”

“Forget it.” Then she let out a frustrated growl as she considered her options. “I assume I have to wear a dress?”

“I don’t know if you have to wear anything. You’re the Queen, Gale.” Lark gestured to the closet. “But I did grab a few options from the palace before I came over.” As she spoke, Lark pulled open the closet doors with her magic. She revealed three dresses.

The first was elaborate, the color of emeralds, and I’m certain it would have looked beautiful on Gale if she ever gave it a second glance; however, even I could tell with a look that its heavy collar, so tall it could have been mistaken for a headdress, and its somewhat puffed, quilted shoulders would never garner that second glance.

“I know you didn’t like this one when your mom ordered it, but since it’s more formal—”

“Fuck no; next.”

The second, a platinum-gray gown with long sleeves and a slight train, had what I would have assumed were Elkish inspirations, had Equestria actually made diplomatic contact with Rivendelk at that point in our history. Touches of silver maille (purely decorative) and triangular cuts near the fetlocks and at the back of the garment, drew attention not by bold colors, but by subtle variances in texture and hue on an otherwise deliberately restrained outfit.

“That’s not bad,” Gale noted. “How long have I had this?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s new,” Lark answered. “I, uh, picked things you haven’t worn yet. I know you don’t care, but the other hoofmaidens and servants in the palace can be real pricks if I let you show up to an event in a dress you’ve already used before.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll tell whoever the fuck your boss is that you’re promoted and they can kiss your marks—”

“I think that’s a bad idea...” Though the words might come across as calm, a painful urgency lurked in the undercurrent of Lark’s voice.

Gale turned, brow raised, at Lark’s outburst. “Why?”

“It’s one thing to claim I belong in the palace when I’m only doing my job in front of you. But the moment I’m in charge of somepony else it’s all going to fall down around my ears. I’m making more money than I ever dreamed of as a filly just being your hoofmaiden; can we just let things stay the same?”

“Of course!” Gale threw a hoof around the other mare’s shoulders. “I mean, you’re probably going to have your work cut out for you now that I’m in charge, but we don’t have to change anything. I didn’t mean to freak you out. I mean, come on, Lark! I’m not gonna fucking get rid of you; I’d have to put up with some snobbish asshole!”

“Yeah.” Lark nodded, chuckling. “Right. Sorry. I just…”

“It’s totally ok. Come on, what’s the third dress?”

“Well, it isn’t really—”

The third ‘dress’ Lark had acquired won the second Gale set eyes on it. This time, I’ll let Lark’s description summarize it.

“It, uh… well, I made myself.” Sheepishly, the hoofmaiden scratched behind her ears with a forehoof. “I saw it in one of the shops on the way home. It’s actually a stallion’s tunic, but the red reminded me of your eyes, and I figured I could probably take it in to fit your body a little more. The pauldron is from some spare Legion armor I got from the armory, but I had the edges gilded like the trim on your sister’s black. And I added the feathers around the edge of the pauldron to make it look a little more like an accent and less like… you know, like you’re wearing armor.”

“Did Dad and Ty actually lend you their feathers?”

Lark shook her head. “Just regular bird feathers; crow and… well, I don’t know where the pony in the market got the brown ones that look like your sister’s; maybe eagle? But it was kind of the idea that it looked like them.I thought the little touch might look good; I know you like the Cirran look—”

“It’s bad ass!” Gale’s horn lit and snatched the outfit in question from its hanger. “I can’t believe you made this, Lark! I didn’t know you were this good with a needle!”

Lark shrugged. “Kind of… I mean, I just got a bunch of pieces and bits together like I used to in Leftend…” the thought just trailed off. “Anyway, it’s, uh… well, it was my idea of a birthday present, and since you’re probably going to be busy constantly this was the only chance I had to give it to you. But you probably don’t want to wear it in front of the Stable; I mean, it’s not like it’s from a proper seamstress’s shop.”

“No.” Gale smiled. “Lark, it’s perfect. It’s me.”

Interlude IV - Three Gifts

Interlude IV

Three Gifts

A brief note before I move forward: the following text contains some discussion of Twilight Sparkle’s translations of Commander Hurricane’s official history of the end of the Cirran Empire. Twilight published these texts under the name A Song of Storms (after Hurricane’s ‘gens’, or family name, ‘Stormblade’). While the texts aren’t required reading, I feel that given how long they were lost to Equestria until Twilight stumbled upon them again, I should include some means for future readers to find them from this enchanted, and therefore substantially more survivable tome.

The following is my effective, if curious, solution.

Humans—the strange and mundane monkey equivalent of naked mole rats who live on the other side of Star Swirl’s magic mirror, and amongst whom Sunset Shimmer had been living until the adventures I am reciting here—are in possession of powerful relics they call ‘phones’, after the Cirran word for sound. I assume the use of Cirran (for there was a Cirran Empire in their world as well… but this is neither the place nor am I the writer to relate theories on semi-parallel histories) relates to the fact that they are powered by captive lightning, which falls under the purview of pegasus magic, despite providing a function much more similar to the effects of unicorn arcana.

These ‘phones’, which are capable of producing sound, are nevertheless mostly used for the viewing of script and of terrifyingly accurate paintings, often produced by the ‘phone’ itself. In my opinion, though, the most curious quality of these objects is that the text and pictures they display can change to whatever their wielder desires, through the use of segments of glowing script called… ‘hiber-links’, I believe was the phrase. The etymology seems obvious: since the desired text is ‘sleeping’ somewhere beneath the top visible script, the metaphor for hibernation makes sense. And ‘links’ indicate that the enchanted text is the chain that connects the visible text to its slumbering counterpart.

I explain all this so that you are not surprised when you see the following titles on my page enchanted with an arcane glow (or... underlined or something? I don't fully understand the magic yet); touch it with your hoof or tentacle or whatever appendage you happen to be using, and the text before you shall be replaced with Twilight’s two published volumes of translated Cirran history: Of Skies Long Forgotten and Snow and Shadows.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

Whoever named the town at the edge of the Everfree Forest ‘Ponyville’ should be thrown off of the tallest balcony of Canterlot. Even the dragons, a species with the linguistic nuance and fluidity of a sock rendered rigid by its being in the possession of a teenage colt, still refrain from naming a city ‘Drakongrod’. And lest somepony oh-so-clever point out the griffon sites of ‘Griffonstone’ and ‘Grivridge’—the former was given that name at its founding because it was notable for such a site to exist on Equestrian soil, hence the distinction of the race adding some value. Meanwhile the latter actually stems from the griffon word for ‘grief’, owing to the grief at the loss of life many griffons felt when their capital city of Angenholt was torn in half by an earthquake large enough that the resulting chasm is its own distinct climate zone.

I assume, since the indolent fart of greater equine civilization called Ponyville was home to Twilight Sparkle’s eyesore of a castle and her School of Friendship—teaching lessons which, while important, have also been figured out by every generation of ponies in recorded history by sheer intuition—it must presumably still exist at the time of reading; however, while her two most infamous and hideously tacky public works had come into being by the day I will shortly describe, the city had not yet grown into a hub of Equestrian bureaucracy. Thus, when The Constellation descended from Canterlot’s alpine streets, there was plenty of room for the oversized catamaran to set down very near the School of Friendship, without worry for crushing any of the widely spaced quaint thatched roof cottages which served as homes for the surrounding population.

As Tempest Shadow guided the masterwork of aeronautical engineering and struggled to conceal a giddy grin at its superb handling, Sunset Shimmer gathered the other two members of her four pony crew around the ship’s wheel on the upper deck. Somnambula begrudgingly abandoned her place leaning over the deck’s railing with the wind in her face and gently adjusted her headdress, seemingly perfectly dressed for a balmy early summer day in the heartland of Equestria. Red Ink was anything but; the Stalliongradi guardstallion still insisted on wearing his fur-lined black coat, although beneath it he had replaced his guardspony cuirass with a white collar (unattached to any shirt, as had inexplicably become the style) and a dark blue necktie that clashed rather horribly with the surrounding garment.

“Alright, team,” Sunset began. “I think I talked to all of you separately, but I guess we should get on the same page. We’re stopping in Ponyville for a little bit to get some last information and leads, and then that might be our last stop in Equestria for a while. Princess Celestia said Twilight—you all know Twilight, right?” Three heads nodded in unison. “Well, she did an archeological dig a few years ago in Stalliongrad… Did I say something wrong, Lieutenant Ink?”

Ink frowned when he realized his heavy wince had not passed unnoticed. “Where do I even start?” Red Ink scratched at the back of his neck with a wing. “City and domain are both ‘Stol’nograd’, not ‘Stalliongrad’ - it means ‘capital city’ not ‘boy pony town’.”

Ah, a stallion after my own heart. At least, in this one extremely limited case.

“Second, just ‘Ink’ please. Most ponies in Ponyville know I am guardspony, but think I am just a reservist who takes it too seriously or something. But third… the reason I actually wince is I know about Sparkle’s dig. One of my subordinates nearly killed her and Rainbow Dash, thinking they were rebels. It… Her brother and I still do not get along, shall we say?”

“You have a problem with rebels in Stalliongrad?” Tempest asked over her shoulder. “I thought that was supposed to be the hard part of Equestria, where the secret police wouldn’t tolerate that sort of thing.”

“Isn’t ‘police’ just another word for a guardspony? Why would police need to be secret?” Somnambula asked.

“Oh, sweet summer child…” Ink, whose out-of-season twelve-bit black jacket had been the namesake of Stalliongrad’s secret police in his younger and more enthusiastically judicially corrupt days, chuckled as he shook his head.

“I’m forty times your age, mister,” Somnambula retorted, albeit in a joking, good-humored tone.

Sunset, for her part, sighed. “Hopefully none of that will come up in our search. Regardless, Twilight—and Rainbow Dash, apparently—found an original copy of the Cirran Chronicles from Commander Hurricane and his daughter, Commander Typhoon.”

Somnambula, adorably, raised a hoof as if she were a foal in elementary school.

The wind tousled Sunset’s mane as she shook her head in amusement. “You can just talk, Somnambula.”

“Oh. If you need to know about Commander Hurricane and Commander Typhoon, I’m sure Flash could tell you all about them. And I know a little myself…”

“Or just read a history book,” Ink muttered, clearly losing interest in the conversation as he wandered toward the railing of the ship himself to look down on his home.

“Your firsthoof knowledge should be very helpful, Somnambula, but from what Princess Celestia said, some of these records are from after you and the other pillars went to the Between… sorry, Limbo; Morty’s weird terms are getting to me.” Sunset glared at Red Ink’s disinterest for a moment, but decided the better part of valor was just carrying on and hoping he was still listening.. “And if what Princess Celestia implied is true, she made Twilight keep some of what’s in that record secret when she published her findings, so I’m pretty confident they won’t be in a history book, no matter how obvious that might seem.”

“I’m sure that pissed Sparkle off,” Ink, evidently still paying attention, noted with a certain obvious schadenfreude.

“Anyway, we’re stopping in Ponyville so I can get the lowdown on that from her. That’s it. You’re welcome to all disembark for a few hours if you want to stretch your legs or buy anything you want for the trip—I know Pinkie Pie runs a bakery here if you want anything tastier than what’s in our supplies—but otherwise that’s all we have planned for our stop. I’m hoping to be back in the sky before sunset.”

“But… is that some kind of magic thing?” Somnambula asked. “How can you be anywhere before yourself?”

“I don’t mean me; I mean…” Sunset’s objection faded when she realized from Somnambula’s expression that the tan pegasus was teasing her. “I see.”

“Sorry; couldn’t resist.”

“You go ahead. I have a few errands to run,” Ink announced. “Secret Service put me in touch with a contact from S.M.I.L.E. in town who’ll have more up-to-date information on where we can find Caballeron. I should probably go alone to that.”

“Ah, right,” Sunset nodded. “So, it turns out the amulet Princess Celestia told us Morty might be looking for was in Canterlot not that long ago. Unfortunately, it was stolen. But while we don’t know who stole it, or why, we do know who it was stolen from: an art thief and smuggler named Dr. Caballeron. Unless Twilight gives us something better to go on, he’s the first lead we’re going to be chasing down.”

Tempest turned fully away from the wheel for a moment with a raised brow. “Caballeron? Really?”

“You know him?”

“I…” Tempest swallowed back a moment of hesitation. “My ‘old boss’ had a lot of interest in magical relics. Our paths crossed a few times. He’ll remember me.”

“You don’t need to be coy about it,” Ink muttered.

Tempest afforded the red stallion a rather rude gesture before returning her attention to parking The Constellation.

Ink took the insult in stride, and apparently some amusement. “I’ll also need to talk to whoever Sparkle has to substitute my class and hand over my lesson plans; I wasn’t planning on trip up to Canterlot turning into a who-knows-how-long trip.”

“That’s a good point.” Sunset nodded. “Tempest, Somnambula, do either of you need to… um, get your affairs in order, or—”

Without turning from the wheel, Tempest took that moment to interrupt. “And here I thought we just settled that this wasn’t a suicide mission.” With a dismissive flick of her short, military-cropped tail, the armored mare added “I don’t exactly have anypony who’d care if I didn’t come back.”

“Oh, you must have somepony,” Somnambula cut in, pouting just a bit at the cold comment. “I mean, I have ponies who’d miss me, even though nearly everypony I was ever close to died almost two thousand years ago!”

If anything, the chipperness of Somnambula’s counterargument was far more unsettling to Sunset Shimmer than Tempest’s grim declaration of her status as a rugged lone wolf on the edge with nothing to lose… surely, you know the type. “Eeexcellent…. Well,” and, having pivoted the conversation with all the grace and turning radius of an overburdened tanker ship threatening to capsize, Sunset pressed on with “Somnambula, Tempest, you’re welcome to come with me to talk to Twilight.”

“That sounds nice,” Somnambula agreed.

“How about you, Tempest?”

“If it’s all the same, I’ll stick with the ship. Chatting it up over tea isn’t my style.”

Sunset frowned slightly, and (being literally over Ponyville) it seems her mind drifted to the now infamous lessons of one Princess Twilight Sparkle. “If you like things a little less chatty, why don’t you go with Red Ink on his spy meetup thing?” As she spoke, Sunset’s eyes caught Ink in the corner of her vision, frantically making a slashing motion across his throat with a hoof—motions which she promptly ignored. “I think it would be good for the team to build some understanding.”

Tempest let out a little sigh. “If you insist.”

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

“I have not actually been to this school before,” Somnambula explained to Sunset Shimmer. “It looks like the palaces back home. So much flowing water.”

Speaking with confidence on the subject, Somanmbula should have given her home more credit for its empirically superior aesthetics, being constructed with the general awareness that pastel pink, while acceptable for highlights, is not an especially pleasant primary tone for a building’s overall facade.

“I haven’t been back to Ponyville since they built it either.” Sunset grinned. “First time for both of us, I guess.” Sunset’s horn sputtered for a moment, and she chuckled at the failure, before managing to wrap her grip around the handles of the door.

“Oh no! You don’t suffer from the horn rot too, do you?” Somnambula blanched despite the school’s stained glass doors being held open for her, beneath an emblem of a stylized Twilight Sparkle.

Sunset shook her head. “Just still not totally used to having a horn again. On the other side of the mirror, I don’t—woah!” Hopping aside, Sunset glared as a tiny orange dragoness shot past. “Hey, careful!”

“Sorry! Just trying not to be late!”

“Before you go,” Sunset interrupted, managing to convince the tiny dragon to hover in place. “Where’s Twilight’s office?”

“The headmistress?” A draconic claw gestured down the hall. “That way. It’s written on the door. Gotta go, bye!”

“She seems very concerned with being late,” Somnambula observed with slight amusement. “Do you think she’s in trouble?”

“Maybe the teacher’s strict,” Sunset replied with a shrug. “I bet Rarity would probably make a big deal out of it.”

“Do all of Twilight’s friends teach here?”

Sunset nodded, before hesitating. “Well, the six main ones; not all her friends, obviously. There wouldn’t be enough classrooms. And Starlight’s the guidance counselor. Oh, don’t forget what we talked about not talking about.”

“I won’t,” Somnambula promised. “She warned us herself. And that was only a couple of months ago, at least from my perspective.”

As they continued talking down the hallway, Sunset’s eyes finally fell on a door set with a wooden plaque labeled ‘Twilight Sparkle - Headmistress’. She walked carefully up to the door and knocked three times.

“Come in!” Twilight’s voice announced, as a raspberry glow pulled, visible even from the exterior despite being wrapped around the interior handle (let it never be said I don’t acknowledge the mare’s freakish arcane strength), to open the door.

Normally, in her mortal years, Twilight was the model of a resolute academic—skinny limbed, but with a slight plushness to the middle of her figure—wrapped in a pink-purple coat. As an alicorn, she was a few inches taller than anypony else in most any given room, though she didn’t give the appearance of being especially tall for an alicorn (if such a concept even makes sense), and from what I have learned of her pre-ascension years, she certainly wasn’t notable in any way for her shape or form as a unicorn. Her mane, not yet ripply and magical, instead sat in a row of squared-off bangs that I have to suspect she volunteered in a sales pitch for a pair of garden shears, or perhaps a hedge trimmer; I can imagine no other reason for such a perfectly ruler-straight effect on not only her bangs, but also the mane on her neck and the end of her tail, since in over eighteen hundred years of life I have never once known such a style to be considered desirable or attractive or regarded positively in any way.

Frankly, if I didn’t know better, I might have guessed that somepony had yanked Archmage Diadem from the days of my youth, dunked her in a bottle of Peptic Balmo (or whatever the equivalent stomach medication is in your day, reader; the slimy pink stuff) and thrown away her signature headpiece.

Hilariously, though, on that particular day of all days, Twilight wasn’t coated in her usual purple-pink, leading Somnambula to confusedly announce “Diadem?”

“Oh, you recognized my costume, Somnambula!” Twilight grinned from ear to ear.

“I…” Somnambula hesitated, then nodded. “You look just like her.”

Magically doffing a set of replica historical pajamas—again, if you can’t run in them, they aren’t suitable attire for a wizard—Twilight revealed that she had only applied a coat of makeup (or perhaps kabuki makeup, or even house paint, given how thick it looked at the line where it stopped on her neck) to her face. “Hello, Sunset. Somnambula. It’s so good to see both of you. Please, come in! Have a seat! I’m sorry you caught me getting ready, but Rarity said this was the last time she’d have time to take measurements for Nightmare Night costumes, since it falls so close to the Gala this year, and I figured I should make sure everything fit together.”

“I thought the point of Nightmare Night was to dress up as something scary; you dress as a real pony?” Somnambula asked, obviously confused, as she took one of the offered seats across Twilight’s desk in the cramped office. That isn’t to say the room was actually small, however; rather, the sense of claustrophobia inherent in the seats came because Twilight had clearly used her magic to violate the laws of physics and spacetime in the interest of filling the room with as many books and records as possible… or rather, given the start of this sentence, as impossible.

“Yep. I did Archmage Star Swirl the first year I was in Ponyville… though I made my copy of his robe myself, and boy, does it not hold up to the real thing…” Twilight shook her head. “But I’ve done a different historical wizard every year since then, and since I opened the school, I’ve been wearing them to teach about magical history. Diadem the Enkindler seemed like an obvious choice, since she basically founded the modern education system.” The young alicorn seemed only then to realize how rapidly she’d been speaking, and forced a pause in her own enthusiasm to nod to her guests. “Um… I can get this makeup off if you give me a minute, unless you're busy. Have you two eaten? Do you want lunch, or tea, or something?”

“It’s a little early for lunch for me,” said Sunset. “But tea would be nice.”

“I would not mind a cup,” Somnambula agreed.

With a nod of her horn, Twilight both acknowledged the requests and magically set a kettle, presumably enchanted given the lack of a real flame beneath it, gently shaking on her shelf, where it was wedged between a copy of the previous year’s exam records and the first volume of the Equestrian Fire Safety Code.

“I’ll just… be right back,” Twilight announced, stepping through another door on one of the room’s walls, not particularly hidden as a secret bookcase door might be, but nevertheless mounted with a shelf on its face so as not to waste valuable library space. “And Starlight; she’s been looking forward to seeing you again after your whole ‘movie theatre’ adventure, Sunset.”

Having already vanished out the door, Twilight failed to see Sunset and Somnambula exchange nervous glances and a single, seemingly choreographed, synchronous nod of determination.

When Starlight Glimmer, who I shall not yet call ‘Archmage Hourglass’ for the sake of accuracy, entered the room, our heroines were completely unprepared.

“Sunset!” The pink mare, or ‘grayish heliotrope’ if you have a degree less valuable than the parchment it’s written on, burst through the door with a grin on her face and her purple-and-teal toothpaste-striped mane styled rather differently than usual; namely, rougher, shorter, and a touch more masculine than her usual dramatic swoop of hair. “Oh, it’s so good to see you again! And hi to you too, Somnambula! Welcome to Ponyville!”

“It’s good to see you!” Sunset managed as Starlight approached her seat from behind to wrap her in a hug. “I heard Twilight made you the student counselor, but I wasn’t expecting to find you here like this.”

“I hope I’m at least a pleasant surprise,” Starlight retorted, pulling back and adjusting the cuffs of her black sleeves. “How about you? Twilight said you were coming to visit us, but I didn’t hear a lot about why.”

“Hmm?” Sunset could feel herself building up to a sweatdrop on her temple. “Oh, we, uh… well, Princess Celestia is sending us on a mission looking for some, uh… some old artifact. From a long time ago.”

“From my time,” Somnambula contributed.

“Oh, so you’re here for those records Twilight dug up in Stalliongrad? Is that why you’re being coy?” Starlight donned a mock pout. “You know, I’m a little bit envious. Twilight won’t even let me see the third one. I guess Princess Celestia made her promise to keep it secret or something. But not even having a vague idea what’s inside is the worst.”

“Yeah, I… don’t think we’re allowed to talk about it either.”

“I get it; we can still be friends. I’m sure Princess Celestia has a good reason.” Starlight shrugged, then paced around the room and flopped down into Twilight’s tall-backed chair. In the course of this action, she revealed her full outfit, causing Sunset and Somnambula to share a strange look.

“Hey, is something wrong?” Starlight asked. “Oh, is it the costume? I know; not my usual look, especially not compared to what I wore in the human world, right? Well, Twilight invited me—and all our friends—to pick somepony from history we admire for our Nightmare Night costumes instead of being some generic monster or something. It’s her idea of how to—” and here, she pantomimed air quotes with her hooves, “—’use Nightmare Night as a teaching opportunity’. So here’s mine.”

The garment in question was a black jacket, fetlock length at the forelegs, open along the breast but tied shut at the waist with a red sash. Near her flanks, it ended not in a continued masculine straight cut, but a sort of pleated skirt. Still, with the requisite half-hoof’s width or so of scarlet trim in the same fabric as the sash, it was an excellent and fetching reinterpretation of the garment in question.

The skull earrings were a step too far, though.

“Who…” Sunset began before nervously catching herself. “Uh, who is he?”

“He?” Starlight chuckled. “Oh, you probably guessed from the manecut, right? I used a little bit of illusion magic so I didn’t have to cut it; when the spell runs out it’ll just ‘pop’ back to the normal length, since Rarity warned me it absolutely isn’t safe to regrow a cut mane with transmutation magic. Anyway, my costume is of a pony named Coil the Immortal. Did you ever hear about him, Sunset? You studied under Princess Celestia, right?”

Sunset swallowed, panicking inwardly about what exactly to say that wouldn’t create a literal time paradox in casual conversation about a Nightmare Night costume. Finally, she settled on “No, n-never heard of him.”

“Funny. He’s like the most important necromancer who ever lived, and from only like three hundred years ago. Or at least, that’s what he claimed in his book. I never actually got my necromancy license, so I’ve never had a real class or anything on it.” Starlight shrugged. “Anyway, he’s my favorite, and obscure enough that I can probably use him to talk about the differences between equity and equality without bringing up my own past. I used to have a book he wrote called Discourse on the Origins of Talent Mark Inequality… did I ever tell you about my village? I guess I shouldn’t be proud of this, but uh, that was part of what gave me the idea. Coil was an expert on how souls work, and he apparently even had a spell that would let you grab onto somepony’s soul while they were still alive. I don’t know what good it was supposed to be for, since he only really alluded to it, but he put down enough theory that I was kind of able to figure out something sort of like it—a spell to remove somepony’s cutie mark. I never really figured out what the original spell was supposed to do, though; he used some kind of insane notation where all his hexagons had seven sides.”

“Septagons?” Sunset suggested.

Starlight shook her head firmly. “No; regular hexagons with seven sides. They don’t fit into any two-, or even three-dimensional mapping of space. Like I said, it was insane.”

“I do not understand,” Somnambula whispered.

“Neither do I,” Starlight pushed herself up from the chair. “Well, it’s nice to see you, but I understand if I’m not allowed to listen in, and I don’t want to keep you if you’re on a mission for the princesses. Twilight should be back soon, and… if I’m being honest, I really wanna listen in, but I should probably be a good pony and leave. Rarity will want me back to take in the waist of my dress so we know everything fits before Nightmare Night.” With a wave and a flash of her horn and a pop of magic, Starlight let herself out of the office.

Immediately, both remaining mares exhaled.

“Do you think she knows?” Somnambula asked. “I do not think she is the kind of pony who would pull a prank like that.”

“Yeah; from the time I spent with her and what I hear from Twilight, Starlight’s a pretty no-nonsense pony. At least, when she’s not misusing magic, but that’s more absentmindedness or bad judgement then, like, making a joke at somepony’s expense. But you’re right; it does seem like it couldn’t just be coincidence. Maybe we ask Twilight if she mentioned anything? Or Star Swirl?”

“We can ask; Star Swirl knows some things about coincidence and luck, because of his student Clover’s magic, if my memory is correct. But I would be very surprised if either of them had spoken to her; she thought Morty was only three hundred years old, right?”

“Yeah, I’m sure even if Twilight didn’t know he’s still alive, she wouldn’t have gotten the date that wrong.”

It took a few further minutes of quiet conversation before Twilight Sparkle actually returned, but when she did, she was sans her Diadem-colored coat dye, and carrying in her magical grip a sizeable wooden chest, bound with steel bands and covered in arcane runes. It settled onto the ground beside her desk with a pronounced hiss, a testament to the power of the magic keeping it secure. Somewhat amusingly, then, when Twilight directed her horn more directly at it, the lid simply popped open, allowing her to remove a procession of items. The first was an obviously ancient leather-bound book with yellowed parchment, bound shut with recently added modern metal bands. Next came a smaller, all steel but similarly rune-emblazoned chest, perhaps a bit longer than a matchbox. After that box, another container was gingerly lowered; this one far longer than its predecessor (and, for that matter, the chest it was removed from), at nearly the length of a pony’s torso from shoulder to dock.

A moment later, she lowered three cups of tea (not from the chest) to rest in front of her two guests and her own seat, along with a small bowl of sugar cubes, a pitcher of cream, and a plate of lemon slices. It should be noted, however, that before she released her grip, she quickly cast a separate shield on each component, as well as a shimmering wall of force between the tea set and the tome she had brought in. Though it quickly faded to transparency, Sunset recognized the spell as a powerful shielding spell, one favored by military ponies more than academic wizards (as, in these more modern days, there are so few proper wizards left).

“Phew… okay, here we are. As promised, tea, no makeup, and what Princess Celestia said I was supposed to give you.” Twilight grinned as she returned to her seat, restoring her place with some of the most delicate motion I have seen of any pony toward furniture they themselves owned. It was as if she feared to put too much motion into the air. “So, a little background: a few years ago, I was doing some research on magical history… actually, it was for my Star Swirl Nightmare Night costume, but anyway, I convinced Princess Celestia to let me into the sealed Star Swirl wing of the library at Canterlot. Just so I could get at the history books, not anything magic or anything. While I was looking for records from that time period, though, I found a book a lot like this one.” Twilight nodded down to the tome in question. “Not literally this one, just something similar. It was written in ancient Cirran, and it didn’t actually have a library index entry—which isn’t that uncommon in the Star Swirl wing, since so few ponies are allowed in and you don’t exactly want to just put stickers and stamps on books that old—”

“Twilight, take a breath,” Sunset interrupted. “I appreciate the background, but where are you going with this?”

“Oh; uh, Princess Celestia sent a letter to Spike saying she was sending you to go find Archmage Coil, and that I was supposed to help you. Sorry, did I not say that?”

“No,” Somnambula clarified.

“Oh. I, uh, get ahead of myself sometimes.” Twilight sucked down a breath, and then turned to her teacup; it was nearly to her lips when the tea kettle on her shelf abruptly whistled, causing the alicorn to startle, lift the kettle with her magic, hold it aloft over her cup, and then stare at the fact that it was still completely full. “I’ll have to put this in the teacher’s lounge or something, so it doesn’t go to waste.”

“Are you busy?” Somnambula asked the scatterbrained alicorn. “We can come back later or something.”

“No, you’re on an important mission from the Princess. This obviously has priority. I’m sure Rarity would hate it, but I can always finish my costume myself.” Twilight lowered her teacup, steepled her hooves, and pressed them down toward her belly as she closed her eyes and lowered her shoulders. The breathing exercise was unsubtle, but so were its benefits. “The point I was building to is that I had found one of Commander Hurricane’s original Cirran Chronicles—the official Imperial histories of the pegasus empire, supposedly from its founding until it was absorbed into Equestria. The one I found was Hurricane’s first, Of Skies Long Forgotten; it told the story of how he became Emperor and left Dioda—that’s the continent we’d call ‘Zebrica’ these days.”

“We heard some of those stories when I first came to Equestria,” said Somnambula. “Not from Hurricane, though; he was quite the quiet stallion about his own deeds. I would love to have a chance to read them.”

“I’ll grab you a copy from the school library,” said Twilight with a smile. “Princess Celestia allowed me to publish my translation.” Then, after a moment’s hesitation, she added “Most of it, anyway. The last chapter was strange, and the Princess asked me to leave it out so I wouldn’t risk affecting our relations with the griffons.”

“Because Hurricane was racist against griffons?” Sunset asked. “Because, uh… surprise?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“Yes he was,” Somnambula corrected hesitantly. “Um, if I’m being honest, pretty violently.”

“I…” Twilight chuckled. “Yes, I suppose so. What I mean is, that isn’t the reason the Princess was worried about including the last chapter. You see, the last chapter of Of Skies Long Forgotten is fictitious. It was obviously added later by somepony else’s quill; the script didn’t match Hurricane’s calligraphy. I did some chemistry to source the ink, and confirmed it came from near here, probably in Everfree City, even though the first chronicle was written while Hurricane was still in the Compact Lands. But most importantly, Hurricane couldn’t have been present to see the events it describes, even if they were true. It claimed Commander Hurricane’s second-in-command, Silver Sword—who Hurricane described having left behind in the final battle as the pegasi were fleeing—it claims he killed Emperor Magnus.”

Sunset raised a brow. “Like, the immortal griffon emperor? Princess Celestia’s griffon counterpart?”

“Exactly,” Twilight agreed. “He obviously isn’t dead, since he’s still around today. And like I said, Hurricane could not possibly have written that last chapter anyway, because he wasn’t there. He flew away before Silver Sword even confronted Emperor Magnus.” Twilight shook her head. “I was just going to include a preface explaining I doubted their authenticity, but the Princess felt Emperor Magnus might take it personally; apparently, he’s very proud of his skills as a warrior. So while it would be one thing to censor Commander Hurricane’s first-hoof account, I didn’t think it was much of a problem to omit what was obviously somepony else’s made-up addition.”

“Does that relate to finding Morty?” Sunset asked.

“You call him by the nickname?” Twilight raised a brow, then shook her head before Sunset could answer. “I suppose the first story wouldn’t matter much. But after I found that record, and I was able to cross-reference Hurricane’s maps of where he landed in what’s now the Domain of Stalliongrad, I thought I might be able to find Cirran archeological sites on the ground that had been lost to the eternal winter—obviously, since Cloudsdale has been continuously inhabited for almost two thousand years, there isn’t much left of the original Cirran construction beyond the really big architectural works like the baths.”

Somnambula immediately perked up. “The Baths are still in Cloudsdale?! Oh, once we get back, I absolutely have to go again!”

“Does the mob still work out of the back rooms?” Sunset teased.

Twilight arched a brow as only a purebred academic can. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Something from Morty’s records.” From within her pocket dimension, Sunset produced the earlier copy of the book you’re currently reading. “Hurricane’s ex-spymaster turned into some kind of minor crimelord—”

“Ah, you must mean ‘the Dawn’, the head of his frumentarii.” (For being nearly two thousand years removed, Twilight’s emulated Cirran accent was surprisingly authentic.) “I’m sorry, I’m getting off track again. Yes, Somnambula, the baths are still in Cloudsdale. But before they were built, the pegasi… the Cirran pegasi, I guess I should clarify, lived on the ground of the Compact Lands. And sure enough, Rainbow and I found a site, and an original copy of Hurricane’s second chronicle, Snow & Shadows.”

“From the title, I’m guessing it’s about Hearth’s Warming Eve?”

Twilight nodded, midway through a sip of tea. “Ahh. Yep, you guessed it. But it was a lot more detailed and more accurate than the pageant. It covered Cyclone’s rebellion, Typhoon’s… well, I’m sure you know.” In fact, Sunset didn’t know, but being caught midway through a sip of her own tea, she didn’t find a chance to ask before Twilight pushed on. “The point is, that book led to one more.” Twilight frowned. “Well, really it led on a whole crazy adventure. We got attacked by the Stalliongradi guardsponies, the ‘Black Cloaks’, and we joined the resistance for a little bit.”

“Is that related to what happened to Rainbow Dash?” Sunset asked. “With Princess Luna?”

“I don’t know what—” Twilight’s eyes flashed painfully with realization, and her ears folded down against her bang-heavy mane. “Oh. I see. And… yes, that would be why Princess Celestia would want to find Archmage Coil.” Then Twilight shook her head. “That was a different thing. Unrelated. After we got back. Well, actually I guess it kind of was related, because she was only in Canterlot in the first place that night because I wanted her to be with me when I shared some of the things I learned on that research trip at the…” Twilight’s words faded off, and at last she hung her head. “The simple answer is no. Rainbow and I came back from Stalliongrad cold, and a little beat up, but mostly fine. And we found these.” Waving her hoof over the book and the box, Twilight smiled.

“And these are…?” Somnambula prompted.

“Well, the book is the last Cirran chronicle, primarily written by Hurricane’s successor, Commander Typhoon, but co-written at least in part by her older brother Cyclone. They titled it Mira Caela, which traditionally gets translated into Equiish as the ‘Great Skies’—but since that’s the Cirran name for the afterlife and not some kind of ‘better empty air’, the most honest modern translation would be Summer Lands.”

“About everypony dying” Sunset cocked her head. “So I’m guessing it’s about Solemn Vow? How Hurricane lost his wing?”

“In part,” Twilight nodded as she spoke, before pausing and raising a brow. “Wait, you already know about that?”

“Only second-hoof,” Sunset replied, and again gestured down to this book. “Morty apparently caused a huge scandal just by seancing him to get advice in his conflict with Wintershimmer.”

“Ah, so you haven’t touched on any of Hurricane’s—” Twilight’s voice dropped off with all the suddenness of thick wool gripping a ringing cymbal. “Nevermind. What was I saying?” Her eyes quickly swept to the book on the table. “Right; you have to understand, while the Cirran chronicles do ‘tell stories’ in the sense we understand them, they’re also formal historical documents. The physical book of Snow and Shadows wasn’t just about the events of the first Hearth’s Warming Day; it starts almost twenty years earlier, and walks all the way through the Tri-Pony Compact and Hurricane’s part in the so-called Crystal Wars. And Summer Lands is the same. Hurricane stopped writing his Cirran chronicles when Cirra stopped being an independent nation with the founding of Equestria. Typhoon covers Equestrian history starting with her father’s rule at the beginning of Equestria, but she carries on past his death. This is a first-hoof account of the first half-century of Equestria’s history. And it’s a perspective we’ve never had on those years before. Even the Pillars returning didn’t give us that, since you went into Limbo before some of those later events. And frankly, this openly contradicts huge portions of what we know as history. Which, given what we know about Queen Platinum the Fourth’s approach to history, shouldn’t be surprising, but since that was all we had to go off of…” Twilight shook her head. “I’m guessing you get the point?”

Sunset nodded. “But why won’t Princess Celestia let you publish it? And what does it have to do with our mission? I’m sure she’s not afraid ponies are going to be up in arms even if Typhoon’s version of the Centralization Reforms makes the nobility look bad; that was centuries ago.”

Twilight solemnly shook her head, and then looked up at the door to her office before actually speaking. Sunset watched her cast some sort of warding spell, though it wasn’t obvious just which, before taking a moment to straighten her shoulders. “No, it’s not a problem of politics. Unfortunately, I don’t know exactly what the problem is. I have a guess, but… well, nevermind.”

“The Princess didn’t explain?” Sunset asked. “Even to you?”

“No,” Twilight answered. “When she sent me instructions for how to help you, she said she’d tell me soon—which I’m hoping means when you get back with Archmage Coil—but at first she didn’t even say that.”

“Oh,” Somnambula nodded. “Then it’s probably because Starlight is going to be Archmage Hourglass.”

“She what?!”

Sunset nodded slowly, and on nervous instinct flicked her head back toward the office’s door, in open spite of the spell Twilight had just spun. “Uh, don’t tell Starlight that. But, well... yes.” To prove her point, the yellow mage replaced this tome with her copy of Beginner’s Guide and read the previously mentioned passage about Starlight reading from the very same book. You remember, I’m sure; the confusing, self-referencing one with the nested dialogue.

I won’t torture your reading comprehension to narrate that with triply-nested self-reference, dear reader. Suffice it to say it was very confusing.

Twilight, having gleefully teetered on the cliff’s edge of fraying sanity for nearly her entire adult life as the ground eroded beneath her hooves, was foaming at the mouth by the time Sunset finished.

“She… I…”

“She actually warned us that she’d be there when we got out of Limbo, and that we had to pretend we weren’t expecting it,” Somnambula added. “I did not really like having to lie about that, but she said it was important that she not find out who she was going to become… Oh, that is very confusing to talk about. But I think when we talked to her before we left is still in her future, even though it is in our past. Does that make sense?”

“Idawhafutuhawha?” Twilight replied.

“I think maybe we should, uh, not talk about time travel anymore right now,” Sunset suggested.

“Maybe that is for the best,” Somnambula agreed.

As the two guests waited for their host to come back to her senses, they finished their cups of tea, and Sunset took the liberty of refilling both from the kettle Twilight had prepared and subsequently forgotten about. While a bit overbrewed and strong, it was nevertheless an excellent blend, and discussion of its comparison to Somanmbula’s hometown ‘shay’ filled the time until, finally, Twilight snapped into a stiffer posture and spoke up. “But Starlight swore she was giving up time travel, after she almost ended the world like forty times.”

“Well, I’d say we have pretty strong evidence somepony eventually convinces her otherwise,” Sunset teased. “Welcome back to Equestria, by the way, Twilight. You’ve got a little bit of foam on the corner of your mouth there.”

“Oh? Sorry. Sorry!” Twilight rubbed a hoof down her muzzle. “I was just thinking through all the times I’d heard Archmage Hourglass mentioned in my research, and thinking back to the alternate timelines she made when she was trying to ruin my friendship with my friends.”

“She did what?” Somnambula asked. “That seems awfully petty.”

Sunset, quicker on the draw, frowned deeply. “Actually, that’s horrifying—wouldn’t Nightmare Moon have won, if you and your friends didn’t use the Elements of Harmony?”

“That was one alternate timeline, yes,” Twilight answered. “Actually, probably the nicest one, all things considered. Much better than Queen Chrysalis, or ‘His Excellence’, or the weird one where Flim and Flam of all ponies put out the sun. But that’s behind us though. We already forgave her, and everything is better, so I wouldn’t want to hurt Starlight dredging up those memories. I know she usually doesn’t like to think about it too much. It was just the last time I remember her using time magic.”

“If you want to talk about something else—”

“Yes, lets!” Twilight interrupted over-enthusiastically.

Sunset deflated gently at the interruption. “—while I’m sure this history of ancient Equestria is very interesting, I’m still working through Morty’s version, and I’m not sure anything that old is going to help us find him today. Do you have any idea what we should be looking for? Or how Princess Celestia intended you to help us?”

“Oh, right! Okay, so first off, I can’t give you the book. But the point of getting it out, other than that it was in the same box, is that along with it, Rainbow and I found these feathers.” Twilight’s horn ignited, and the lockbox she had brought in alongside her tome made quite a considerable, some might say bordering on paranoid, number of metallic clicks and twists and faint grinding noises. It opened, perhaps most troublingly, with a hiss like a snake. And then, held in Twilight’s magic, two pegasus feathers emerged: one a dark red, the other a sandy tan. “Cyclone and Typhoon’s feathers.”

“Wow!” Somnambula whispered. “I’m amazed they survived!”

“That seems impossible; don’t feathers decompose like any other organic matter? Are they enchanted?”

“After a sense; here, take one. Be careful though.”

“They’re ancient, I know; I promise I’ll—ow!” Sunset’s magic, which had gathered around the root of Typhoon’s feather, vanished instantly, as the mare pulled her horn back on reflexive instinct. “It’s freezing!”

“Well, not really. If you touched it with your hoof it wouldn’t feel cold. It’s just the way her magic feels.”

“How can her magic still be in that? Have they been made into vaults?”

“Nope,” Twilight answered. “They’re raw.”

“Raw? That completely violates Log’s Law!”

“I know, right?!” Twilight beamed. “It’s amazing!”

Somnambula quirked her head to the side, lost in the conversation between the two trained mages. “What’s ‘Log’s Law?’”

“Mana directly invested in a receptacle without a binding mechanism degrades from the time of the investor’s death exponentially,” Twilight recited, as if reading from a page. “Or to make that simpler, when somepony passes away, any magic they left in the world starts to fade away; it falls off quickly, but it never quite disappears completely. The actual amount of magical resonance you can detect depends on a lot of factors besides just how long it’s been since the pony who put out that magic passed away, but if you chart the measurements over time, it’s always an exponential decay. Dr. Log actually discovered the rule by measuring the impact on orchard yields at earth pony farms in the years before and after ponies who ran those farms passed on to the Summer Lands, and whether or not it mattered if whoever was taking over the farm afterwards was already working there or not.”

“And unless Typhoon got stuck in Limbo too, instead of actually dying, her magic shouldn’t still be in that feather,” Sunset added.

“Actually, even if she had been, being in Limbo functionally behaves the same as being dead. Archmage Star Swirl left dozens of things behind that hadn’t been properly ‘enchanted’, but had certainly been imbued with his magic. They lost nearly all charge when you went into Limbo, just as if he had been dead.”

“So what I’m hearing is… Typhoon isn’t dead either?” Somnambula donned a wide smile. “Is that what you’re getting at? Goodness gracious—that is the modern saying, right?—I wonder if anypony from when we came from actually died.”

“That seems unlikely,” Sunset said aloud. “It’s hard enough to believe Morty’s still around, and he’s the Father of Necromancy. Commander Typhoon isn’t even a unicorn.”

“Hey!” Somnambula pouted. “We can do cool magic too!”

Sunset winced at the accusation of racism, only for Somnambula’s expression to break into a chuckle. “Oh.”

“I’m just kidding, Sunset. You’re right; I’ve seen the kind of magic somepony like Commander Hurricane could use, but I’ve never heard of a pegasus using it to live longer or anything like that. That’s earth pony magic.” Somnambula sat back in her seat. “I don’t get it. How does that help us?”

“Well, Somnambula, speaking of ‘cool magic’—I don’t know what you used to call it in the Pharoahnate, but the modern official name for pegasus magic is ‘empatha’—why don’t you take hold of Typhoon’s feather?”

“Oh?” At Twilight’s offer, Somnambula extended a wing, and in a gentle telekinetic field, the tan feather fell to meet her peach ones. The moment it made contact, a visible shudder swept through the pegasus’ body, and as the subtle shaking reached where her back and flanks rested against her seat, a thin film of frost began to cover the furniture.

“Whoa.” Sunset leaned forward, eyes wide. “They let you use Typhoon and Cyclone’s magic? Are you doing anything, Somnambula?”

“No, I…” Somnambula seemed to be fighting back tears as she focused on balancing the feather. “My magic is strong with wind, not the cold… Can I put it down? Please?!”

Twilight swiftly lifted the feather, and though the frost lingered for a few seconds longer, a visible weight lifted from Somnambula’s form. “I suppose it makes sense you’d be attuned to wind empatha, given you’re so optimistic and excitable. Rainbow is the same way. Can you buck lightning bolts too?”

“Rainbow Dash can buck lightning?” Somnambula scoffed. “No; only Hurricane could accomplish that feat in our day. Do many modern guardsponies know such a power?”

“No. Most modern pegasi don’t practice using empatha the way it used to be taught in the Cirran Legions. That kind of relentless practice with one emotion was proven to have long term negative effects on a pony’s psychological and emotional well-being. The Wonderbolts use very light variations for some of their stunts, but otherwise there are very few ponies who still practice it.”

“Is that why she was crying?” Sunset Shimmer asked.

This time, Somnambula provided the explanation. “Pegasus magic comes from feelings, not learning. Sadness is the feeling that lets us use ice and cold. But when I held that feather, I felt her… Abandonment. Regret. Betrayal. I… if we have to use them to be safe, I will, but otherwise I would be very happy if I didn’t have to touch them.”

“Well, Mr. Ink can also make use of them,” Twilight observed, before looking slowly around the walls of her office. “But maybe it’s best if we don’t let you try Cyclone’s, at least until you’re outside.”

The little joke restored Somnambula’s mood, and the peach pegasus leaned back in her seat as the last of the frost evaporated. “That is probably best.”

“Let me just put these back in their box…” With a satisfying ‘click’, Twilight set the now sealed box down next to Somnambula’s tea and closed its lid fully in the very same moment.

The next item to be raised in Twilight’s arcane glow was the long slender box, and when she opened it, Sunset caught a glint of metal, polished to a mirror’s sheen. The flash only grew brighter from the overhead electric light as the lid was fully removed. A moment later, a basket hilt of amethysts came into the light, bright and sparkling enough to cast some purple hue to the spines of the books against the office’s walls.

The blade in question, lifted by its hilt from Twilight’s box, bore the shape of a traditional, presumably decorative rapier: a long, slender, rather rigid blade and an ornate, gem-studded hilt and guard, whose amethysts would in its day have complimented Gale’s coat. Its blade was a touch longer than tradition dictated for a unicorn blade; it would have been quite the right size on a fairly large unicorn stallion, but for Gale it was closer in length to an estoc—or more practically, to her father’s Gladius Procellarum, whose length it had been designed to match exactly.

“That’s beautiful!” Somnambula observed with a gasp.

“I’ve seen that before…” Sunset stared for a moment, and then gasped. “Wait, from Hyacinth’s portrait of Queen Platinum the Third, right? That’s Gale’s sword?!”

Twilight nodded. “This is Aestas Melos— ‘Summer’s Song’, in Cirran.”

“This is Gale’s sword?” Somnambula asked. “I didn’t know Gale had a special sword! It’s beautiful.”

Twilight lifted the masterwork weapon fully out of its cushioned box and held it close to the other mares, hilt-first “The gems on the basket are the most interesting piece, I think; they actually go into the center of tang—that’s the metal inside the handle that helps hold the sword together in one piece. Anyway, they were designed to carry full-matrix inscripted magic as well as raw mana.”

“What’s that mean?” Somnambula asked.

“You can cast a spell into it ahead of time,” Sunset explained. “Any one spell. And then a unicorn holding the sword could effectively cast it—even if they weren’t the pony who actually put the spell into the gem in the first place. You can do that with pretty much any gem, like Morty did when he dueled Clover and Wintershimmer, but if you don’t prepare the gems first, you usually have to shatter them to get the spell out.”

Twilight nodded, and returned the sword to its box. “Princess Celestia suggested you might provide a spell and give the sword to Fiz—er, that is, to Tempest.”

“What were you going to call her?”

“Nevermind!” Twilight insisted, quite red in the face. “The point is, she knows her way around swords and even her horn should be able to get the spell to come out, so you could help her out that way!”

“Makes sense.” Sunset nodded. “Alright. I assume that’s everything in your instructions from the Princess?”

Twilight nodded. “That’s everything. I just need to put Summer Lands away, and… wait, what’s this?” As the alicorn princess lowered her massive book into the larger chest she had brought into the room in the first place, her magic produced another tiny lockbox, on whose surface Sunset could see a yellow sticky note. “It says ‘For Sunset’s eyes only.’ But… how could this possibly even be here? I enchanted that box myself! It’s a thirteen-glyph locking maze with extradimensional recursion… It’s an astral black body! Gah!”

As Twilight foamed at the mouth a second time in the span of a few minutes, Somnambula shot a worried glance to Sunset. More familiar with Twilight’s antics (or, at least, an alternate-reality version of her… but some things transcend existences), Sunset calmly removed the offending tiny box from Twilight’s grip and flipped the lid open.

Inside, she found two things: a folded letter, sans any envelope, and a glass vial full of what looked like a spiral-armed galaxy suspended in quill ink.

The note read as follows:

Dear Sunset,

Your friend Starlight here. Hello from the future!

Well, actually, I’m writing this two weeks before you’re reading it, but I’m from your future, so I assume you get the point.

Since you're wondering, no, I really didn’t know how off my dating of Morty’s past was when I walked in with that costume you just saw (assuming you’re still in Twilight’s office, and not back on The Constellation by the time you’re reading this). And while it was kind of a coincidence that was my choice of costume… well, let’s just say as far as it matters for you, it really was a coincidence.

I wanted to wish you good luck on your quest to find Morty. I say good luck because even though I kind of know what you’re about to go through (sorry in advance), I don’t know everything. Maybe most importantly, I don’t know if this is a timeline where you actually find him and make it back alive or not. Turns out even being the ‘Mistress of Time’ or whatever Morty calls me, doesn’t make me omniscient.

Anyway, I’m rooting for you. Unfortunately, since you succeeding, at least in some timeline, is a requirement for me to even exist, helping you directly would make a pretty big grandfather paradox. Like, the universe-ending kind you’re afraid of if you let past me know about Morty at all (which actually isn’t that big of a deal… but maybe keep keeping it a secret, just to be on the safe side).

Anyway, while I can’t show up in-pony to help, I can give you a little present. That bottle contains about forty-five milliliters of reality, distilled from what was left of timelines or universes or whatever term you want to use where a big paradox like the one I was just talking about destroyed pretty much everything else.

Do NOT, under any circumstances, open the bottle unless you know what you are doing. Morty will give you directions on how to use it safely; I want to say ‘when the time is right’, but unfortunately, Morty’s sense of timing tends to be dramatic instead of practical.

It looks like I’m running out of the reality I’m using to write this, so… good luck?

-Archmage Hourglass
Mother of Translocation, Defender of the Badlands, Walker of the Betwixt and the Between…

Just kidding.
-Starlight

“Twilight,” Sunset observed calmly as she tucked both the letter and her vial into her pocket dimension, “Calm down, Twilight.”

“But somepony violated my spells. And I don’t mean to brag about being the Bearer of the Element of Magic, but if somepony broke my wards, that’s a major security risk. I use the same kind of magic on the leftover relics from—”

“It’s Starlight from the future,” Sunset interrupted.

“What?”

“It’s Starlight,” Sunset repeated. “The letter's from her, from the future. So unless you keep that box warded forever, she probably just went forward in time… however, that works; I don’t really know time magic. Anyway, then she’d just have to get inside the black body limit, put this box inside, and time-travel it back to now. And in this case, you probably want to make that easy for her. Maybe put it away unlocked for one night and casually mention it to Starlight?”

“I… huh.” Without apparent awareness, Twilight wiped more foam from her lips. “Starlight, okay. Then maybe my hypothesis about Star Swirl's 'Confluence of the Ancients' prophecy was right after all."

"Confluence of the Ancients?" Sunset asked.

Twilight waved a hoof dismissively. "Just something Star Swirl wrote down in Predictions and Prophecies; you know, the one where he predicted Nightmare Moon coming back? It's another prophecy, about a bunch of ancient creatures returning all at once and ending the world. Tirek and Chrysalis are kind of obvious, but I proposed 'creatures' might also include ponies, like the Pillars... and I guess Archmage Coil, if you do wind up finding him."

"Ending the world?" Sunset asked with a raised brow. "You think the end of the world is coming because we're bringing back Morty, and you didn't think to even mention that?"

Twilight chuckled. "Don't worry; the Nightmare Moon one said she'd win too. 'On the longest day of the thousandth year, the stars shall aid in her escape, and she shall bring about nighttime eternal.' The prophecies aren't capital-p 'Prophecies', so they aren't magically binding; that's why he titled the book 'predictions' first. I'm sure there's nothing to worry about, but you can borrow my copy of Predictions and Prophecies if it makes you feel better. I'm more worried about time travelers stealing my research materials, since that's apparently a security hole that needs closing. I should look back on Star Swirl’s time spells and see if I can ward things chronologically… Would a fourth-circle …?” Immediately engrossed in the thought, the Bearer of Magic dragged out a fountain well, three quills, and six large sheets of parchment.

Sunset and Somnambula exchanged a disbelieving look before the former used her magic to gather up the two remaining boxes: the one containing Typhoon and Cyclone’s feathers, and the one containing Gale’s enchanted rapier. A moment later, Sunset realized a book, the offered copy of the fairly commonly available Predictions and Prophecies, was hovering in the air not far from her head. “Thanks, Twilight.”

Somnambula followed Sunset toward the door, nodding back to Twilight as she left. “We shall try to come back in one piece.”

It was as the door finally clicked closed behind them that Twilight looked up enough to answer “Yeah, stay safe! And good lu… oh, drat.” And then she darted after them to say her goodbyes.

Somewhat amusingly, this involved leaving the aforementioned warded box unlocked and unguarded for a period of a solid three or four minutes. And while I could certainly describe the curious ‘whoosh’ that comes with a pony traveling through time instead of space, I’m sure a comprehending reader doesn’t need it completely spelled out why such a thing was a noise was a certainty in the otherwise abandoned office.

Interlude VI - Ask Not For Whom the Bell Tolls

Ask Not For Whom the Bell Tolls

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

The fortress called Onyx Ridge began its life as… well, if one is being blunt, as exactly what it says on the tin. The forbidding cliff of dark grey and sometimes utterly black rock had historically marked the western border of the Diamond Kingdoms. It may not have actually sat on a coast or a river or at the base of a wall of mountains or some other natural boundary, but beyond those rocks, the influence of the marauding crystal barbarians was too great for unicorn (or earth pony) expansion to survive for long. Hundreds of years before the founding of Equestria, King Malachite had carved walls for an encampment from the stone. But while the unicorn leader was successful in taking the cliffs from the River Rock, he proved incapable of keeping them. The creation of the fortress that stands there still to this day, when Equestria is the better part of two millennia old, is mostly owed to the crystal warlords who held it for the centuries after Malachite's death. In digging out quarters and storerooms, they found rich iron veins, and gems colored by its rust. And so, over years, the fortress became home to deep mines and vital weapons, lusted after by both sides.

Over the years, there were almost countless Battles of Onyx Ridge, as ambitious crystal warlords and unicorn would-be avengers alike pushed too far into their foes' territory and were forced back to make ill-fated final stands on its sheer black walls. The most famous of these took place only a scant few years before my birth, when the last of the true crystal warlords, Halite (remembered as "the Hammer" by history books, to differentiate him from others of the same name, though contemporaneously he was just "Warlord Halite") had found himself under siege by a coalition under the young mare who would become my childhood sovereign, Queen Jade of the Crystal Union.

When Equestria was founded, and Jade ceased the hostilities between the Union and the new nation (despite Wintershimmer's manipulations to the contrary), Onyx Ridge lost all value as a geographic chokepoint. The fortress was still close enough to River Rock to be subjected to the curse of eternal winter, and so was subject to the reluctant rule of Cyclone the Betrayer. But, of course, Cyclone had neither the manpower, nor the supplies, nor the strategic need to occupy such a fortress. And so, for the better part of his life, Onyx Ridge was forgotten under mounds of snow.

As life struggled above the frozen soil, it thrived beneath it. The mines beneath Onyx Ridge were warm, as most deep tunnels are. And as the life on the surface of the former Diamond Kingdoms and Low Valleys struggled to find food, much moved into the deep. It was the vargr and their fenrir, of whom I wrote in the preceding chapter, that claimed the abandoned mines. And there they held out through all of the history of Equestria. Though I have no idea in what year you are reading this, I would nevertheless offer even odds, if not better, that they are still there in your day.

When the Constellation finally finished its first real voyage from the sunny environs of Canterlot and (imagine my heavy sigh here) "Ponyville", down in the copious space inside Onyx Ridge's walls, it found the snowy ground was already home to a small but formidable camp. Numerous tents clung to the shelter of the dark stone walls, using them to shield against the wind that so often accompanied Stalliongrad's snows. The entire crew (if a mere four ponies can be called a 'crew' with a straight face) stood gathered around the wheel located inside the airship's cabin, looking through the glass windshield that was the 'belly' of the vessel as they adjusted their snow attire.

"You said there were monsters here, Stalliongrad?" Tempest asked as she helmed the ship, her black armor supplemented by what was clearly a stallion's gray overcoat, buttoned off-center across her breast. "Why haven't whoever's sleeping in those tents gotten eaten yet?"

"The vargr are only threat in tunnels, below," explained Red Ink, the only member of the crew whose winter attire was identical to his normal attire. Clearly at home in the snowy domain, he hadn't even buttoned his black jacket over his guardspony issue gilded breastplate. (In case I haven't mentioned this before: gold is a magical insulator; it isn't just for show as some non-arcane species often assume). "They dig through soil with rocks in it, but not solid rock." Ink then indicated the walls of the fortress with a wing. "This courtyard or square or… the hole inside fortress, it is not natural. Unicorns and crystals mined it out. The ground beneath us is one giant solid slab of rock. No threat to be burrowed up through. Be more worried about who is in tents."

"They n-need a massage?" Somnambula chittered through the chattering of her teeth. "B-because they're too int-t-tense?"

Ink pinched the very base of his muzzle, between his eyes. "Who is in those tents, old mare. And what are you shivering for? Airship has heating. We have not even opened hatch yet."

"I g-grew up in the d-desert! I don't d-do snow!" Despite the noise, and Ink's (accurate) observation of the internal temperature, Somnambula was perhaps the most dressed of the four, wearing a fairly puffy pink parka and even a pair of matching snow pants—an absolute rarity for those who don't know pony fashion—as well as boots, a scarf, and a knit hat. That their colors clashed like a psychedelic cubist's attempt to create an interpretation of the meaning of life only made it more clear that, to Somnambula, quantity had been far more of a concern than quality when raiding through their provided apparel.

"You're welcome to stay on the ship," Sunset offered, wearing an outfit that perhaps suggested more a comfortable Hearth's Warming Eve evening with a cup of cocoa than the frozen wilds of Stalliongrad—though the subtle sheen of magic might have suggested to the subtly observant eye that she was not so ill equipped as she appeared. "Hopefully, Daring Do is in the camp here. We ask a few quick questions, and we're on our way. Even if we do have to go chasing after her, it sounds like Ink and Tempest are going to be the ones getting us through that safely."

"Yeah, but… I s-should be there," Somnambula's wings shifted under her layers of thick clothing. "W-what if M-Morty's already h-here?"

"If we're that lucky, I will eat my hat," announced Red Ink (despite his lack of headwear), wandering in the direction of the side of the Constellation's hull, where an obvious (though complex—presumably to make it watertight) bulkhead door would allow the crew to disembark without needing to go up onto the exterior deck several floors above the ground, only to then lower a plank back to ground level. Veiny, somewhat disgustingly overbuilt forelegs were turned on the large rotary wheel in the center of the door, and as Ink applied force, the audible hiss of the frigid wind outside began to become audible even to those inside.

"Hold your whorses!" The intense vulgarity of Tempest Shadow's irritated snap at Ink seemed not to affect him nearly as it did Sunset and Somnambula. "We're not even on the ground yet!"

"Close enough," Ink answered, flinging the door open and letting icy air sweep into the ship. The others barely heard him cheerfully (and quite sarcastically) announce "No time like present for making new friends!" before he flung himself bodily out of the Constellation.

Frigid wind whistled past Red Ink's ears, and his face donned a smile at the chill of home. Then, glancing back to the ship, he caught a glimpse of Sunset Shimmer stepping up to the hatch of the ship with her horn lit, before pointedly disappearing (the pop of teleportation lost to the winds), and decided that it would be better to get down to the ground to assist her—whether with the translation of Stalliongradi, or with force of hooves. And with that, he dove.

Sunset took quiet notice of the red pegasus landing beside her, but she didn't turn to face him. Moments later, Somnambula followed suit; she could be identified just by the tapping crunch noises her shivering hooves made on the snow-covered stone of the courtyard. But despite the company, Sunset's eyes were on the tents; lights from lamps cast the silhouettes of ponies in heavy winter clothes of their own on the canvas walls, yet despite the not-especially quiet approach of the Constellation and the considerable shadow it cast, nopony stepped outside.

"Um… Hello?" She called out. "Does anypony here speak Equiish?"

When the question was met with the howling of magically frigid wind, Ink took a step forward. "Как делишки, как детишки?"—a jovial, borderline joking greeting that I record in Stalliongradi only so as to ram the point of his choice of language down the reader's throat; I'll translate the rest for you, such as his next utterance: "Alright, fine. This is Commandant Blood Stroke; I'm here with the Honor Guard on business from Celestia. Whoever is in charge, show yourself."

It was a bit too cold in Onyx Ridge for crickets (and it had been for eighteen hundred years) but the idea of their noise flashed through Sunset's mind nonetheless.

"Okay… that's bad," Ink muttered. Sunset caught a glimpse of metal as Ink slipped a hoof into the breast of his jacket, and came out with a far shinier and visibly bladed shoe on his right forehoof.

"W-what's wrong? W-why w-would that b-b-be different than what S-s-sunset asked?" Somnambula stammered.

"I have a reputation here. Introducing myself might have got some of them to run away instead of coming out. But just ignoring me?" He shook his head and then began to walk forward on three legs, keeping his now bladed hoof ready. "This feels like not a friendship kind of problem to me. Stay close, and if there is blood to draw, get back on the ship and get it in the air. And do not wait for me."

"W-w-we're not gonna l-leave you b-b-behind!" Somnambula countered (though she did move close to Ink's backside, in acknowledgement of the sense of danger). "N-not in w-w-weather like this! Y-y-you'll freeze!"

"The cold doesn't bother me much. From your time, you know of Tsyklon, right?" Ink asked as the trio approached a tent. "I am like that. It does not hurt me to be on fire." As he spoke, Ink reached the flaps of the nearest tent, through which the silhouette of a pony could be seen. He flicked two of his feathers in a gesture at the tent, and then held a cautious state, ready to lunge into battle at a moment's notice.

And then, after a moment of awkwardness, Sunset said "You want me to—"

"Yes," Ink hissed. "Unicorn is always responsible for doors in a squad. Tent isn't likely to be trapped, but I don't take stupid chances."

Sunset shimmer's magic pulled back the flap, revealing a heavily wrapped earth pony stallion with a scarf over his face, a heavy ushanka cap, and a furry winter coat. His head was vaguely pointed toward the entrance of the tent, but even when the glow of magic and the sight of the three ponies were revealed, he didn't exactly react; at best, his eyes drifted disconcertingly toward them—disconcerting both in the sense that they unsettled the trio at the door, adn because they moved literally out of concert, first one, and then the other. That little glimpse of pony fur that wasn't wrapped up or covered was pallid and matted, and the eyes framed at the top of the muzzle were bloodshot, surrounding rather milky irises.

"We represent the Honor Guard," Ink repeated cautiously in his native Stalliongradi. "State your name, sir."

The stallion answered with an unsettling cock of his neck and a raspy moaning noise, and shuffled off-balance one step toward Ink.

And then he shrieked. The metaphor of a bean sí (that is, a 'banshee' as you probably know that particular breed of fey) is not entirely unwarranted; most prepubescent fillies could not naturally make the noise that whistled out of this pony's throat, to say nothing of the average adult stallion. The sound cut through the eternal winter winds of the windigo of Stalliongrad without any apparent opposition.

Barely a moment later, he lunged at Red Ink. And then, when Ink answered as one might expect from such a sudden motion—already armed as he was—the shrieking noise ceased to pierce through the scarf over the stallion's lips, and instead began whistling out of the new, freshly bleeding hole in his throat—now broken up occasionally by the gurgling of surprisingly dark, thick ichor into his windpipe. And then, after longer than any of the three ponies would have guessed, the scream finally faded off.

Ink turned fully around, both to survey the other tents and to address his companions. "Go back to the ship. I—"

"Ink!" Sunset interrupted, her horn igniting; Ink barely had time to process the warning before a sudden, warm, wet weight slammed into his back and side, and the clacking of bony teeth resounded barely an inch from his ear. He jumped forward, flaring all the strength of his wings and overbuilt legs, then whirled to find the stallion he had just killed gnashing through his scarf in an attempt to bite the soldier's neck; only Sunset's magic wrapped around his shoulders in a sort of amaranth blob had kept the bit from connecting with Ink's flesh.

"Stay dead, you salty condom!" Ink snapped in Stalliongradi (translated literally; cursing in Stalliongradi is strange). The short pegasus thrust his hoof three more times into the stallion's exposed throat, stopping only when his bladed hoof literally bounced off one of the stallion's vertebrae. Then he finished the series of blows with an uppercut, which (due to the aforementioned damage to the pony's neck) flipped his skull back like the lid on a pedal-operated garbage bin, causing the stallion to finally stop his flailing and biting. "What…" Ink panted slightly, apparently more from surprise and concern than exertion. "What was that?"

When the body, now very obviously dead, began to stir a third time, Sunset lit her horn—the spell she cast was a bit inelegant, but I can hardly fault her for a lack of experience in the metaphysics of animus manipulation. In any case, it had the desired effect; before he could get back on his hooves, the stallion suddenly stopped moving.

"I wish that hadn't worked," Sunset muttered, then turned to look Ink square in the eyes. "That was an undead."

"And we're looking for a famous necromancer?" Ink asked.

"M-M-Morty wouldn't-t-t…" Somnambula gave up on the protest and merely pulled herself into a tight ball to resist the cold.

"Even if it isn't him," Sunset told Somnambula, "the dead don't rise on their own. Somepony—or something—brought this pony back to life. And killed him in the first place."

Ink nodded. "Well… not a friendship problem, but maybe we cannot send you back on the ship anyway. Will setting them on fire kill them?"

Sunset shrugged. "When you get your necromancy license in Canterlot, this is item number one on what not to do. Maybe Morty's book says more, but I can't exactly—"

Sunset's thoughts on my (earlier) writing were cut off by another horrifying, borderline inequine shriek. In the course of their conversation in the snow, Somnambula, Sunset, and Ink had failed to notice the other silhouettes on the walls of other tents beginning to move. And, in their defense, the snowfall in the winter wind did make such a note of detail subtle if one wasn't exactly looking for it.

What was harder to miss, after the shriek, were the mass of seven or so ponies, presumably dead, now shambling toward them. Behind them, the sheer black walls of Onyx Ridge opened into a hole—more like a cave or a tunnel than a gatehouse—which led down in the dark threatening earth.

Sunset lit her horn and (inexperienced as she was at handling magical violence—at least, in a pony) adopted what she assumed was a combat-ready stance. Ink spread out his wings through slits in his jacket and casually channeled his magic to set them alight. Even Somnambula readied herself, and had somepony been watching closely, they might have seen the snowflakes around her subtly shift, as the winter wind was opposed by a smaller but locally stronger gale.

As the first of the corpses drew close, a burst of magic flew over Ink's shoulder, collided with the forwardmost of the dead, and vanished into her skin. And then, something like half a second later, the corpse of the mare exploded in a flash of volatile almost raw arcana and became something that a griffon might liken to stew meat.

When the trio on the ground glanced back, Tempest Shadow put away the wince from the almost lightning-like crackling along her horn and gave them a nod. "Guessing from the body at your hooves that this isn't a friendship kind of problem."

What ensued was, if I'm being honest, a perfunctory battle. Seven shambling, unattended corpses do not—once identified—pose much of a threat to a quartet of Celestia's hoof-trained operatives.

In fact, the group was down to a single remaining foe when anything of consequence happened. Somewhere in the distance, the keening toll of a hoofbell pierced the storm and the frantic noises of violence. Ink—actively on fire, and with his right foreleg literally inside the ribcage of another pony—turned to Somnambula and asked "Did it just get a lot colder?"

"N-n-not th-that I can t-t-tell. Why?"

"I guess some snow just got down my collar—" And then, abruptly, Ink collapsed.

"Stalliongrad's down!" Tempest yelled, and hurled another of her spells at the dead mare who was now very close to the stallion but no longer being held back by his superior strength. Even as the unicorn mare's magic severed the head of the already dead mare, though, the tone of the group shifted instantly.

"W-what h-happened?"

"Did he say his neck?!" Sunset demanded, casting her eyes around the courtyard of Onyx Ridge, and up onto the sheer black stone battlements. After a moment of searching, her eyes caught a figure—shrouded by the mist of snowfall, the details of his form were obscured from, save some kind of cloak or coat and a prominent horn. "We need to run."

"What?"

"Run!" she shouted, picking up Ink with her magic and glancing around frantically.

"The ship's right—" Tempest tried to offer.

"No!" Sunset insisted. "Inside the fortress!"

Another toll of a bell cut the air.

"What is that—" Tempest didn't even get to finish her question before Sunset's magic wrapped around the entire team. And in a flash of her arcane aura, Celestia's agents blindly teleported into the dark tunnels of Onyx Ridge.

Interlude XV - Out of Desperation

Interlude XV

Out of Desperation

The Constellation docked at the same private berth of Canterlot castle from which it had launched, and being that it was not a scheduled arrival, its gangplank was met by no small contingent of Celestia's personal Honor Guard.

These ponies watched as Somnambula and Tempest Shadow slowly disembarked first, carrying between them the corpse of Sunset Shimmer wrapped in a thin white sheet (taken from the ship's linen closet)—and once the duo were off the gangplank, the soldiers moved forward to take the remains of the dead mare off their backs.

They largely stopped in their tracks when the next pony emerged into view on the deck of the constellation. Unicorn horns were lit and pegasi hopped into the air to free their hooves.

"Soldier On," said Commander Flag, the old unicorn who had consoled Ink on his soul at the Stalliongradi airport. She looked on at the gigantic earth pony with a withering glare. "What are you doing here?"

"Surrendering myself," On answered with her distinctly un-Stalliongradi southern lilt. Then she nodded to her back, where she was carrying a blue pegasus in a state of consciousness but clear discomfort. "This is Solo, from S.M.I.L.E. Crack, help her to the infirmary, and then send word for Secret Service. He'll want to talk to her."

Thunder Crack, a sort of olive green pegasus with a profoundly rectilinear jawline, glanced to Flag for approval before following the criminal's orders. In passing, he added in a whisper "Good to see you again, On, for what it's worth."

On let out a single chuckle, but said nothing in reply. Instead, she started down the gangplank, only to be very quickly surrounded once she was on solid ground. "What, did they move the throne room since I quit?" The Honor Guard collectively found the joke less than funny, to which On shrugged. "Celestia will want to talk to us. Please, lead the way."

"Did you kill Ink?" Commander Flag demanded.

"Only his spirit." On took a moment to spit on the stone of the airship berth. "He's in there somewhere, along with Dr. Caballeron. He'll need a doctor too; I broke his leg."

After that, nopony bothered to speak as the procession of soldiers, ex-soldiers, criminals, and the remains of Celestia's apprentice made their way through Canterlot Castle. Seeing so many of the Honor Guard moving together, the castle staff threw themselves out of the way, ducking into side rooms or choosing different floors to focus their attention whenever possible, and otherwise pressing themselves up against the walls and trying to blend into the wallpaper—given how boring their cutie marks were, to varying degrees of success.

Finally, the great gilded double doors that would open to the Equestrian throne room towered, and it was at their face that Commander Flag stopped. "Honor Guard, keep your eyes on On. Miss Shadow, Miss Somnambula, please follow me. Attendant, please bring the remains."

The throne room's doors opened to reveal its intricate fountains, flanking the long carpeted ramp which led up to the dais on which Equestria's princesses found their thrones. Both mares were present, seated in court and attending to some statutory mass of bureaucrats.

"Three incidents in Baltimare, one in Las Pegasus, a full thirteen in Manehattan…" the small horde grumbled.

Upon seeing Flag, Tempest, and Somnambula approaching with obvious emotion on the latter two faces, Celestia immediately raised a wing for silence, nodded, and said "I'm sorry, my friends, but some business of state has come up. Please present this concern to Captain Armor; Miss Inkwell will make sure he knows you have my referral as a matter of urgency."

Raven Inkwell, then Celestia's assistant, took over the work of shooing the petitioners (some now quite grumpy) away, which gave Celestia just enough time to take a deep breath before she flung herself up out of her seat. "Somnambula. Tempest Shadow. Where are Lieutenant Ink and Sunset?"

"Ink should be coming," said Tempest. "But…" She drew in and released a deep breath, glancing back at the white sheet on the stretcher beside her. "Sunset's dead."

Celestia raised a brow in disbelief or denial, lit her horn and opened the sheet enough to see Sunset's head and neck (and thus her wound), and then fell back onto her flanks with a visible shudder.

"Sister!" Luna rushed forward from her throne, quickly wrapping a wing around the larger alicorn's shoulders. "Pray, Somnambula, what happened?"

"You didn't know?" asked Tempest, stepping forward herself. "I thought like when Morty killed Ink, you'd see her soul or something."

Even in her distress, Celestia looked to Luna, and Luna looked back to Celestia, and in their mutual confusion, the world froze. At last, it was the younger sister who spoke. "When did this happen? Was the sun yet in the sky?"

Tempest nodded. "It was probably around two in the afternoon. Why?"

Celestia swallowed, and squinted for a very long second, and then suddenly her demeanor went back to what I will call a very good impression of her usual calm self. "When a pony dies during the day, I judge their soul. If it is night, Luna handles the responsibility. Thanks to some magic we created a very long time ago, that responsibility is not constantly demanding our attention; the spell lets uncontroversially good ponies through to the Summer Lands without question, which thankfully most ponies are. But in addition to more troubled ponies' souls, the spell is supposed to alert us to ponies who are important to us personally—such as when Lieutenant Commander Ink was killed by Mentor, like you observed." Celestia sighed, and then nodded to Luna. "I should have known Sunset had passed. Do you think the time she spent on the other side of the mirror interfered with our spell?"

Luna frowned. "Sister… this isn't like you. Sunset was your apprentice; you have every right to grieve."

Celestia looked to Sunset, and in a rather plain tone she said. "It's my fault this happened, but when we get Morty back, he can fix it. This is only temporary."

"Celestia!" Luna declared. "You cannot speak of death so callously. Coil's abominations—" When Celestia's brow fell, Luna corrected herself "Coil's achievements notwithstanding, it is not right to flaunt the natural order of things with such disdain and disregard for the consequences. Do not forget what happened to me."

"I have not forgotten," Celestia answered, a crack in her voice. "I am fine."

"You are not, and your denial tells me all the more strongly you cannot do this now. Leave this place, Celestia. These ponies will still be here when you have taken time to rest and come to grips with your emotions. Equestria does not sit solely on your back, remember? I, and if need be Cadance and Twilight, will support you."

Celestia swallowed once, and then nodded. "Thank you, Luna. But I can't leave this be until I at least understand what happened, and talk to Sunset." The better of the two alicorns then turned to the still living members of her task force in the room. "What happened?"

Tempest nodded. "When we got to Klugetown, the four of us split up. Sunset and I went after Dr. Caballeron—he's here too, by the way—and Somna and Stalliongrad went after the hippogryph who had the next part of Morty's soul, or whatever it is, we were looking for. Turns out we weren't the only ones looking for Caballeron; some giant earth pony and one of your spies got to him first."

"Soldier On," Commander Flag clarified, causing the two sisters to share a concerned glance. "And Going Solo, a S.M.I.L.E. agent."

"Did the traitor—that is, Soldier On—kill Sunset?"

Somnambula shook her head, picking up the story. "Morty did. Or, at least, it was definitely his body. Um, when Mr. Ink and I got back from our side of the mission, he'd already killed Sunset and ran away."

"Despite the charms I gave you?" Celestia asked with growing concern.

"She went up out of the hole we were in and fought him one-on-one, and I think he did break her little necklace thing. I don't know what they talked about. Just how it ended. He beat her skull in with a rock and then dropped her on her neck," Tempest answered.

Silently, Luna stretched out a wing to wrap it over Celestia's shoulders.

"We think it might be Grogar, using Morty's body," explained Somnambula. "Since he used one of Grogar's bells at Onyx Ridge when he pulled out Mr. Ink's soul. And then again, outside of Klugetown, he was after another bell."

"Grogar?" Luna asked, glancing over to Celestia. "From your grandmother's stories? About Tambelon?"

Celestia shrugged. "I am more concerned with what happened next in the present. My student is dead. How did the rest of you escape?"

"He basically just walked off," said Tempest. "Well, Not-Morty wasn't alone. He had this, uh, bat-pony mare with him. He wanted her to kill the big mare and the spy and me; this was before Stalliongrad and her got back to us."

"A 'bat-pony'?"

"I don't know what else to call her; she had leather wings and fangs."

Celestia immediately glanced to Luna, who shrugged rather defensively.

"It was Typhoon," Somnambula explained.

Luna stood fully to her hooves, wings slightly raised in alarm. "Are you suggesting Coil raised a mare who has been dead eighteen hundred years with my spell? The hypocrisy! After all the times he chastised me for the Night Guard." Then with a chuckle, she added "Though perhaps these are just desserts for the daughter of Hurricane, after her sins—"

Celestia took the unprecedented step of grabbing her sister's muzzle in golden magic, pulling her face forward to look her in the eye, and glaring down at her. "That poor mare suffered enough in life, in no small part because of you, Sister." Then, releasing Luna, Celestia turned back to the reporting ponies. "Grogar's bells, Morty using magic he would never use willingly—"

"Wait, does Morty actually know how to make Night Guards?" Somnambula asked. "I thought you told him you would never teach him in a million years, Princess Luna."

Luna looked away. "The colt was nothing if not cunning. He got enough out of me in a moment of weakness to reverse-engineer the spell. But you're certain it was Typhoon Stormblade?"

Somnambula nodded. "I'm sure. Even if she hadn't recognized me, her mane colors are hard to mistake. And she had Hiems Osculum. She must have gotten it out of the chasm at Onyx Ridge."

"I find this very troubling," said Luna. "To have this difficulty of a search for Coil is one thing; we all know the stallion never made a single thing simple in his entire life. But Typhoon is a very different threat."

"Lieutenant Commander Ink's fire drove her off?" Celestia asked, pulling the conversation back onto topic.

"Enough that she realized it was a losing fight," Tempest confirmed. "They fought with their magic a bit, made a bunch of steam and fog, and then she stole the bell off the spy filly and made a run for it."

"And Soldier On fled?" Celestia confirmed.

This time, Commander Flag spoke up. "She turned herself in. She's in the waiting room, with the rest of the Honor Guard."

Luna blinked several times rather rapidly as her mind processed that claim. Finally, she uttered "The traitor who tried to poison me gave herself up?"

"I…" Flag sighed. "There is reason to suspect there's more nuance to her part in the assassination attempt several years ago than that. But yes, she is here. Shall I have her escorted in?"

"One moment," said Celestia. Then she turned to her sister. "I'm more concerned about this threat to Equestria from Grogar than I am about punishing Soldier On. She will face some kind of justice, Luna, but can we agree not to put that ahead of the issue in front of us?"

"I shall do my best," said Luna.

Celestia then nodded to Flag, and a few moments later, Soldier On was escorted into the throne room by several gold-clad Honor Guard soldiers.

"Your Majesty," said On with a bow that wasn't even especially sarcastic. She gave no show of respect or even acknowledgement to Luna, though.

"What were you doing in Klugetown?"

"Working pro bono for S.M.I.L.E. Going Solo and I knew each other from Baltimare; before she was a spy, she was the mare Armor dragged around when he was trying to solve the poisoning. So when we ran into each other again, she trusted me."

"Why would she trust you?" Luna demanded. "You were the guilty party!"

On huffed out one breath. "Fine, you want the truth, Luna?" On glanced around the room, then turned to Flag. "Is the chamber secure?"

"Is the chamber… are you serious? You're an arrested criminal; don't pretend you're still Honor Guard."

Celestia, however, answered "It is."

"Alright. Let me start at the beginning. I don't know how the Commander knew about Nightmare Moon's return, but he did."

"Her?" Somnambula asked, pointing at Flag. "Why not just ask?"

Commander Flag shook her head. "At the time, the Honor Guard was led by a stallion named Steel Lining, who usually went by 'the Commander'."

On continued "We also knew that the boar warlord Khagan knew when Nightmare Moon was going to come back. S.M.I.L.E. gave us intelligence the boars were massing an army to strike Equestria's southern side while we were weakened in the turmoil of that night. This was before I was on the Honor Guard proper, but just after… after Roscherk killed my foals, and framed me for hiring Silhouette to kill his little brother."

"You expect us to believe you were framed?" Luna asked. "Surely, given what you tried with me—"

"Third Brother is my husband, and the father of the foals Roscherk killed," On interrupted. "And you can ask him to his face if you need those parts of my story verified."

"You…" Celestia muttered. "I hadn't realized he was here."

"The Commander knew enough to know that if I let the secret out, she'd—" (here she pointed to Luna) "—punish him. But with the issue with Khagan and the boars, I didn't know any of that yet. I just knew I couldn't stay in Stalliongrad, and the Commander offered me a job. So the two of us went all the way to Zebrica to meet with some kind of undead elk doctor… monster… to get some kind of special poison. Then we set off to assassinate Khagan."

"So you admit it!" Luna snapped, only to have Celestia caution the younger mare with wingtip feathers on her shoulder.

"Why have I not heard of this?" asked Celestia.

On chuckled. "Because if you were involved, even tangentially, he was worried would break some kind of huge treaty. I promised the Commander I'd take the blame alone if word got out. Didn't seem like a big deal to me; I didn't have anything else to live for."

"What treaty?" Luna asked. "I mean, assassination of a rival leader seems self-obviously illegal."

"The Midnight Castle Accords," Celestia answered. "Um… I do not know how much you've let yourself remember, but the Twilight War wasn't just an Equestrian civil war. Magnus fought on my side. Krenn and Valdria were on Nightmare Moon's. After we ended it, the four of us who were left, and a few other parties—notably, Morty—decided that no matter what happened, we could never let a war like that between those of us with so much power happen again. All five of us had used our powers in one way or another in the interest of war. Krenn tore Dioda fully in half; making the huge canyon we call Grivridge. You and Valdria created the Everfree Forest. And I…" Celestia sighed. "I can only hope directing a pure solar flare on the far side of the battlefield gave a death that passed mercifully quickly."

Luna arched a brow. "So you agreed to never war again? A noble sentiment, but probably naive."

"We agreed that if any of us ever used our divine power against one another, or in any way attempted to steal a spark, all the rest of us would go to war against that one bad actor. Personally." Then Celestia glanced to Soldier On. "Despite not being a signee, Khagan's spark was considered protected by the treaty—as would yours be, Luna, when and if you were able to return."

On nodded. "But some rogue criminal from Stalliongrad? That gave the Honor Guard… what do you call it in Equiish? Plausible deniability? We didn't actually care about stealing the spark from the boars; we just wanted an internal power struggle to stop them from being unified enough to invade us when you showed up."

"I see," said Celestia. "But Khagan lives."

"I don't know how Khagan knew what we'd done; maybe, since boars have earth pony magic, he got a twitch of danger sense like I do. But he gave the poisoned food to another boar. And that's when we learned the poison was far deadlier than we thought. The poison fed on the magic of the victim—the stronger the magic, the more it grew and spread in their body. But then when that boar died, his tusks rotted through and seeds leaked out. Seeds that got into the To Go River outside of Ulaanboartaar, and spread across Suida. It turned into an epidemic—the boars call it 'tusk rot'—" (here, Celestia's expression broke with horrified realization) "—and while that was enough to stop the invasion Khagan had planned, it came with a lot more dead than we ever meant it to."

Luna took two swift and threatening steps down the dais toward Soldier On. "This poison you speak of—this is the gilded lotus? The same poison the assassin Masquerade used against me?"

On shrugged. "If I had wanted you to live, that would have been my guess. But I never had any evidence. That's the extent of my treason."

"Why do you hate me so?" Luna demanded, visibly hurt.

On rolled her eyes. "Because if you died, Celestia gave her word she'd send all your Night Guard to the Summer Lands, no questions asked. Because every day you still live, my husband is at risk of having his soul ripped into pieces to where I'd never get to see him again."

"What?" asked Tempest. "Why—?"

"If you kill a Night Guard, that's what happens," On explained. "Luna likes to claim she chooses them based solely on how evil they were in life, but the truth is, she's just looking for the best fighters she can, who have just rough enough of a life that she can get away with that excuse."

Luna tensed. Her wings wrapped tight around her. "You are not the first to make such an accusation. Would that Hurricane were here; I would at least trust he argued in good faith." The words came out of the blue alicorn almost shaky, heavy, oscillating. "Or Coil, in his oh-so-infinite wisdom. To hear Typhoon faced such a fate…" Saying that name herself, it was as if Luna had walked horn-first into an iron pole.

"Sister," said Celestia, trying to offer some comfort.

"No, Tia, do not console me. This is right. It is my burden to bear. In the past, I made my guardians from far more wicked stock, and it was to Typhoon's suffering that such a choice so nearly destroyed Equestria. Now, to hear that I have taken the path less traveled, and yet have turned the loathing of my subjects so readily upon myself…" She shook her head. "But we cannot do without them. I am resolute in that; an evil they may be, but a necessary evil."

Soldier On's square jawline soured into a scowl, and she turned her eyes to Celestia. "You still want to decapitate me, Celestia, or can I go? I'd rather die than listen to this."

Celestia shot a harsh glare toward Soldier On, and the stubborn mare locked up a fair bit from the intensity of the better princess. Then she spoke. "You're going to wait until I have all the information I need about this incident in Klugetown. Then I'll decide what to do with you. Let us see if we can ask Sunset Shimmer."

Celestia, the rightful monarch of Equestria, rose fully to her hooves and stepped forward to the edge of the throne dais. Pointing down at the carpet so as to project Sunset in a natural place in the room, she lit her horn with golden magic and closed her eyes. Her spell reached up to the back of her neck and the familiar sensation of the thread there which linked her soul, like all others, to the life beyond. Sending her magic up the thread and into the perceived sea of blood at the other side, she then focused her mind on a welcome and happy memory: embracing Luna for the first time after her return from exile.

To the other ponies in the room, Celestia was still for only the very briefest of moments. Then her right wing reached up to her neck, her brow furrowed with confusion, and she muttered mostly to herself "That's chilly…"

All at once, Celestia went limp. She fell forward, down the ramp, and without the grace of her conscious movement, her gangly body rolled and bounced and slid, dipping at times into the fountains beside the carpet. Ultimately, Soldier On, White Flag, and Tempest Shadow were able to rush forward and halt her descent, but it was a futile gesture of rescue.

Celestia was dead.