Sun & Moon Act II: A Crown Divided

“The world is what it is. It cares not if you call it unjust.”

- Skullhum the Far Seer

That evening, after the Sun had dipped down below the horizon, the important ponies of the day gathered at the Council building for the Flight Club’s Gala. It wasn’t the only celebration in the city. In truth, parties large and small dotted the Midcity and even the Undercity, each in celebration of the day’s events. But the Flight Club Gala was the largest and grandest, celebrating the winners of the day’s races, commemorating those ponies retiring, and welcoming the new class of inductees, all as decided by the committee after the final results were in.

Despite the rather extravagant gathering, Wind found himself somewhat distracted. His mother had stuffed him into a suit that was only slightly darker than the colour of his own coat, saying it made a beautiful contrast with his mane. After half an hour of work with a comb had failed to properly tame the knot of hair on the back of his neck, Sun had settled for a large hat that would hopefully distract any other guest who walked by. For her part, she had fancied up her traditional Gala dress with a somewhat unique accent: a row of dried beans across the neckline.

If there ever had been a dress that only she could have pulled off, this would be it.

Wind hadn’t seen any sign of Snow for the rest of the day, presumably since he had been pulling aside witnesses the whole time to interview. Hopefully he had gotten the story straight in reasonably short order. In any event, he was certainly going to be here for the Gala anyway, as the Council were mandatory attendees.

Right now he and Tin were standing by the food table, the trays of beans upon it all sliced and worked into various shapes, and cooked in all of the different manners imaginable. In the crowd of ponies milling about the floor around them, Wind could see Trim and his son standing about halfway across the floor. Trim was excitedly gesturing to the rest of his group, proudly retelling the tale of his son’s victory.

“Do you think that he would have known?” Wind said absently to himself.

“Bean?” came Tin’s voice from over his shoulder, and suddenly a plate of the hors d'oeuvres was thrust under his nose, the brown pony holding them following with an excited smile on his face.

“I can’t believe that you missed out on all of the other races, Wind! The old-timer’s run was one of the most ridiculous battles for position I’ve seen in a while. Right down to the wire, so much that it took a few minutes to figure out who even won. You really should have been there.” For his part, Tin’s parents had stuffed him into an equally uncomfortable-looking suit, but he was smiling in spite of it all.

“Thanks, but I’ll pass,” he said, pushing the plate aside. In truth he was actually feeling a little hungry at the moment, but at least right now he didn’t have a taste for more beans. And there would be an excellent supper starting soon anyway.

“Well, suit yourself,” Tin said, grabbing a few beans off of the plate for himself. “Don’t tell me that you’re still on about Spry? Your dad is on the case, right? If there is anything there, he’ll find it. Either way it’s no feathers off of your wings.”

“It’s not a question of if there was anything there, Tin,” Wind replied, before realizing how grave he had sounded. Even though he was sure of Spry’s guilt, at least Tin had been right that he’d done everything that he could for now. He took a deep breath, and tried to make a smile come up to his lips. Whatever expression materialized on his face, it must have been close enough, since Tin gave him a reassuring pat on the back.

“Of course, we all know that your dad won’t let anything get past him. But come on. Let’s enjoy ourselves a little. Now are you going to have a bean or not?”

His stomach winning out, Wind reached down and took one of the beans, and while he was sure that his mother could have made it better, there was at least a satisfying crispness to its skin and a density to its texture. Tin led him off toward the center of the floor, towards a group of a few mares about their age, until a figure stepped out of the crowd off to their right.

“Still no hard feelings, I hope?” Spry had an easy smile on, revealing a row of glistening white teeth that looked about ready to light up the room. He wore his suit with a surprising amount of poise for a pony so young; clearly he had learned well from his father. “I heard about your father’s inquiries. It’s good that any suspicions of the way that the race was conducted be brought to light right away.”

“I’m glad that you feel that way,” Wind replied, hoping that the smile on his face was genial, even if the feeling in the pit of his stomach was anything but. “So long as the prize goes to the pony most deserving of it, then I’ll be happy, as we all should.”

Spry nodded. “Then it would seem that you’ve come to your senses. There’s no reason for animosity between us, especially not tonight. We have a party to enjoy, do we not?” As he finished, he turned his own gaze over to the group of young mares that Tin had been heading for. His smile seemed almost to infect each one of them. Suddenly Wind felt an overwhelming desire for some fresh air. He left Tin in with the group, his friend characteristically offering his beans to each of them in turn.

Out on the balcony, things were quiet, except for a light rustle from the field of beans that swept out in front of him, this one in the middle stages of its maturity, and thus with quite a few green leaves to catch the wind. The night above was clear, the stars shining in crystal patterns to either side of a giant full Moon that dominated the sky just above the Council building.

It took Wind a few breaths to get his composure back. It was strange, really. He had known Spry for some time already, after all. Their class at the Academy was large enough that the two ponies had seldom met, but surely he would have known if the stallion really was the villain that he seemed now to be. But after this morning, Wind could barely stand to be in the same room as the Master’s son. At least that wouldn’t persist beyond tonight. So long as his dad showed up to deliver his verdict soon.

There came a rustling of the curtains behind him, and Wind looked to see his father emerge from the sounds of the party inside.

Snow was entirely looking the part of the councilor, with a black dinner jacket nicely falling back over his wings, and his mane conservatively styled off to the side. In all honesty, he looked a completely different stallion than he had on the track this afternoon, but the seriousness in his eyes was all the same.

“Wind, there you are. I’ve been searching all over the district for you. I wanted to let you know that I’ve reached a decision concerning Spry.”

A twinge of excitement appeared as Wind stood up from the railing. “You believe me finally?”

Snow nodded, though with far less certainty in his expression than Wind was expecting. “Taken together, the accounts do paint a fairly compelling picture. I suppose that I should apologize for not believing you earlier.”

The news lifted the weight off of Wind’s shoulders. “That’s not a problem, Dad. Thanks for putting in the work. Will Shine get some kind of compensation?”

Somehow his father seemed even more uncomfortable at this question. There was a moment’s pause before Snow took a deep breath and then stepped forward to the railing, gesturing for Wind to join him. “Son, I’m afraid that there won’t be any changes made to the race results.”

“What? But Spry cheated. Surely he can’t be allowed to win?”

His father was shaking his head. “It’s not as simple as that.”

“Yes it is!” Wind interjected. “You said it yourself as the race started: the best pegasus should win, and no cheating! We can go in there right now and tell everyone what happened, and Spry will be disqualified. Right?”

“And what do you think that will accomplish?” Snow snapped, a sudden flash of irritation in his eyes, though it disappeared after only a moment. “The Master need only flick his wing to absolve his son’s guilt, and you’d best believe that he wouldn’t let it get that far. You’ve got to let this one go. If it’s any consolation, I can tell you that Shine still made the cut.”

“That’s not important!” Wind shouted, unable to believe the words that he was hearing. “This isn’t even about compensation for Shine, this is about principles! What kind of life can Spry live if he won his station through lies! It’s the Master’s job to be an impartial judge, the root of our laws. He has to do the right thing!”

These were very nearly quotes from the principles that he had learned in school from his youngest age. The station of a citizen’s birth wasn’t supposed to matter. All that mattered was what they were capable of contributing to the tribe. Everything in Cloudsdale was built on that premise, that anypony, no matter the stature of their family, could rise to any position that they were merited. That was what made Cloudsdale different from the societies ponies had built before. It wasn’t built on hereditary rank like a unicorn aristocracy, nor was it entirely egalitarian like an earth pony commune. And yet, by his father’s words, it was all seemingly a lie.

Beside him, Snow was still serious. “No,” he said. “I know that’s what they teach you in school, but that just isn’t the way that the world works, son. The Master does as he pleases. And it will be better for us not to get in his way. I’m… sorry that you had to find out like this.”

Stunned, Wind found himself leaning against the railing again, suddenly disoriented. A wave of exhaustion swept over him, almost pushing him down to his knees. The thought of facing Spry now seemed impossible, knowing not only what the pony had done but also that he was going to get away with it. That even his incontrovertible guilt meant nothing.

“I’m sorry,” Snow said to him again, still standing by the railing. “It was initially a little difficult for me to understand as well, but you’ll get used to things eventually.” He seemed momentarily flummoxed, uncertain on how to continue. “The dinner will be starting soon. When you’ve collected yourself, you can meet with your mother and I at our usual table.”

After a moment’s more hesitation, Snow walked back to the curtain and headed into the building, a second of warmth and chatter leaking out as he did so. But then it was all silence once more.

In that moment of silence, the night sky called out to Wind again. He needed some time to think, and this time a quiet ledge wasn’t going to be good enough. The turmoil in his heart would only be calmed by the gentle summons of the winds themselves. After a moment, he tossed his hat to the side and took to the air. It would only be a short flight, enough to clear his head before he could return and rejoin the party. He would probably miss some of the supper, or perhaps all of it. If he could avoid seeing Spry get his unjust honours then that would be good enough. His mother would surely have some fine leftovers at home for his dinner anyway.

Wind cut back toward the square first, turning down through the peak of the Spire to come out over the Mid-city. Cloudsdale sparkled with lights beneath him, fireflies dancing in jars, from tiny neighbourhood gatherings to bigger parties that rivalled that of the Club above him. Hints and snatches of the revelry met his ears, but Wind turned away from them. Out south over the city he flew, past industrial quarters and apartment towers. He had his sights set plainly on the outskirts of the city. He needed that isolation, to be alone with nothing but the stars, the sky, and the winds, or else he was sure that the thoughts in his head were going to consume him. He needed to be alone.

The open sky enveloped him in seconds, the gentle and familiar cadence of the winds lifting his heart, slowing his breath, and eventually relaxing him enough for some contemplative thought.

How could anypony carry on with their lives knowing what he had just learned? Their focus on individual merit was what made the pegasi superior to the other tribes; it was the reason why they had all chosen to live up here in Cloudsdale, away from the deceptions and injustices of the surface. If even here the follies of the world had followed, then what sense was there in continuing?

Yet somehow everypony else seemed to have found a way. Did Shine and Tin know? Or would they have their own unfortunate nights just like he was now? Would it stop them? Would it stop him? What sort of future could he have in that shell of a world that he had once thought he knew? Even in the mundane life of a printer, a chandler, or a craftspony, he still wouldn’t be able to escape that knowledge. With all of his emotions from earlier in the evening calmed away by the soothing song of the breeze, Wind could feel an emptiness replacing them in the depths of his heart. What more could there be? Even the sky seemed darker out here in the night.

At that moment Wind jerked his head up at a sudden realization. It was impossible for the sky to be darker. Before he could gather his thoughts, a sudden gust of wind caught him fully in the side, hurling him off course, head over hooves. He fought to reclaim his balance, and only then realized that the mellow beat of the winds had dissolved into a tempest, a whirling chaos of peaks and troughs as the stars overhead winked out, consumed by billowing clouds of dust. The next blast of wind took him from in front, and carried with it an invisible grit, coating his eyes and mouth. The dust was everywhere around him, and Wind did his best to see, did his best to orient himself in the storm, but to no avail. Every breath felt like it would choke him.

Wind had never flown in a storm before. He had seen them from time to time on the edges of the sky around Cloudsdale, but every foal knew not to wander beyond the edges of the city, especially not at night.

Wind fought against the raging gale, hoping to spy Cloudsdale out on the horizon somewhere, to give himself a direction to move in, but the clouds and the dust were all around him. He seemed almost to be floating in a void, darkness everywhere save for the briefest flashes of moonlight, each illuminating only the next wave of grit that was coming towards him.

He bucked the currents, but to no benefit. Wind felt like a rag doll tossed about in the storm. For the first time, he felt afraid. What would happen to him? A fall from the sky would surely be death. Would he ever see Cloudsdale again? Tin, Shine, his parents?

Wind banished the thought. He was a pegasus! Pegasi were supposed to be the masters of the sky, making it bend to their will. He forced out his fear and his confusion, bundling it all away to a nook in the back of his mind, and in that moment of clarity, he heard the storm for the first time.

In a way, it was something like the gentle pattern of the breezes from before, but much more complicated, a whirling mass of sound and tempo, bass roars and tinkling buffets of air going this way and that. In his confusion earlier it had all sounded like nothing but a mess, but now Wind heard the pattern and the organization of the air. For a moment, Wind held off on trying to fight the wind, and experimentally tried a thrust of his wings in time with the seeming cadence of the storm.

It was a strange reaction that he got, somewhat like what a cork must feel like if it were bobbing along on the waves, but for the most part he was able to stay in control of himself. When the pulse came around again, Wind gave it another try, and this time he could feel that he was making progress, even though the world around him was still a dark, dusty gale. Something in him just knew that he was moving along. Up ahead, a current of wind rushed at him, and this time Wind dove, lining himself up to the rhythm perfectly. How had he even known that wind was coming? He didn’t care. Right now he had to keep on trusting his instincts.

Each rise and dip of the air Wind anticipated and followed, and suddenly he knew where he was, a picture of the storm coalescing around him from the evidence in his ears and his sight. Somehow he knew that a right turn here would take him lower, and an artful dive there would take him out of the storm’s central circulation, and down into the shoulders of its dust bank. It was almost as if he had become a living part of the air, and suddenly Wind saw the blackness part out in front of him, and he was free. The air was calm, the sky overhead was bright, and there was Cloudsdale off in the distance, far away, but not too far surely. He started heading for it, sighing loudly as he went. A quick look down revealed that his suit was absolutely ruined, but surely his mother would be happier just knowing that her son had come back.

Then, exhaustion drove into him like a sledgehammer, sucking all of the energy out of his limbs. Suddenly Cloudsdale seemed to be on the other side of the planet, especially as each stroke of his wings felt like an eternity. It felt as if his whole body had turned to lead, and Wind sensed that even though he had escaped the storm, he wasn’t home yet.

Belatedly, he realized that he was rapidly losing altitude, the soft grey floor of the ground below rushing up, his wings only slowing his descent if that. He searched for a spot to land, somewhere soft where he could rest for a little while before heading back up to the city, but then his eyes closed.

The silence in the kitchen was deafening, broken only by the occasional tapping of the door-knocker as the evening breeze picked it up from the door frame. There was just a little bit of noise from that breeze too, a light whistle every few minutes as it wormed its way through the unpatched holes in the house’s walls. It came down the chimney sometimes, just enough to move around the ashes on the hearth.

When Sycamore had been a filly, her parents had sometimes taken her aside on a festival evening to tell her and her brother stories about long ago. About the bright and happy times of Equestria’s founding, about the heroes that had forged the country out of the bare earth it had once been, and then of the dark ages that had followed. As a child, Sycamore couldn’t believe that ponies had been able to survive in such a grim environment. Now, living it every day, she knew what it must have been like. You just kept on doing what you could, since there was nothing else that you could do.

The pot hit the table firmly as her father set it down. Morosely, Sycamore passed him her bowl, and then took it back once it had a ladle of soup in it.

Truthfully, to call it soup was to be somewhat generous; the stock was as thin as she had ever tasted it, with perhaps enough flavor for a single bowl. But there wasn’t much left, after all. At least she had a reasonably-sized hunk of bread for dipping into this one.

Sycamore was a brown earth pony, sitting at about an average height where these parts were concerned. She was no stranger to the rougher years; that was simply the way that life went as a farmer.

Earth ponies were supposed to know everything that there was to know about growing food, and the few times that Sycamore had watched a unicorn or pegasus try it out had convinced her that it was likely true. But when the rain didn’t fall, there was only so much that even a master farmer could do. You lived with the lean years and celebrated the full ones, or so Pa had always said. But for all of the last year, and now all of this one, Pa really hadn’t had much to say.

With the soup distributed, the family took to their bowls in silence, the quiet in the room stretching tighter than a coiled spring. There were three of them in all. Sycamore sat with her back to the rear door, her brother Fern, only a year younger, off to her left. The last was their old Pa, well into the years when he should have left the farm behind. But Sycamore had never told him to go, even after Ma had passed. His help was always deeply appreciated.

The wind gusted harder behind her, and with a crack the latch holding the rear door shut gave way, unleashing a wave of dust into Sycamore’s hair before she even realized what had happened.

She whipped her head around to see the sky outside growing darker, the blackness above belying not the approach of nightfall, but instead the telltale feelers of an oncoming storm. Yet, despite the urgency, she left her chair calmly and turned to her brother.

“Fern, get the blinds. There’s a storm coming.” She didn’t need to say anything to Pa. He knew what to do by heart.

While her brother took care of the windows, Sycamore walked over to the door frame, giving the yard outside one last look before she closed the door. She could easily remember what the place was supposed to look like at this time of year: verdant green and gold as far as the eye could see, the fields full and ripe with the harvest, begging to be brought in before the birds could get at it. There was just a little bit of that out there now, what plants they had been able to coax forth from the ground which had somehow survived the incessant blowing of the dust. She hoped with all of her heart that they would find a way to survive this night too. Then she wrenched the door shut with her shoulder, and held it there until Pa had dragged the table over. Sometime tomorrow they would have to get that latch repaired again.

Fern was already heading down into the basement, the only place where they could be sure that nothing would get blown in on them. Sycamore paused to grab a lantern before joining him.

In the gloom of the altogether too empty cellar, the family waited. Fern was the first to speak, the crystal tones of his voice so unexpected in the dreary atmosphere that they made everypony else in the room jump. “We’ll be lucky if we’ve got a third of our crop left after this one, I expect.”

Pa was a short and stout old earth pony, though the wrinkles of his skin belied the strength still present in his limbs. “There’ll still be enough to live with, I think. In any event, what do you expect us to do about it?”

Fern blew a lock of his golden hair out of his eyes. “Cricket says that his folks are packing up. Heading somewhere up to the city. Canterlot, I think. Apparently there was at least good food up there still.”

Pa shook his head. “Gettin’ started with nothing in a big city like that? We’d be lucky to end up as well as we are here. Surely I wish him the best of luck, but this farm is ours. Ain’t nopony going to tell me otherwise.”

Fern didn’t have a retort, and Sycamore just sat in silence. Fern’s story wasn’t the only one that she had heard. The small towns were all disappearing, drying up as ponies moved on in search of new lives. Their little village of Southoofton had once been something approaching a town, but now there were only a few dozen families left. Those still behind were ones much like Pa, who would only leave if a storm picked them up and deposited them in Canterlot itself.

“Besides,” Pa continued with a light snort through his nostrils, “we shouldn’t be heading ourselves up to Canterlot. It’s them should be coming down here to help us. Once upon a time those city folk cared about us little ponies, or so my old Pa told me. Whatever happened to that?”

Again there was a silence as his words were digested. Sycamore didn’t really know what to say. All that they could do was pass the time, then climb out of the basement afterward to fix whatever needed fixing, and get on with the rest of the business. Almost like nothing had happened, though they would all know that whatever fixes they made would be undone whenever the next dust devil rode through.

Even so, passing the time was all that they could do, right now. Sycamore was just about to suggest a game of Twenty Questions when suddenly there was a deafening crash from above, almost right on top of the house by the sounds of it. There was a splintering of wood, then a more muted thud. The wind howled on. Sycamore exchanged a look with Pa.

“That sounded big,” she said, eying the ceiling in the hope it didn’t come down on them.

“Tree branch, maybe,” he mused. “Though I thought that I had cut all of those down. Even so, if I’ve got four hooves that was the roof I heard splintering. We’d better go check.”

Sycamore nodded, and she motioned Fern to follow. Upstairs, the house was still looking pretty clean, with all of the windows still sealed up, and the table still holding the rear door closed. It was dark, with the dusk outside swallowed up by the swirling clouds of black dust. She really should have brought the lantern.

Pa motioned toward the rear door, and they followed him slowly, wary of any possible danger. If something got blown into one of the windows, there could be glass shards everywhere in an instant.

Pa got to the door first, and hunkered down to brace it with his shoulder while Fern moved the table aside. It almost looked like somepony was outside pounding on the door with a battering ram, the way the wind crashed it forward into Pa’s shoulder every couple of seconds. But the old stallion held it firm, at least until Sycamore nodded to him to let it open. She stepped through quickly, getting a face full of dust herself of course, but hopefully sparing the kitchen.

Outside, it was clear to see that the crash really had been the roof, even in spite of the obscurement of the dust. Roofing tiles were scattered all across the yard, broken into shards and poking into the ground in cases. The ceiling of the house’s rear porch had an uncomfortable-looking sag to it now, undoubtedly the result of a timber or two being broken.

Whatever the storm had picked up and hurled into their roof, it certainly had been something big.

Shielding her eyes with one foreleg, Sycamore took a few wary steps forward. The debris from the roof was clustered around a small crater in the yard, and slowly as she came forward the dust gave way to reveal a most unexpected sight. A pegasus lay there, unmoving, the torn remains of what might have once been a nice jacket hanging from his shoulders. One of his wings was bent into a painful-looking angle, and it also looked like he had taken a knock to the face in the impact too, with a clear black eye marring his otherwise sky-blue coat. But it didn’t look like there was anything else broken, and only a little blood.

She trotted up the last few steps to where he lay, almost looking peaceful somehow in the midst of the carnage, at least if one ignored the wing. Sycamore bent down to check his pulse, and breathed a sigh of relief when she felt it, strong and regular. He would live, probably, provided that the rest of their house survived what the storm still held for it.

Sycamore ran back to the door and shouted for Fern and Pa to give her a hoof. Each of them started a little upon first sight of their visitor, but in the end they just shrugged and carried him inside. Strange, now that Sycamore got a chance to look at his face a little more, she realized that he was completely unfamiliar. She thought that she had known everypony around town, but maybe he wasn’t from around here? That dirty white mane, those clear eyes, the set of that jawline. She wracked her brain for a connection, but it just wasn’t coming. Well, if he was from somewhere else, they would have to wait until he was conscious to ask him about it anyway. With luck, they could have him back on his way come tomorrow morning.