Urban Wilds

by Rambling Writer

Rating: teen
Tags: Dark, Death, Drama, Original Character, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Mystery
Length: 75687

One's an impulsive bounty hunter with a thirst for adrenaline. The other's a reformed necromancer given a second chance at life. Together, they fight the necromancer's self-doubt (and also crime).

Two years ago, bounty hunter Bitterroot turned a lich and her necromancer apprentice over to the authorities. Now, that apprentice, Amanita, has been released on good behavior. She has no more interest in necromancy. In fact, she asked Bitterroot to turn her in all those moons ago and helped capture her master. With nowhere for Amanita to go, Bitterroot takes her in until she can get her hooves under herself.

But all isn’t well in Canterlot. A killer is stalking the streets, striking with impunity and leaving no trace. The Royal Guard is befuddled. Bitterroot’s investigations have yielded nothing. And night is turning into a time of dread. Something needs to be done. If only the dead could speak. If only there was a moral necromancer around.

Amanita doesn’t want to admit it, but the part of her past she hates the most might be the most useful part right now. Just because ponies are dying doesn’t mean they need to stay that way. What she buried needs to be dug up again.

Her demons are rearing their ugly heads. It’s time to face them.

Now with a TV Tropes page. Reading the preceding story will provide some context for this, but isn't required. Cover art is modified from this image. Other entries in this series:

Hinterlands

Urban Wilds

Death Valley

Published 2021-11-30 15:00:01 UTC
Last updated 2022-01-21 16:09:01 UTC

14 - Destructive Interference

Code was expressionless as Amanita explained what she and Bitterroot had found about High Gloss, but the second the last words were out of her mouth, she leapt into action. “Ponies,” she said, “we need to move. We’ve got a possible kidnap victim and a possible focal ritual just a few blocks from here. The focal ritual is probably just as badly-made as the setup rituals, but we can’t be certain. For all we know, Gloss has unintentionally constructed something worse than a city buster. We’ll split into the usual sweeping groups. I’ll take point with Mason and Chalice and defuse the ritual if need be. Any objections?” Negatory responses. “Good. Staff Sergeant?”

Phalanx snapped to attention. “Yes, Colonel?”

“Stay here with Stratus, make sure he doesn’t cut and run. We’ll send you somepony to aid you within the hour.”

“Yes’m.”

“Amanita-”

“Can I come?” blurted Amanita suddenly.

Everyone looked at her, and Amanita realized just how stupid her request was. Yet she forged on. “I- They’re working with rituals,” she babbled, “and I know rituals, and- And I owe Bitterroot my life. I- I wouldn’t be here if not for her.”

Silence. Code tightened her jaw slightly. One of the guards walked up to her and not-exactly whispered, “She does have experience with rituals we don’t, she did neutralize two opponents who took her by surprise, and she’s the one who spotted the ritual to begin with. It’s not the worst idea. And, like you said, we don’t know the focus ritual is as badly-made as the rest.”

Code waved the guard away, still looking at Amanita. She sighed and said, “We don’t have time to be picky, so on two conditions. You stay close behind me and you do everything I say. I don’t want to be responsible for your death.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Amanita said. Why had she asked that? What was she thinking? Why wasn’t she changing her mind?

“Alright, ponies, let’s move out.”

Four weeks. For nearly four weeks, High Gloss had been overseeing the unfolding of this ritual. Carefully picking the right ponies for the job, both in each killing itself and the cleanup. Personally writing out the ritual itself based on what she knew. Casually deflecting any Court attention from herself or those working with her. Chatting up friends in the Guard to pass her information on the investigation (to help with her anxiety, of course). Even with the bodies left out to stain the land and heighten Canterlot’s fear, they’d escaped notice. Almost four weeks of nearly flawless work.

And in less than two days, it had already begun crashing down.

First, there was the murder of Cobalt Shine. Less than an hour before midnight, and her chosen killers had been forced to ditch some of their supplies in a sewer to avoid a guard patrol. Stupid curfews. With their ingredients spoiled, they’d needed to go down into the Roost and rob a storehouse, like common thieves. Spending twenty thousand bits in the process and also picking up a few bar tokens in their haste. Then, after killing Cobalt, they’d missed a token in their sweep for evidence. Or maybe it’d fallen out as they were leaving. For so long, they’d avoided leaving evidence, then there was that one single token. Found and picked up by the Guard, of course. Gloss would eat her tail off if it hadn’t led to her current situation somehow.

And at the same time, a necromancer came to Canterlot. A nervous, mousy little shrimp of one, but still a sunblasted necromancer! Somehow, she found it in herself to waltz right up to the castle and offer help to the Royal Guard. What sort of necromancer was this? And then the Guard had actually accepted her help that very same day and suddenly Cobalt was alive again. Nothing was officially announced, but even without her friends/unknowing informants, that was the sort of word that spread through the grapevine rapidly. To make matters worse, the necromancer and a bodyguard — a staff sergeant, as if they needed any more evidence she was important — they were then scheduled to go around and let the victims’ families say their goodbyes, which meant nasty things if any of the other victims had seen their attackers before their deaths. Gloss had panicked (not that she’d let it show) and dispatched some ponies to lure them both to a nearby house she owned and kill them: the necromancer for obvious reasons, the guard in case he’d heard anything. Desperate, but she wouldn’t be found out until after the ritual was complete.

Then there was this pegasus, sticking her snout into everything. Probably a bounty hunter. She’d seen too much and needed to die. A large part of Gloss was telling her to do it now and get it over with, but it was getting harder and harder to find ponies for the ritual, and here was one just dumped into her hooves. Keeping her alive until midnight solved a big problem. Both options were tempting and had their practicalities and downsides.

“-think we should move the ritual to someplace else,” Earl Paradise Paper was saying. “We know the design, it won’t take long to recreate-”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Gloss said through gritted teeth. “From the placement of the deaths, this is the only place the final ritual can happen at.”

“Well, that seems restrictive,” mused Paradise.

And just to top it off, the cherry on this falling-domino sundae, some of her “noble” “comrades” — the ones who’d done absolutely nothing for the cause so far except donate some marepower — were second-guessing her decisions. The decisions they’d signed off on. The decisions they didn’t know a thing about, in spite of what they claimed. Pfah. What kind of moron thought they could take up any skill and immediately be better at it than somepony who’d been working with it for far longer? “It’s the way rituals work,” growled Gloss.

Gloss was trying to work off some of her anger by pacing around her mansion. Two ponies of technically higher rank than her but less conspiratorial influence were tagging along, offering their worthless advice. Idiots.

“But can’t we transfer the energy?” Countess Emerald Eon asked. No, demanded, like reality should bend to her will because it was inconveniencing her. The stuck-up little… “The mechanics behind mana transfer are well-known, and if some- bounty hunter could uncover what we were doing here, surely the Royal Guard could-”

“Maybe they could!” yelled Gloss, whirling on him. “But that doesn’t matter, because it has to be done here. We based everything on it being done here. We can’t transfer this energy.”

“Maybe we can,” sniffed Eon.

“Then show me how.”

Silence. Eon folded her ears back and looked away.

“Didn’t think so.” And Gloss went back to her walking. This kind of anger wasn’t good for her makeup, she knew, but she had so much pent-up energy, if she didn’t release it somehow, she’d explode.

Okay. This wasn’t going so bad. It was under control for the moment. Maybe, if she got lucky.

Abruptly, Mountain Slope, one of the guards she’d left with the prisoner, burst from a door ahead of her. He trotted up to her and said quickly, “Milady, we’ve got a problem.”

“Unless it risks the entire operation,” Gloss said through gritted teeth, “it can wait-”

“The necromancer’s been living with the prisoner.”

Gloss forced herself to a stop. Sun blast it. Why was this happening so fast all of a sudden? What sick god had flipped which switch? She banged her head with a hoof as she tried thinking. What to do, what to do, what to-

“I say we move,” Eon interjected. “Perhaps we can do it again elsewhere. I proposed we do in my manor in-”

Gloss whirled around, backhoofing her across the face, and in spite of being an earth pony, Eon stumbled. “We. Do not. Move,” said Gloss. “We. Can’t. Move. And do you really want to wait a year to see what Twilight will do to the country? We have to do it tonight, or else it’ll be too late.”

Which gave her the answer to the prisoner problem. “Keep the prisoner restrained,” she said to Slope. “We don’t know how much the necromancer knows and Stratus is going after her. Either she finds us or she doesn’t, and killing the prisoner won’t change that. Stay on her.”

Slope looked a bit confused, but nodded. “I-if you say so, milady.” He trotted off, back to the prisoner’s quarters.

Okay. That was good. She could get through-

One of the exterior guards slammed into a wall on the far end of the hallway, quickly recovered, and galloped over to Gloss. Before she could reprimand him for scuffing the floor or damaging the paneling, he panted, “The High Ritualist is at the gates.”

Son.

Of.

A.

DOG.

Code and her ponies had come up to Gloss’s gates casually, regardless of their uniformed status. Code had politely asked one of the house guards if he would fetch the lady of the house, please. After some hesitation, he bolted off. Amanita felt very out-of-place, standing among a squad of armored ponies with nothing more than a temporary badge. But she didn’t want to leave. Bitterroot needed her help.

One of the pegasus ritualists dropped onto the ground next to Code. “The house isn’t as big as it seems, Colonel,” he said. “It surrounds a courtyard in the middle. Big enough to hold several magic circles, I saw them inscribed inside. I couldn’t see anything more, though, it was too small. I also didn’t see any pegasi that matched Bitterroot’s description.”

“Hmm.” Although Code didn’t seem too upset. “No ponies in there?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Alright, we’ll stick with the lure. Maybe we’ll get lucky and nab Gloss before we storm the place.”

“Yes’m.”

Amanita was pacing on the spot to get her tension out. She wanted to move. The guards, oddly enough, seemed almost relaxed. They weren’t smiling, but their postures were loose and their movements were easy.

After a few minutes, a regal-looking unicorn strode out of the house and straight to the gate, four guards in tow. As if in contrast to the guards, she was grinning, yet her pace was oh-so-slightly jerky, like an automaton that needed some polish. Code bowed her head slightly. “Viscountess.”

The unicorn — probably High Gloss — said in a just-barely-too-high voice, “High Ritualist Code. To what do I owe-”

“We’re looking,” Code interrupted, “for a pony who might know something about the Mearhwolf case. She’s a pegasus, orange coat, purple mane. You wouldn’t happen to have seen anyone matching this description, have you?”

The house guards shuffled slightly. Gloss’s laugh was tense. “Oh, what do you think a bounty hunter would be lurking around here for? None of the murders have happened here.”

“Can’t say,” Code said with a shrug. “I’m just telling you what I heard. Pegasus, orange coat, purple mane. Have you seen her?”

Gloss’s eyes flicked over the ritualists. Her ears twitched when she settled on Amanita, but that was all, and she didn’t linger. Then she said to Code, “I’m sorry, I haven’t seen any pony like that.” She looked over her shoulder at her guards. “Have any of you?” Various mutters that amounted to “no”. Gloss turned back to Code, smiling apologetically. “No one’s seen anyone like that.”

Code flicked her tail. “I see,” she said. “That’s unfortunate.” She bowed her head again. “I’m sorry for wasting your time.” Then, to Amanita’s surprise, she turned around. Gloss visibly released a breath and scurried away from the gate, tailed by her guards.

But before she took a single step forward, Code said, “Oh, uh, just one more thing.”

Gloss and her guards froze. She didn’t even dare to look over her shoulder at Code.

“I never said we were looking for a bounty hunter.” And Code bucked the gate.

The second her hooves made contact, Amanita felt a buzz of magic. Green light flared around Code’s boots and the lock shattered with a metallic groan, blowing the gate wide open. Gloss scrambled for her house as her guards fell into a defensive position to cover her retreat.

Code and the ritualists bolted on some invisible signal, so potent even Amanita felt it. She found herself running with the pack, right behind Code. Code and two other ponies, a unicorn and a pegasus, jinked to one side, going around Gloss’s guards entirely while the rest of the ritualists crashed into them. None of them looked back, not even Amanita. Code kept running and plowed through Gloss’s front door like it wasn’t even there. Amanita followed, only to lose her grip and skid through the shattered remains of the door across the foyer’s highly-polished floors. Gloss was screaming something, but Amanita couldn’t tell what.

As Amanita managed to come to a stop, two guards brandishing halberds stampeded down the foyer staircase. One of them, a unicorn, made for Amanita, murder in his eyes. Amanita yelped and tried to scoot back. Why had she wanted to do this? The unicorn swung; Amanita dropped to her stomach and awkwardly grabbed the halberd in her magic.

It wasn’t a strong grip, but it slowed the weapon enough that the unicorn stumbled. Just as Amanita was wondering what in the hay she should do next, the pegasus ritualist dove across the floor like a slide-tackling hoofball player, smashing into the unicorn’s hooves. What little balance he had was gone, and in a few fluid movements, the pegasus slapped a suppressor ring on his horn and a set of fetters on his front legs. Amanita reflexively grabbed the unicorn’s rear hooves in her telekinesis, restraining them just enough for the pegasus to affix the rear manacles there. The pegasus gave Amanita a quick nod, then jerked her gaze up and flared her wings. Amanita rolled over so she could look in the same direction.

The other hostile guard, an earth pony, had Code in a halberd-assisted headlock and was trying to wrestle her to the ground. Code was small for an earth pony and the guard was big; it seemed like Code wasn’t going to be able to escape. But before Amanita could move, Code wormed a hoof into one of her bags and pulled out-

-an egg.

Time seemed to slow as Amanita blinked and stared. Yes, Code had pulled an ordinary egg from her gear like it was a grenade. Huh.

Code crushed the egg against the pony’s face, roaring, “Egg!” The pony instinctively reached up to wipe the yolk away; Code twisted out of the headlock and threw him back, over towards the entry door.

The other ritualists charged in from outside, apparently having subdued the guards outside. Code immediately yelled, “Usual sweep! Usual sweep!” As one of the ritualists grappled with Code’s discarded opponent, Code herself charged for a door on the left side of the room. The two guards that had entered with her followed and Amanita hurried after them.

The door opened up into a long, narrow hallway, beautifully trimmed, doorways going off on each side. Gloss was nowhere to be seen; Code came to a halt and said something uncouth. “Search the rooms on that side,” she said quickly, pointing at the right wall. “Look for an entrance to the-”

A unicorn guard with a spear burst out of a room some ways ahead of them. Without an instant’s hesitation, she levelled her spear and charged. Code didn’t flinch; almost as soon as she saw the unicorn, she pulled another egg from her bag. The unicorn’s charge faltered a little when she saw what Code was holding, but she didn’t stop.

“Egg!” bellowed Code. Her hoof whipped around as she slung the egg at the unicorn. Fragile as it was, the egg still smashed into the unicorn’s face hard enough to stop her charge. Before she could recover, Code got up close and bucked her down the hall. But instead of following her, Code ducked into the room she’d come from. A second later, Code popped back out. “Window to courtyard,” she said. “Come on.”

The two ponies followed Code into that room, and Amanita followed them. She entered just in time to see Code leap through a window into a courtyard. Again, the ritualists followed, jumping smoothly through the gap. Amanita awkwardly clambered through after them.

Code was running around a series of magic circles carved into the dirt, done up with a lot of impressive-looking but worthless sigils, pseudorunic gibberish, and a black candle, of all things. It looked like a load of newbie crock to Amanita. She glanced at the other guards; they were looking at each other with disgusted expressions. Hopefully it was bad-skill disgusted and not morally-reprehensible disgusted.

Code slowed to a walk to a stop. She tilted her head, then shrieked, “What in the COCKAMAMIE amateur hour night soil is this? Manticore venom is not manticore claw but more, the chords have no proportion to each other, there’s only the most basic cardinal orientation in anything, the circles have probably been broken twenty times over-”

One of the ritualists roughly clouted her on the back of the head. She stopped, blinked, then turned to him and said casually, “Thank you.” The look she shot the circles was downright livid. “Neophytes,” she said, spitting the word out like a slur. “Absolute sunblasted neophytes.”

Amanita opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, she heard a twang overhead. She instinctively ducked; an arrow grazed the top of her head and stuck in the dirt. At the same time, every other pony looked up. Amanita raised her head just in time to see Code hurl an egg upward, screaming, “Egg!” Something crunched and a pony above them grunted.

The pegasus ritualist promptly spread her wings and leaped upward. She descended wrestling with a pegasus strapped into a repeating crossbow harness and with raw egg smeared across his forehead and mane. Code and the other ritualist pounced, Code snapping the harness, the ritualist slapping a set of fetters on the attacker. “Anyone else up there, Chalice?” Code said.

“No, ma’am,” said the pegasus ritualist. “Just the one.”

“Good. Notify the RRU that we need assistance at Viscountess High Gloss’s mansion ASAP. Unknown number of hostiles inside. And have them send a few ponies to retrieve Staff Sergeant Phalanx while you’re at it.” Chalice saluted and rocketed away.

“Mason,” Code continued, “stay here with Amanita. Keep watch over the perp and see if you can figure out what that gibberish-” She waved a hoof at the circles. “-is supposed to do. I’ll help secure the mansion.”

“Code,” protested Amanita, “I-”

“You’re staying here,” Code said. It wasn’t an argument, it was a statement of fact.

“Yes’m,” Amanita said quickly. Code nodded to her and jumped back through the broken window.

Amanita and the ritualist, another unicorn, looked at each other. The ritualist coughed. “Mason Chain,” he said, “Royal Guard Ritualist.”

“Amanita. Um. Necromancer.”

“I… saw.” Pause. Sounds of fighting inside were muffled. Mason tried to not look Amanita in the eye as he said, “Good, good job on that.”

“Um. Thanks.” Amanita blinked and took a look at the mess pretending to be a ritual. “So, uh, when I talked with Bitterroot this morning, I was thinking the ritual might be…”

When one of the guards left to get Gloss, Bitterroot resigned herself to just sitting around, waiting for something to happen. Her other guards, though? Not so much. The unicorn had taken to pacing and the earth mare kept trying to straighten out her mane.

“What d’you think she’ll do to us?” whispered the earth mare. “Kill us?”

The unicorn shook his head. “She won’t stop there. She’ll enslave our souls, turn us into her slaves, worse, I don’t know.”

Bitterroot rolled her eyes. If only they knew…

The earth mare shuddered. “Ponyfeathers ponyfeathers ponyfeathers…”

The earth stallion chose that moment to return. He looked more together than the other two, but that was a low bar to clear. “Gloss…” He swallowed. “Gloss is sticking to the plan.”

“What?” The earth mare jumped from her chair, shaking, eyes huge. “She’s not doing anything?”

“She says Stratus-”

“And what if Stratus fails?” the mare screamed. “We’ll have a vengeful sunblasted necromancer after us!”

(They weren’t worried, Bitterroot idly noted, about having a vengeful alicorn after them — either Twilight or Celestia, depending which way the ritual fell. Maybe because they were bound by the law. Ostensibly.)

“Gloss wants us to-”

“That roadapple-eating stot doesn’t know what she’s asking! The necromancer will find us! We- We can’t-”

A metallic CLANG rang throughout the house, piercing their eardrums, rattling the roots of their teeth. The guards all snapped to look at the door. “Oh, stars above,” whispered the earth mare. “She’s here.”

The unicorn swallowed. “What should we-”

“Guards!” screamed Gloss from somewhere else in the house. “The Ritual Division is here! Attend!”

The earth mare froze, then collapsed in laughter, going so limp even her ears went down. “It’s not her,” she mumbled between weak giggle fits. “It’s not her.”

“Might be her,” cut in Bitterroot. “She’s got the Royal Guard on her side, remember?”

The earth mare gave Bitterroot one terrified look, then said, “Screw this. I quit.” She strode out of the room and yelled, “Excuse me! E- Excuse me! Goldcoats, wherever you are! I surrender! I surrender!”

The two stallions looked at each other. “Efh,” said the earth stallion. “We never had a chance.” He followed the earth mare out of the room as well. A second later, so did the unicorn. Bitterroot grinned behind her mask.

Then she remembered she was still chained up.

“Whoa, hey!” she yelled. She awkwardly pushed herself to her hooves. “Guys! Hey! Can’t you at least-” But they were already gone. Groaning, Bitterroot wiggled over to the loop in the wall. They couldn’t have had a link for a chain sitting there all this time, could they?

Apparently not. The wall ring looked new, the wall it was embedded in freshly damaged. Maybe it’d been screwed in just for her. How flattering. She instinctively reached forward to grab the ring with her mouth, only for it to bump against her mask. Right. Her front legs still had a decent amount of give, though, so she shuffled into a position where she could grasp the ring between her hooves and twist.

Yes, the ring was definitely new. With a little bit of wiggling, Bitterroot was able to get it turning. Working awkwardly against the fetters, Bitterroot kept twisting and-

The sounds of physical impacts, spells, and yelling came from outside, like the mansion was being stormed. Hopefully. “Hey!” Bitterroot hollered, still spinning the ring. “I’m in here! Prisoner in here!”

No response. Bitterroot bit her tongue and kept twisting, giving the occasional yell, and receiving no answer back. Finally, the ring fell from the wall. It didn’t release her fetters, but now she could at least leave the room. She ungracefully wiggled to her feet.

But just as she did so, the door was slammed open. Gloss was standing in the doorway, severely unkempt and a long knife in her magic, staring down at Bitterroot with eyes somewhere between wild, angry, and desperate. “They came for you,” Gloss growled. “Maybe they’ll leave for you.” Taking a hunk of mane in her magic, she wrenched Bitterroot to her hind legs and pressed the knife to her throat. Then she turned to the door and screamed, “I have the prisoner! Let me go or I WILL kill her!”

Bitterroot squirmed, but Gloss jerked hard on her mane. “Don’t move,” Gloss snapped. She pushed the knife harder against her neck, drawing a drop of blood. Rearing onto her hind legs and using Bitterroot as an equine shield, she pulled them both out into the hallway.

Two ritualists were at one end of the hallway, manacling several downed ponies, and looked up when they heard Gloss exit the room. Gloss drew another bead of blood from Bitterroot’s neck and growled, “Take one step closer and the prisoner’s dead.”

One of the ritualists glanced at the other. “Think we should tell her?”

“Tell me what?” yelled Gloss. “Tell me what?”

“Well,” coughed Bitterroot, “y’see, there’s-”

“Keep your mouth shut!”

“Viscountess.”

Gloss whirled around, wrenching Bitterroot with her. The other side of the hallway was blocked off by two more ritualists, the shorter earth pony standing some distance in front of the taller pegasus. Gloss bared her teeth. “Step aside,” she snarled, “or this pony dies.”

“And then what?” the earth ritualist asked blandly.

Bitterroot got it immediately, but it was several whole seconds before she felt Gloss react. Stupid or unwilling to admit she’d been backed into a corner? Maybe both.

“You’re surrounded and your only bargaining chip is one you have to destroy for it to be effective,” the ritualist said. “The second you play your hoof, you lose. At this point, the only thing worse for you than letting her go would be to kill her.” Then she looked Bitterroot in the eye and added, “No offense, Ms…?”

“Bitterroot,” Bitterroot choked. “None taken, Dame-”

“Colonel Code.”

“Colonel Code, sorry.”

“Shut it!” yelled Gloss, pressing the blade harder against Bitterroot’s throat, hard enough to draw forth a drop of blood. But Bitterroot heard a waver in her voice, even more uncertainty than before. “I am- I can still-”

“Look,” said Code. “You’re coming out of here in fetters either way. The only difference is whether or not you have an extra murder charge on top of that.”

Gloss didn’t say anything. She breathed deeply, chest heaving across Bitterroot’s back, her breath hot and damp on Bitterroot’s neck. The knife wavered her magic, slacking off slightly. Bitterroot could picture her chewing her lip in anxiety. Code stood by, stonefaced.

And then Bitterroot was done waiting. “You know what,” she snapped, “if you’re too much of a wuss to kill me, I’ll do it myself.” She lunged forward and brought her neck down hard on the blade, deeply slicing open her throat.

Gloss yelped and released her, but blood was already spewing from Bitterroot’s severed arteries. Bitterroot collapsed forward onto her legs, weakness inching into her body by the second. Several ponies brushed past her and tackled Gloss to the floor.

Blood dripped from her mouth as Bitterroot coughed wetly. The liquid trickling into her lungs felt unnatural. Suddenly, Code was at her side, trying to compress the wound. It didn’t do much; Bitterroot kept losing blood. She tried to wave Code away, let herself bleed out, but she was too weak.

She raised her head; Gloss was being fitted with fetters, but she still stared at Bitterroot with big eyes, dumbstruck. “You’re… You’re psychotic,” she gasped.

Gurgling wetly, blood dripping from her neck, barely audible above her own death rattle, Bitterroot grinned and singsonged, “Wuuuuuussieeeeee…”

15 - What a Mess

“…so, see,” said Amanita, “if each circle is for one tribe-”

“But it’s not like there’s an earth pony Twilight, a unicorn Twilight, and a pegasus Twilight all in one body,” protested Mason. “There’s just an alicorn Twilight.”

“You’re thinking too intelligently,” Amanita said, shaking her head. “They used black candles, for Celestia’s sake.”

Mason looked at the circles again. “I…” He tilted his head. “I guess that makes… the right sort of nonsense.” He blinked. “Oh! Oh, that’s what these chords are for. They’re trying to unify the circles. See, each one’s going from one of the tri-azimuths of one circle to the next one of another.”

“But… That’s not how…” Amanita gave the manacled pegasus a Look. “You know, Code was being generous to whoever made this. This is terrible.”

The pegasus, so forthcoming about the target of the ritual once they’d asked him, rolled his eyes. “I’m just a guard,” he mumbled.

Code walked out of one of the doors to the courtyard, disheveled but unhurt. Panting, she wiped some sweat from her muzzle and said, “The house is secure and the perps are being moved to the foyer.”

“Already?” asked Amanita.

“Many of them simply didn’t want to fight,” said Code, shrugging. “They knew when to fold ’em. Did you figure out what this mess is supposed to do?”

“Kill Princess Twilight,” said Mason.

Code blinked, took another look at the circles, then dropped onto her rump and hung her head in her hooves. “Idiots, idiots, idiots, idiots…” she groaned. “They’re just right enough to be more wrong than ever.” She got back up and prowled catlike around the setup, her eyes narrow and her tail swishing. Every few steps, she’d mutter something under her breath.

Eventually, Mason cleared his throat. “We’re… still trying to figure out how they got to this-”

“Have you read Plumbing Reality?” asked Code. “It’s a beginner’s guide to ritual magic. It’s acceptable if you’re starting out. But one of the projects they use kills ants. You’re supposed to set up a small magic circle, stick some honey inside, and watch as ants try to get to it only to die as they cross the circle. It’s meant to demonstrate that rituals work. BUT!” She waved a hoof at Amanita and Mason. “It’s very explicitly not scalable. You can’t make it bigger to kill cockroaches or mice.” She looked up and said flatly, “As best I can tell, Gloss tried to make it bigger. Among other things. This whole thing is some… ugly mishmash of ideas that really do work on their own, but don’t — can’t — fit together at all. They just- black-boxed every single thing, throwing in sigils and runes that seemed to work without any thought of why they worked.”

“Sounds like somepony who’d want to kill Princess Twilight,” said Mason.

“Maybe.” Code looked up, frowning. “You know, the RRU should be here by-”

Three pegasi in gilded armor swooped in above the courtyard. Two of them took up a holding pattern over the house, while the third spiralled down, coming to a remarkably graceful landing right in front of Code. He was a big, stocky stallion with a coat like a blackboard and seemingly more mustache than tail.

“Major Pain,” said Code, unperturbed.

“Colonel Code,” the pegasus said, saluting. “First-response pegasi are already securing the house. Or at least, they would be if your ponies hadn’t secured it already.” He grinned facetiously. “C’mon, how come you always have things in hoof before we can get here?”

“Because the day when we don’t,” said Code, “will be a Very Bad Day indeed.” She had the sort of voice where capital letters were Audible.

“Heh. Ain’t that the truth. Curse you, logic.” Pain gave a nod of familiarity to Mason, then glanced at Amanita. “It’s P-A-N-E, by the way,” he said. “Dual Pane.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “Major Dual Pane of Canterlot’s Rapid Response Unit. Yes, I’m eagerly awaiting a promotion.”

“I am so sorry,” said Amanita.

Pane snorted. “Thanks for not making the obvious joke, at least.”

“Major, this is Amanita,” said Code. “She’s the necromancer we’ve been working with.” Amanita half-smiled and waved.

“Ah.” Pane’s pupils contracted and his wings tightened. “So, uh, she’s the reason Phalanx is, uh-”

“I’m the reason Phalanx isn’t dead,” snapped Amanita. If she was going to own this, the least she could do was stand up for herself. No more would she see ponies react like that, only for her to sit by and say nothing.

“Hmm. Right.” Pane took a half-unconscious step back.

“And don’t you forget it,” said Code. “Speaking of which, where is Phalanx? Did you bring him with you?”

Pane tore his gaze away from Amanita. “No, we sent him back to the castle. After what he went through…” He sighed and shook his head. “He’ll probably spend the rest of the day freaking out.”

Phalanx sauntered into the barracks break room, a javelin slung over his back, grinning from ear to ear. “Hey, guys!” he bellowed. “You know how you’re always going on about the wounds you’ve survived? Well, guess what!” He reared and undid his barding, exposing the hole in his chest. “I survived death! Beat that!”

One of the ponies glanced in his direction, then did a double-take and swore, prompting looks and gasps from the rest of the guards. A private tiptoed up, his eyes huge as he looked at the hole. “That’s…” he whispered. “There’s no way that’s real. You- You should be dead.”

“I told you, I did die!” said Phalanx cheerfully. “But I survived. Not an illusion, either.” He took the javelin, awkwardly worked it into the wound on his back, pushed it on through, and pulled it out the hole in his chest, not dropping his grin. Several guards gagged, one of them clapping a hoof to his mouth and turning away.

“C’mon, feel inside!” Phalanx took a step forward; most everypony else took a step back. “It’s real!”

After an awkward pause for the obvious reasons, the private suddenly stepped forward, as if he’d been shoved and yanked by a nose ring at the same time. He gawked at the hole, then slowly pushed his hoof inside as if in a trance. Phalanx didn’t stop smiling, even flaring his wings. More gags from around the room, but less of them.

“Oh, Celestia, this is disgusting,” the private said in a watching-a-train-crash voice as he worked his leg further in. “…Is… Is that your heart? …OH CELESTIA THAT’S YOUR HEART. OH CELESTIA THAT’S YOUR LUNGS.” He hastily pulled his leg out and took a few steps back, staring at it as it shook like mad. “I’m gonna live in the bathroom for the next few moons,” he quietly shrieked, then bolted three-leggedly from the room.

“See?” Phalanx said, pointing out. “My wound is easily the best in the room. Oh, such a fantastic day! It’s a shame I didn’t live to see it.”

A sergeant, less squeamish than the others, stepped forward and began inspecting Phalanx’s wound. “So what happened? Really.”

“Long story. Short version: I was killed by some of the Mearhwolf’s lackeys and Amanita — you know, the necromancer — she half-resurrected me. I’m just undead right now, but I should be okay by tomorrow night.”

“Huh.” The sergeant paused, then plunged his leg deep into Phalanx’s chest. After a moment, he nodded. “Yep. Them’s intestines.” He pulled his leg out and stepped away. “Well, glad to see you’re okay. Ish.” Then he smirked. “And it only took you eleven years to get a wound you could brag about!”

Phalanx shrugged. “Hey, better late than never!”

“Yeah. ‘Late’. Bah-dum psh.”

“…I swear that wasn’t intentional.”

“We’re also taking the… undead pegasus into custody,” Pane continued. “We weren’t sure what you wanted to do with the dead earth pony, since…” He jerked his head in Amanita’s direction. “The body’s in the morgue for now.”

Code pursed her lips, then said, “Amanita, would you mind resurrecting that earth pony? I know she tried to kill you, so I understand if you’d rather not.” (Pane shivered.)

“No, I can do that,” said Amanita. “As long as it’s not right now.”

“Of course not,” said Code. “Just sometime in the next few days.” Pause. Her tone of voice became delicate. “Also, while we’re on the subject, your, ah, bounty hunter friend-”

“Bitterroot’s dead?” Code nodded, and Amanita sighed. “Sun blast it, not again.” (Pane boggled.) “I can take care of that, too, if you can get me the materials.”

“I will.”

One of the doors opened and a ritualist stepped out. “Colonel?” she said to Code. “The perps have been gathered in the foyer if you want to talk to them before the rest of the Guard gets here.”

“Thank you,” said Code. She walked over to the prisoner and gave him a light nudge. “Come on, up you go. Time to get you with your friends.” With some grumbling, the pegasus got to his hooves.

“I’ll stay out here,” said Mason. “I’m still finding ways this ritual is wrong.” He crouched down to examine one of the arcs. “It’s kinda crazy, actually.”

“Very well. I’ll send somepony to get you when we’re done here.”

Code led Amanita, Pane, and the prisoner into the mansion. They moved slowly, thanks to the prisoner’s fetters, but Code didn’t seem too put out. After a moment, Amanita looked over at Code and asked, “So… eggs?”

Code nodded, pulled one of those eggs from her bags, and held it out for Amanita to examine. “Eggs,” she declared.

Amanita took a closer look at it. It looked like an ordinary egg — although maybe it wasn’t a chicken egg. Nothing she could spot, anyway. “You don’t need to scream ‘egg’ every time you throw one, you know.”

“EGG!” Crunch. “I do know. What I don’t is care.”

Pane leaned forward and stage-whispered, “Convincing her otherwise is a losing battle. Trust me.”

“Hooray,” Amanita muttered as she wiped yolk off her face. “Do you always throw eggs at death cultists?”

“If I can,” said Code with an unbelievably straight face. “Throwing eggs at death cultists has a long, glorious history in the fight against dark magic. Eggs are representative of new life and therefore reasonably effective at disrupting ritualistic death magic, particularly for how easy it is to acquire them — and it looks silly and demoralizes the caster, to boot. Where do you think the phrase ‘egg on your face’ comes from?”

“Audience members throwing eggs at bad actors during plays.”

“…Wait, is that where it comes from?” Flicking her tail, Code frowned. “Hmm. I don’t know, honestly. Why would they carry…? Never mind. I doubted any of the ponies here would have any death magic on them, but better safe than sorry.” Pause. “Also, I like throwing eggs.”

“Hence…” Amanita nodded back at the prisoner.

“Yes.”

The quartet entered the foyer. Ritualists and other newly-arrived royal guards — all pegasi, Amanita noted — were standing watch over at least one and a half dozen fettered ponies sitting on their tails. Most of the prisoners were house guards (Code’s own prisoner took a seat among these), but three ponies had more carefully-maintained looks and far nicer clothes — nobles, probably.

Code nudged Amanita and whispered in her ear, pointing at each of those nobles in turn. “Earl Paradise Paper. Countess Emerald Eon. And Viscountess High Gloss. All insufferable. I know that from experience.”

“The kinds of ponies whose families would send them halfway across the country to get rid of them?” Amanita whispered back.

“Heh. There’s a description. Exactly.” Code cleared her throat and strode forward, casting a glare over the prisoners, mainly the nobles.

Her attitude attracted Paradise’s attention. “Are you the commanding officer of these guards?” he demanded. “We won’t stand for this!” He risked slowly getting to his hooves. “I’ll have you know, I-”

“Sit!” snapped Code.

Paradise sat.

“Good boy.”

Paradise bristled, opened his mouth, received a “try me” glare from Code, hastily shut his mouth.

Code gave the trio of nobles another lookover. “So. Three members of Equestria’s nobility. And that’s just the ones who’re here. Guilty of treason.” She shook her head. “This city never stops finding ways to surprise me.”

“Twilight is going to run this country into the dirt,” said Gloss. “Somepony-”

“I don’t care,” Code said, holding up a hoof. “No matter how much you monologue at me, it’s still treason. You’re lucky it’s Twilight you’re committing treason against. You know what Celestia did when her own sister committed treason? Sent her to the moon for a millennium. You know what Cadance did when Sombra tried to enslave the Crystal Empire? Blew him up. Twilight? You’ll probably just get prison and a very stern lecture. She’s the kind to let a necromancer operate in Canterlot, for Celestia’s sake!”

Amanita suddenly felt put on the spot, even though nopony was looking at her. Had Twilight had a direct voice in letting her work with the Guard? Or had she just authorized it? Probably the latter; the initial meeting had taken more than three hours; you’d think a princess would have a tiny bit more influence than that. But the fact that the first was even a possibility said something.

If nothing else, at least Amanita had Twilight on her side. Which… meant quite a lot.

“But let’s ignore the treason for now,” Code continued. “You did it with… You know, even without the murders, that… thing in the courtyard would’ve been aggressively awful.”

“You’re just afraid of it because it’s new,” said Gloss.

“You have no idea what you’re doing,” said Code, her voice growing louder. “You didn’t follow any rules, you didn’t take any environmental conditions into account… Did you even try?”

“Oh, please,” scoffed Gloss. “It’s just a ritual. It’s not like it’s real magic.”

One of the ritualists immediately whipped around to Code and said loudly, “You sound sick, Colonel. Why don’t you take a step outside?” He wrenched Code about to face the door and roughly shoved her out. Five seconds later, an ear-splitting screech rent the air like a demon piercing planes of reality. For a full thirty seconds.

“I must say,” Pane whispered to Amanita, “she’s taking this quite well.”

When Code came back in, she was breathing deeply and looked like she was actually sweating. “It,” she croaked. “Can be. Very. Hard.” She coughed and swallowed. “But you’re actually lucky it couldn’t have worked,” she said. “Because you know what you would’ve been guilty of otherwise? Equine sacrifice. Even Twilight doesn’t tolerate that. I’ve asked her. I’d ask, ‘What were you thinking?’, but it’s obvious you weren’t.”

“Sometimes,” Gloss sniffed, “we must do unpleasant things for the greater good.”

…

She did not just say that.

Amanita nearly shattered her teeth, she was clenching her jaw so hard. Unpleasant? Repeated, cold-blooded murder was “unpleasant”? Ha. Ha ha. HA HA HA. HA HA HA HA. Amanita knew exactly how cold your heart needed to be to think that. She’d been that pony, once. Seen it Circe, too. You would honestly need to be a sociopath for that.

Maybe Gloss would like to know that.

Before Code could say anything, Amanita stomped up to Gloss and looked her in the eye. Gloss looked back up, unimpressed. “And who do you think you are?” she demanded.

“I’m Amanita. I’m a necromancer.”

A shade of fear briefly flitted across Gloss’s face. Then she glanced at the guards and ritualists surrounding them, and she smiled masklike up at Amanita. “So what do you think you’re going to do to me?” Evidently, she thought violence was the only way to hurt somepony.

“Tell you this,” said Amanita. “You remind me of somepony.”

“Do I,” said Gloss. “You probably want me to ask ‘who’, don’t you?”

“My lich master in necromancy, Circe.”

Gloss went stiff and her ears shot back. She actually bared her teeth, growling like a chimera. “Liar,” she said reflexively. “I’m nothing like her.”

“How would you know? You never met her,” said Amanita. “No, you’re a lot like her. A lot less evil, sure, but just as petty. Because whenever she said somepony had to die, she just…” She waved a hoof away. “…did it. Killed them. But you wanna know one of the ways you’re different? She had the guts to do it herself. Have you even seen the ponies you killed?”

“I-” Gloss was panting like she’d run several miles. Her eyes, once narrowed in certainty and anger, were growing wider, more and more unsure. “I- didn’t- need- need to see them.” Pant pant. “Why, why bother?”

“You didn’t even pick criminals,” said Amanita. “Just any old pony off the street would do for you. At least Circe had the decency to start me on criminals. It was easier to pretend it was okay, then.”

“We- We’re nothing alike!” screamed Gloss. “I, what I’m doing is necessary! Plebeians like you wouldn’t understand! I’m not the same as her!”

“You are different,” said Amanita. “But I’m a necromancer and I’m not this okay with death. You’re closer to her than I am.”

Gloss degenerated completely, then, alternating between, frenzied, worried mutters and screaming expletives at Amanita. Amanita pulled her head away from Gloss’s mouth and took a step back. “Think about it while you’re in prison,” she said. “It’s all you’ll be able to do. I know from experience.”

Gloss snapped her mouth shut and glowered at Amanita. Amanita didn’t care. She’d felt the ire of far more powerful ponies and had escaped from it. After that, the impotent rage of a pony in chains barely even registered.

Then, as she walked away from Gloss, Amanita realized two things: everyone was staring at her. And she didn’t care.

A pair of earth ponies in Guard armor galloped through the remains of the front door and came to a halt in front of Code. “The reinforcements you requested are here, Colonel ma’am,” one of them said, saluting.

Code looked out through the doorway, then grinned. “They are. Excellent.” She turned back to the room and roared, “Alright, ponies, strike a pose! This is the most famous you’ll ever be!”

Silence fell over the mansion. Several ritualists looked at each other. Someone muttered, “Friggernaffy.”

“Glory hounds,” said Code, posing most magnificently.

16 - And Very Much Like a Black Swan

Bitterroot woke up. This both was a surprise, considering she’d been dead, and wasn’t a surprise, considering who she’d been working with.

She ached. She hadn’t ached the last time she’d been resurrected. Or not immediately, anyway. She’d just been undead as soon as she’d woken up. Maybe she was already alive again? She put a hoof to her carotid. Heartbeat. Huh. She traced a line across her neck. No new scars. Double huh.

“Um. Hey. You feel alright?”

Bitterroot blinked and looked around the room. She was lying on the floor in… a morgue? Made sense. Most of the gurneys had been pushed aside to give her room and she was in the middle of a circle drawn out with chalk. Several ponies were standing some ways away from her. The ones in military uniforms were scribbling down notes, the ones not in uniform were gawking. Standing immediately over her was Amanita, looking concerned.

Propping herself up on her legs, Bitterroot said, “Yeah, actually. And I didn’t need to be undead this time.” (The scribblings redoubled.)

“The Guard gave me some extra materials and instructional help,” said Amanita. “I could do a better ritual than before. Faster and less hangover-y. Already did one today. …So, uh… you killed yourself.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. Gloss was threatening to kill me, but she couldn’t do it without opening herself up. Really, with you around, all I did was cut a hostage negotiation short. I’ll explain later.”

“Oh. …This isn’t gonna be a thing, is it? You dying, me raising you again.”

“Ah, come on. You know you love it.”

Amanita smiled a little. “Well, better using necromancy for this than something else.”

Bitterroot rolled over, stood up, flexed all the joints she could remember. No problems. “So what’s go-”

One of the uniformed ponies pushed forward. “Excuse me! Ms. Bitterroot. I’m with the Ritual Division and I was-”

“Hey!” snapped Amanita, waving a hoof at him. “I just resurrected my best friend, can we have a moment?”

The pony faltered. “I- suppose-”

“I’ll come back when I’m done,” declared Bitterroot. She pulled Amanita from the morgue and slammed the door behind them.

“Sorry,” said Amanita. “They’re just- They want to know what the… experience is like and if you’re still okay. Metaphysically. Officials.”

“Which is fine,” said Bitterroot, “but I just got resurrected, I need some time to adjust.”

“No, you don’t.”

Bitterroot smirked and winked. “Yeah, but they don’t need to know that.”

Amanita chuckled.

“So here’s what I know about the Mearhwolf: several ponies led by High Gloss, trying to run a ritual to kill Princess Twilight. Anything else?”

“Not yet, no. It’s still the same day you died, just two or three hours later. The newspapers are going nuts with this, trying to get it out for the evening edition.”

“Do you know what they’re going to say?”

Amanita shook her head. “No. The Guard’s keeping a close watch on what info’s getting out. The papers know that the Mearhwolf’s been captured and curfew’s being lifted, but that’s about it for it. I’ve… told the Guard they could mention me as a necromancer if, if they need to, but I haven’t heard anything.”

“Really?” Bitterroot asked. Her ears turned forward and she rustled her wings restlessly. “You’re okay with that?”

Shrugging in a helpless sort of way, Amanita said, “It’ll come out eventually. I’m in a good light now. Might as well do it now, right?” She let out a breath and said, in a more serious tone, “Really, this is the best possible time for it. It’s one thing to say I’ve changed, it’s another to appear in the paper with the headline, ‘Necromancer Helps Catch Serial Killer’.”

“Heh. Yeah.” Bitterroot experimentally rolled her joints again. Still no issues. “You got any problems? With… I dunno, anything?”

“No. Everything’s just fine with me.”

“Right. Then I should probably get back to…” Bitterroot jerked her head toward the morgue. “Sorry.”

“Yeah, no, I get it,” said Amanita. “This isn’t the best place for conversation. I’ll, uh, go hang out at your house, okay?” She took a tentative step down the hallway.

“Yeah, sure.” Then, right before she entered the morgue, Bitterroot swung around. “And just FYI,” she said, “you can stay there as long as you need to.”

“Yeah, I figured,” Amanita said. “Thanks anyway.”

Bitterroot nodded to her and closed the door.

Immediately, one of the uniformed ponies trotted up to her. “Ms. Bitterroot,” he said, bowing slightly. “I am Warrant Officer Mason Chain, and I was wondering if you, as one of the first resurrected ponies in Canterlot’s borders-”

“I’m only answering your questions in a conference room or somewhere else I can sit,” Bitterroot said flatly. “ ’Cause you’ve got a lot of questions, don’t you?”

Mason glanced over his shoulder and said to another one of the guards, “Told you.” He turned back to Bitterroot. “At least you seem alert and lucid, to start. Come on. There’s a room not far from here.”

After a few false starts, Amanita managed to find her way back from the morgue and to the foyer she’d first stepped into… yesterday? It sure didn’t feel like yesterday. Compared to the earlier stares, nopony paid her any attention anymore; they were all too busy running back and forth as word about Gloss spread like wildfire.

She’d resurrected the earth pony who’d attacked her, as well as Bitterroot. Given the hullabaloo around Gloss, Code had said she could wait until tomorrow, when things quieted down a little, before going to the last two families of the Mearhwolf’s victims. She had nothing more to do. The doors to the outside world stood open to her and nothing was stopping her from going home.

So, naturally, she turned around and headed back into the castle.

The last few days had shown her some things, had taught her some things. She knew her feelings better now that she had applied them in real-world situations rather than the abstract possibilities of therapy. She knew what she could and couldn’t do, psychologically, morally, legally. And, as she knocked at the door to Code’s office, she knew what she wanted to be doing in the future.

Code was hard at paperwork, filling out form after form on things Amanita couldn’t tell. She still had her armor on, although she’d removed the helmet for her regular glasses. In spite of her short mane, she had a remarkable amount of helm hair. Her candy jar was open and discarded wrappers were neatly piled up on one corner; she seemed to prefer chocolate. “Amanita,” she said. “Take a seat if you want to talk.” She gestured to the chair opposite her, then nudged the candy jar closer to Amanita.

“Um. Thanks.” Amanita sat, but she didn’t take any candy yet. “Working on the red tape?”

“No. Ensuring the anti-lawyer countermeasures continue to function properly.” Code waggled her quill at Amanita. “It’s all in how you look at things. The regulations aren’t there to stop us from doing our job, they’re there to ensure guilt is established beyond a reasonable doubt.” She set aside the form and went to work on another one. “Besides, where’s the fun in throwing the book at criminals if the book is just a single sheet of paper? Oh, and one more thing…”

Code pushed one of the already-filled-out forms at Amanita. It was a lengthy, legalese-ridden description of Amanita’s raven messenger and the spells involved. “The enthrallment of the raven was in a hazy area, legally speaking, but the Court found sufficient justification for it to be allowed.”

“And by ‘the Court’, you mean ‘you’?”

“Hardly. I’m an officer, not a judge. I have very little influence in that field if I am not asked for advice, and I was not asked.” After retrieving some toffee from the jar, Code went back to her paperwork. “So, what are you here for? Pardon me if I don’t stop working. There’s a lot of it.”

“Um. First of all, do you… need me for anything more? Besides those last two families, I mean.”

“At the moment? No. We may have need of you eventually, for legal reasons, but I’ll let you know ahead of time. Not for a few weeks, I’d say. All of this needs to be sorted out first.”

“Good.”

She could leave, Amanita knew. Get up right now and leave necromancy behind forever. Start anew. Finally, what she’d wanted for years was within her grasp. But that didn’t feel right. It was just… unsatisfying, after what she’d done these past few days. And she was so far down this path, it was the only one she knew how to walk. What else could she do?

So, instead of leaving, Amanita took a deep breath. “Then… i-if you want me, I’d- like to see if I can use necromancy in service of Equestria.”

Code looked up, head tilted. She let the pen drop from her mouth. “As in, continue to use?” she asked. “In an official, fully-employed capacity?”

“Yes. I-” Amanita swallowed. “I know necromancy, something nopony else in the Guard does. I can resurrect dead guards, allow communication with the dead, the- stuff I’ve been doing. But, not only that, but if we can- continue working with necromancy in an environment that isn’t completely power-hungry, maybe we can- expand it in… positive ways that no other necromancer would think of.”

She’d kept telling herself that she didn’t want to go back into the muck of necromancy. But this wasn’t the same muck, was it? She was wading into it for the explicit purpose of cleaning it out. In that context, it felt… satisfying, an undercover cop breaking up a crime syndicate. There were plenty of things she could do with the proper guidance. On a whim, she added, “Hay, I can just show you how thralls or zombies are made so you can better fight them, and you don’t want zombies around, do you?”

“Indeed,” said Code. “Having a population that is not composed of zombies or at risk from their malign influence is vital to Equestrian and allied national interests.”

“…Did you quote that from somewhere? That sounds official.”

“Section 5a, paragraph 1 of CONOP 8888-11, ‘Counter-Zombie Dominance’,” Code replied with a straight face. “Equestria’s anti-zombie-apocalypse plan. As one of the sources of zombies is necromantic rituals, I am acquainted with it.”

Amanita nodded. “O-okay. Yes, I can, I can work with that. If, if you’ll have me.”

“If we’ll have you,” Code said with an amused snort. “That’s- Amanita, do you know the main problem with studying necromancy?”

“Nopony likes thinking about death?” Amanita asked.

“Not quite. It’s that nopony likes desecrating the dead. And until you figure out the basics of necromancy, desecrating the dead is the most you can do. Trial and error to figure out what works and what doesn’t. And that means you either need to go grave robbing or get someone’s permission to experiment on them after they die. Even if you get their permission, you can’t say how long they’ll take to die unless you want to kill them yourself.”

Amanita tentatively nodded again. It was easy to forget in this age of schools of magic, but if you traced things back far enough, every spell had to have been invented at some point. The tenets of necromancy would naturally lead to it being avoided by ponies with a sense of empathy. It was morally-neutral to test, “Will this spell light a fire?” Less so for, “How does this spell affect the dead?”

“The thing is,” continued Code, “you already know the basics. You know more than the basics. You are exactly what we need to study necromancy. Once you tell us what you know, we can start extrapolating, figuring things out without actually needing any death. And if we still need death, well, that’s what the resurrection spell is for. You are, without any exaggeration, probably the single most invaluable resource for official necromantic study since the Preclassical Era. Since before the Preclassical Era. I, for one, would give you my utmost support if that’s what you want.”

Yet again, Amanita nodded, this time more surely. With Code on her side, this couldn’t not go smoothly.

“But…”

It was only slightly, but Amanita’s heart still sank. The last time in the past half-decade she’d really had her hooves beneath her, she was in prison. Was a little stability too much to ask for?

“I’m not blind,” Code said. Her voice was softer than Amanita had ever heard it before. “I saw the way you acted during… all of this. At times, this was… trying for you, and with a past like yours, I can’t say I’m surprised. But you did it anyway. Is this something you want to do, or something you think you have to do? As much as I’d welcome your help, I don’t want you to feel obligated to do something you hate. I know the stress of that full well.”

Amanita opened her mouth, closed it again, looked at the floor. “I…” Not knowing what to say was becoming an all-too-familiar experience for her. “To be honest,” she said, “I do think I have to do this. I’ve got a lot of moral debt to repay. And I don’t know what I’d do with myself otherwise. But…” She raised her head. “I also want to do this. Saving Cobalt and Phalanx, helping all those other families find peace, it- It felt better than anything I’ve felt in years. All that time I spent as a lich’s apprentice, it, it won’t be for nothing. I can do something with it. This is… I feel like I belong here. Like a- The way a chef belongs in a kitchen.” She felt herself nearly redden, but it was the best comparison she could come up with.

Code pursed her lips thoughtfully. Then she nodded. “Good. Good. In that case, I’ll see what I can do once some of this Mearhwolf mess gets untangled. I can’t guarantee the Guard will actually accept you or in what capacity, but I’d be very surprised if we didn’t, and I’ll put in the best word for you that I can. A word that, I should mention, is quite good and even more influential. And I’m sure Princess Twilight would love to have you on board. She… likes studying magic.”

“Thank you.” So… was she supposed to feel different? This was a big event in her life, accepting necromancy like that. Amanita felt like she was supposed to feel different. But she didn’t. Just… still overwhelmed. Battered about like a toy boat in a storm — and that had nothing to do with her current decision. Or maybe the differences had been gradual, a little bit at a time, too small to notice the change from one hour to the next. She didn’t want to hide away part of herself. She didn’t think she was a ticking time bomb. She felt better than she had a few days ago, at least. “I’ll… get going, then.” She stood up, plucking some chocolate nuggets from the jar.

“Be seeing you. And, Amanita?” Code raised her head to look Amanita in the eye. “Take care of yourself. I don’t want to see you burn yourself out.”

“This isn’t burnout,” Amanita said. “It’s the spark of something new.”

Code grinned. “Glad to hear it. Be well.”

Pegasi were forming clouds as Amanita trudged for Bitterroot’s house. There was a thunderstorm scheduled for the afternoon. She knew it’d been scheduled weeks in advance, but funny how the weather was that after the Mearhwolf had been captured.

When she’d first walked through Canterlot, it’d felt big, elaborate, grandiose. She’d been so taken up by the Experience that she hadn’t noticed the little telltale signs here and there that something was wrong: streets a little emptier than they ought to be, few ponies actually walking rather than trotting, knots of ponies being tight and looking like they were talking in hushed tones. She hadn’t known about the Mearhwolf. Now she noticed all those things, but she was just waiting for them to loosen up. What would the nightlife be like tonight, once the evening papers declared the city was safe again? Riotous? She almost wanted to go out herself, just to see it. Maybe she would. She needed to get to know Canterlot.

And if she did… declare she was a necromancer and she’d helped catch the Mearhwolf? Maybe. It was surprising she was even considering it, but it’d be one hay of an icebreaker. Or maybe just mention she’d helped catch the Mearhwolf and leave out the necromancy until she was asked what she’d done. She could just imagine the looks on ponies’ faces.

As Amanita approached Bitterroot’s house, a familiar shape fluttered down from the sky and landed on a railing. “Bread,” croaked Lenore.

Amanita almost ignored her, but she stopped and took another look at Lenore. “You know,” she said, “ravens are associated with death. Wanna be my familiar?”

Lenore ruffled her feathers. “Bread?”

“I’d probably have to kill you. You wouldn’t get bread anymore.”

Lenore squawked angrily and took off. Evidently, between immortality and bread, Lenore would choose bread every time. Or maybe she was just impatient.

After entering Bitterroot’s house, Amanita almost collapsed onto the couch and pulled out her books. Instead, she began rifling through her bags. In spite of how empty they were, it took her a while to find it, since it was so small, but she eventually pulled it out: the locket Zinnia had given her all those years ago. It was a cheap thing, made of shiny gold-colored plastic, but it had an emotional connection, and that was what counted.

Next, Amanita took a piece of chalk and went to Bitterroot’s backyard. Grass wasn’t the best surface for this, but she could make it work. She rolled around in the grass a few times, flattening it down. Then, slowly, methodically, she traced out a circle, making sure her stick left behind as much chalk as possible. When she closed the circle and the infrathaumatic hum started, she knew she could make this work.

And that was what gave her pause.

She’d planned on calling up Zinnia, one last time, just to let her know how things were going, the new path she was taking in life. But she’d promised to never call up Zinnia again, and “never” meant “never”. How would Zinnia react to that promise being broken? Just for some minor self-praise?

But they’d left on such bad terms. Amanita couldn’t let that rest, could she? She’d be wrecking their relationship for… eternity, maybe. She’d changed. Zinnia needed to know that, even if she still never wanted to see Amanita again. She needed to know that Amanita would never do that again. This was about friendship. And friendship was the most important thing in the world, according to Princess Twilight. But in that case, where did the promise fit into “friendship”?

So which did she care about more? Zinnia knowing she’d changed, or keeping her promise to never summon Zinnia again?

The locket glinted slightly at the end of its chain. In this light, it almost didn’t look cheap.

Amanita reached forward and smudged the circle. She’d made a promise to the love of her life. That promise deserved to be kept and Zinnia deserved a peaceful afterlife. Even if that weren’t true, she couldn’t ask Zinnia to love her again until she loved herself. She was almost there, but not quite all the way just yet.

But she didn’t leave, not just yet. She wanted to say something to Zinnia, if only one last apology, and her mind was racing. How could she do that without breaking her promise? How could she talk to the dead without necromancy?

Well. Nopony else knew, and they did it anyway. Might as well follow their lead. She raised the locket to eye level.

Deep breath.

“Hey, Zinnia,” she said. Already, her emotions were welling up, threatening to steal her words. “Um. I… I said this before, b-but I am so, so sorry. I- I didn’t know what I was doing, but that doesn’t make it better. Whatever you feel about me, it, it’s justified. Even if you want me to rot in Tartarus for eternity.” She clenched her eyes tight shut and pressed the locket against her head. Tears trickled down her face as mixed truth and self-loathing spilled out. “You w-were right. A-all th-that time, you were r-right. I should’ve l-let you go. I- I don’t know w-what I w-was th-thinking. I sh-should looked a-at- I should’ve r-realized- It was a-all so- Stars above, I am so sorry.”

She wasn’t really saying the words, just dredging up emotions and letting them come out of her. The actual words themselves seemed to happen naturally, right before they left her mouth. She agreed with every single one of them.

She took a deep breath and steadied her voice. As she wiped her face down, she continued, “But I- I’m doing my best to make it up.” It didn’t sound like tail-covering. More like a genuine confession. “I’m going to- I might be joining the Guard. I can- I brought back a murder victim yesterday and- and I can do it again. I can- help ponies talk to their dead family members- Just, just for that last bit of closure. I’m- I’m going to keep ponies from going through what I went through. I’m just- I’m sorry that you had to go through… that for me to get there.”

The locket was twisting on its chain and swinging in the wind, as if restless. “That doesn’t justify anything I did to you,” Amanita said. “I- I promised I’d never summon you again, and- and I’m going to keep that promise. I know this isn’t really in the spirit of it, but I just- We- I don’t know who else to talk to right now,” she admitted. “I’m lost and I’m scared but I know where I’m going and I’m excited and it’s all such a sunblasted mess and nopony gets me like you did. You were so- You were always the one I could talk to the most. Right up to what should’ve been the end.” She took a long, shuddering breath and hung her head in her hooves. Her magic wavered and the locket slipped to the ground. “I’m s-sorry,” she whispered.

She picked up the locket again, cradling it in her hooves. “But I’m still keeping that promise. A-after this, you’ll n-never hear from m-me again. N-not like this, not i-in any other w-way. I- I just needed- one last cry.”

Deep breath. “May you rest in peace.”

And that was that.

Above her, thunder rolled. Next to her, a blade of grass twitched as a raindrop hit it. Amanita didn’t want to move just yet. She could live with a little rain.

Then she heard the door open. She twisted around; Bitterroot was standing there. “Amanita?” she asked. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Amanita quickly stuffed the locket into a pocket and got to her hooves. The rain was picking up already. “Just- thinking.”

“Oh. …Personal?”

“Personal.”

“Right.” Bitterroot zipped her mouth shut. “C’mon in. The rain’s gonna be cold.”

The downpour started moments before Amanita was inside. Bitterroot passed her a dish towel, saying, “Everything’s fine with me, except that I’m not getting the Mearhwolf’s bounty. It looks like we’ll both get the twenty-five thousand for information, though. The Guard is still working it out.”

The towel wasn’t very big, but it got the rain off of Amanita. “Fair enough. Just so you know, since I didn’t get to all of the families of the victims, I still need to finish those up in the next day or two.”

“Alright. And you’re… doing fine, right? No… panic attacks or anything.”

“No. I’ve… actually been thinking about joining the Guard.”

“Joining-” Bitterroot’s wings twitched open. “As a necromancer?”

“Yeah. Let’s sit down.”

And so Amanita explained her reasoning to Bitterroot. The way she’d been led to it. Why it felt right. The more she told Bitterroot, the better it felt, the more she knew that, yes, this was the right decision. None of her words rang false to herself, even when she looked at them from different angles. No, this was definitely the direction she wanted to take her life.

“…and that’s where I stand,” Amanita finished. “I’m waiting on Code to get back to me, one way or another. Don’t know how long it’ll take.” She shrugged.

“Uh-huh. So, um…” Biting her lip, Bitterroot twisted some of her mane around her hoof. “That sounds… good, but… two days ago, you didn’t want anything to do with necromancy, and now you’re… doing this. It sounds like a good idea, don’t get me wrong, but how do you know you’re ready?”

“I don’t. Maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow and I’ll think it’s a terrible idea. Maybe I’ll join up and have a stress breakdown in a year.” Amanita looked out the window, out at the rainy streets of Canterlot, out at the streets she’d helped make safe. “But I’ve… These past few days have gone far better than I ever could’ve hoped. I’ve been accepted by some ponies. I’m doing good with necromancy that no one else can. And- And you’re around. I’ve got somepony I can talk to if things go bad. I can take some risks.” She’d been swimming in the same pool for years in prison. If she wanted to change, she needed to step out of that stew of withdrawal and self-pity.

“Good. Good.” Bitterroot nodded. “If that’s what you think, then… yeah, go for it. I’ll be by you every step of the way. As long as you’re sure, of course.”

Watching the rain streak down the windows of Bitterroot’s house, Amanita smiled. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

1 - A Rare Bird in the Lands

Bitterroot didn’t look like much as she ambled down the street. She was a pegasus, a touch on the large side for one, but otherwise had the usual lean sleekness of her tribe. Her coat was a soft orange, the sky of the golden hour, and her mane (shorter than normal, but still long enough to tie into a ponytail) was a deep purple, occasionally run through with stripes of a lighter hue. Her clothes were baggy, like hand-me-downs a size too large. Her pace was loose and a little bouncy. In short, she looked nothing like a bounty hunter.

Which may have played a role in why she was an effective bounty hunter.

One of Bitterroot’s friends had once joked that bounty hunting was like being a private eye, only crappier. That wasn’t totally wrong; dramatic chases across the nation and the like were certainly part of her repertoire, but a lot of her work amounted to just hunting down ponies who’d skipped out on bail. For that, she needed to go snooping around Canterlot and ask the right ponies the right things in the right ways without the target twigging onto you. It helped when you weren’t the kind of pony to stand out.

As long as she didn’t act out, Bitterroot could blend into almost any crowd that had enough pegasi. She didn’t have any distinguishing characteristics like scars (barring a non-obvious one on her throat just below her jawline that she could further hide by keeping her head down). Her manestyle was the practical sort of bland. She wasn’t small enough to look like an easy target, but not big enough to look like someone you took down to prove your badness. She was just sort of there, a background extra in a play. Perfect.

Of course, being socially invisible didn’t help much if you still couldn’t find hide nor hair of your quarry. Bitterroot hung her head slightly as she walked and her ears were loose with disappointment. Her current selected target was proving a tougher needle to find than she’d expected. And that was saying something, since she’d expected her to be pretty tough to begin with. Over a week, and barely any leads. That was to be expected, if she was honest with herself. You didn’t really expect criminals to be easy to find if the Royal Guard was having trouble finding them, gratuitously huge bounty notwithstanding. It didn’t make her days of fruitless work any better, nor did it alleviate the hangovers from when she’d spent those days hanging around bars (she’d quickly learned which drinks were nonalcoholic).

Arriving at her mailbox, Bitterroot flipped it open and absently pulled out its contents. She didn’t look through them, tucking them under a wing for later. She was about to lope up the steps to her townhouse when a raven landed on her railing and stared inquisitively at her. “Bread?” it croaked in that peculiarly raven-y voice.

“Sorry, Lenore, not today.”

Lenore eyed Bitterroot maybe-suspiciously. Bitterroot knew ravens were bright birds — bright enough that this one knew to hang around the neighborhood for food — but it was hard to tell if she was projecting her own preconceptions onto Lenore or not. “Bread?” Lenore croaked, wiggling her tail feathers.

“Nope. Not in the mood.” Bitterroot marched up her steps, ignoring Lenore altogether, and stepped inside. In her frustration, she slammed the door hard enough that Lenore squawked indignantly, rustling her feathers, and took off. Bitterroot paid her no mind.

She dropped the letters on the coffee table in her small (but not tiny!) living room and collapsed into an easy chair, sighing deeply. Had she been spoiled? A good number of her recent hunts had been on the dramatic side. Sneaking a criminal from the holding where their noble family had been protecting them. Trainhopping after a bunch of thieves out west. Abducting the head of a smuggling ring. And, of course, there was the necromancer she’d captured two years ago. With willing help from the necromancer herself. It was complicated. (And crazy lucrative. Bitterroot hadn’t needed a job since, even after fully paying off her mortgage.)

After all that, she was sort of expecting every job to be… momentous. Even though she herself knew better; one of her first jobs had involved nothing more than going to the right bar and not looking like a royal guard while she chatted up the locals. The money buffer provided by the necromancer had let her get picky, so she’d only been going after the more interesting scores. Maybe this sort of slap in the face was the wake-up call she needed: not every score would be interesting and she couldn’t afford to think otherwise. (Well, technically, she could, for the moment. But that might change.)

Interesting life or not, it went on and it needed living, starting with the letters on the table. Bitterroot scooped them up with a wing and began leafing through them. Bill… Junk… Spam claiming to be a bill… Junk… Bill… Personal letter… Junk… Bill. Bitterroot pushed most of the letters aside and examined the return address of the personal one: Crystal Empire Penitentiary. Amanita, then. Bitterroot quickly ripped it open.

Bitterroot,

My release date’s been scheduled. If you want to meet me when I get out, I’ll be out on Grain Moon 28 at 8:00 AM. I know what your job’s like, so I understand if you don’t have the time.

—Amanita

Short and not obviously happy at the fact that she was getting out of prison. That was Amanita, alright. And it was still better than what she’d been like two years ago. Her letters had always been a bit terse: informative and not much more.

But they were informative and they always kept coming. Compared to what Bitterroot had expected when Amanita first went away, that was good. Not perfect, but eh. Baby steps.

She frowned at the release date. Grain Moon 28, two days before Harvest Moon 1 and the first day of autumn. That was in just a few days. She was still neck-deep in her work and she’d need to travel to the Crystal Empire, but Amanita needed her to be there, right? Maybe not, based on the last sentence. But it’d still be the right thing to do. But she’d need to disrupt her work groove. But she wasn’t in much of a groove right now. But-

Bitterroot stopped herself and shook her head. She was too tired at the moment to think straight and she needed to write down what little bits of information she’d learned. Maybe her head would be cleared once she was done with that or had a little nap. She pulled herself off the chair and over to a small back room, where she rattled the light gems to life.

Her “office”, such as it was, was crammed with her notes, findings, and occasionally police reports when it was legal to get copies. None of it was really sorted, mainly because she usually found her target before accumulating this many notes. One wall was dominated by a desk and a large cork board, riddled with pushpins and pictures and labels and string. Green meant definite links, yellow meant possible, red meant investigated and nothing. During a good hunt, there would be a few strands of green in the right places. This one had lots and lots of red and some yellow. Based on what she’d found out, the yellow was going to turn to red soon.

Bitterroot halfheartedly scribbled a few notes out, mostly how this or that specific bartender didn’t know anything. When you had no information, you started at bars with bartenders. Unfortunately, she was also ending at bars with bartenders at the moment. She pinned those notes on her board and exchanged a few yellow strings for red ones. The board was getting very cramped; she probably should’ve taken some of the notes down, but she’d gone to so many places, she might forget which ones.

Maybe it was time to throw in the towel, or at least take a break. She was a bounty hunter, not a detective. She tracked down runners, not solved mysteries. She didn’t even know who she was looking for. Just a ghost in the night who committed devious deeds, slipped away, and made the paper the next morning. She was bumbling blindly through unfamiliar territory without so much as a few helpful tips to guide her. Oh, sure, she’d be doing good if she caught them, but doing good didn’t mean she could do it.

Bitterroot stared at her cork board for a long, long time, where she was potentially catching a dangerous criminal and making the city safer. All the leads that’d gone nowhere, all the lines of questioning that had led to nothing, all the contacts that weren’t. She looked over her shoulder, back to her living room, where she had nothing more important than a lonely pen pal getting out of prison. Yet the second one was vastly more appealing.

Yeah. She needed a break.

Amanita didn’t look like much as she stood at the desk. She was a unicorn, on the big side of small and maybe in need of some exercise to add muscle. Her coat was an unassuming, cold green, a bit dull. Her eyes were a frosty blue, her mane ashen. She was young, mid-to-late-twenties at the absolute most. Even her cutie mark was a plain red cross.

Amanita was arguably one of the most dangerous ponies in Equestria.

Amanita was a necromancer. This was well-known. From the second she was dumped into the Crystal Empire Penitentiary, the other prisoners gave her a wide berth. Stories were passed around of the gruesome things she’d done, the ponies she’d maimed, the sacrifices she’d killed, the rituals she’d enacted. Very few of which were true; she’d never been interested in zombie armies or meatbag servants. (Never been that interested, anyway, she was ashamed to admit.) Oh, she’d done some heinous things, to be sure, but they were more on the lines of slitting the local thug’s throat, not kidnapping the governor’s husband and eating his still-beating heart straight out of his chest with fava beans and a nice Chianti. She’d just wanted to talk to her dead marefriend, and if a few “bad” ponies went missing, got sacrificed, were tortured to death, well, what of it?

Amanita was repentant. Eventually, she couldn’t justify the things she was doing anymore and took off. Following a series of events that included a bounty hunt, necromantic bears, a wildfire, and a shootout in a ghost town, she’d dragged herself and her former master to the Crystal Empire and turned them both in. Her master was beyond dead, thanks to her phylactery being destroyed. Amanita herself had pleaded guilty of necromancy and gone to jail. She needed to be punished, she needed some time away from polite society to get her thoughts in order. Not the healthiest of therapies, but it’d worked (partly thanks to the help of actual therapy).

Amanita was being released. She’d been a model prisoner during her incarceration, well-behaved and quiet. She’d never raised any fuss. She’d never wanted to; what was the point? She’d done her best to think about ways she could do good outside these concrete walls. Luckily, Equestria’s prisons had councillors to help with that. Thanks to her turning in her master and a bounty hunter vouching for her good character, Amanita had been up for early release after merely two years. She’d gotten it. Now, she was going to step out in the wide world again, ready to rejoin civilization.

Amanita was lost.

“…your clothes,” the clerk was saying, “and a bank account number with your bounty. From…” She squinted at the name on the envelope. “Bitterroot.”

“Thank you,” Amanita heard herself say as she took the bag. Prison had been her life for two years. More disturbingly, it’d been the healthiest two years she’d had in a long time. No self-denial. No convincing yourself that the sacrifices were bad ponies, they wouldn’t be missed. No desecrating the dead and puppeting bodies when you were bored. No listening to your mentor speechify a simplistic Darwhinnyian model to justify her own atrocities while you smiled and did nothing but tell yourself you weren’t doing those things, so you weren’t a bad pony. But Amanita had learned. She wouldn’t do anything like that again.

But what would she do?

She was escorted down the sterile hall to the exit. She hadn’t had much of a family and had shed no tears when she left them behind to become a necromancer. She had no support structure, nothing waiting for her on the outside. Limitless freedom, if she was being optimistic, but that also meant the freedom to bumble cluelessly about for the rest of her life.

She stepped out of the prison grounds and onto a road of the Crystal Empire, blinking away the light of the rising sun, without anything resembling a plan. Like most of her current problems, it could be traced back to necromancy. She’d been suckered in at around the time she should’ve been thinking about college or picking up a trade. And while Circe, her old master, would go on and on about the wonderful, terrible powers she would learn, she’d been mum on what would happen if Amanita ever had second thoughts and left with no other possible skills and a complete lack of occupational references.

So now, here she was, alone on the streets of a city she didn’t know, the door to her old life locked behind her, with nothing but the clothes on her back and in her bag and a cheap locket from her pre-necromancy days. And a- Hold up…

Amanita dug through her bag and found an envelope labelled From Bitterroot. Inside was a receipt for a deposit at a nearby bank and a note, both incredibly wrinkled. She read the note first.

Amanita,

A million bits is more money than I know what to do with. I split the bounty and you’re getting half. The Guard helped me put it under your name in the account on the receipt. Just something to help you land on your hooves.

—Bitterroot

Amanita blinked. Half? But that meant… She looked at the receipt and the deposited amount.

Almost five hundred thousand bits. She rubbed her eyes and stared again. Still the same.

Well. At least she wouldn’t be wanting for money.

“Hey!”

She looked up and didn’t recognize anypony. She looked even more up and saw a pegasus dropping from the sky. Bitterroot landed next to her. “Hey. I got your letter, thought I’d stop by to greet you. Sorry I’m late, I slept in a little.”

“It’s fine.” Really, it was more than fine. Amanita’s heart was swelling and she felt just about ready to hug Bitterroot. Late or not, at least somepony cared for her. Hay, for far too long, the only ponies she’d had any long-term meaningful interaction with had been Circe, an egocentric sociopath, and a therapist who, although kind and very good at her work, was ultimately just doing her job. No actual friends. Not until now.

But Amanita didn’t want to drive Bitterroot away by getting so affectionate so quickly, so she instead waved the receipt in her face. “Seriously, five hundred thousand bits? You didn’t-”

“I know I didn’t need to,” said Bitterroot, “but I couldn’t just let you go with nothing. You needed it more than me.”

Part of Amanita wanted to object, but less than a minute ago, she’d been concerned about what she would do for… anything. Five hundred thousand bits was one hay of a safety net. Only an absolute idiot would turn it down. She stuffed the receipt back in her bag and slung it across her back. “Well, thanks,” she said as she stood up. “Um.” Swallow. “Now what?”

Bitterroot shrugged. “Don’t know. What do you want to do?”

Amanita had no idea. She didn’t even know what she could do. Authority figures of various stripes had dictated her life for so long, the simple idea of not having anyone tell her what to do was… intoxicating and paralyzing, all in one. And, unless it was especially extravagant, she could afford it. Just about anything she wanted.

And she didn’t know what that was. She’d spent years hiding out as a necromancer, years having her day-to-day routine controlled as a prisoner. She barely knew what she wanted anymore. Granted, since leaving necromancy behind, she wanted to rebuild herself from the ground up, but it didn’t give her anything more to do right now. Was she going to have to bumble around, trying things over again until she found out what she liked?

Bitterroot coughed, apparently having noticed Amanita’s struggle. “You, uh, just wanna get a coffee or something? I’ll pay.”

“You know what?” For the first time in a long time, Amanita smiled. “I think I’d like that.”

2 - We’ve Got Some Catching Up to Do

Bitterroot didn’t know if Oily Cake in the Crystal Empire and Donut Joe in Canterlot were related at all, with Cake being Joe’s great-great-great-great-whatever-grandmother thanks to the Empire’s chronal displacement, but she had her suspicions. The fact that the two were different pony tribes didn’t matter much; Bitterroot herself was a pegasus and had a unicorn for a father. Pony genetics were weird like that. Nor was she basing this on the fact that they simply both made donuts; plenty of ponies made donuts, even if those donuts weren’t quite as good. Not even their surprisingly similar colorations; several dozen generations of mixing could result in anything, and they had fairly neutral colors, besides.

No, she was interested in the ways both of their strawberry frostings had this wonderful little tang in them that she hadn’t tasted anywhere else. Oh, other donut shops tried, but it didn’t jump out at you the same way it did in Joe’s and Cake’s. The two frostings weren’t even that similar otherwise, but Bitterroot could always recognize that pop. Was it an original family recipe and a thousand years of refining that recipe? One way or another, she didn’t think it would be a coincidence.

That was what ran through her mind as she ordered her coffee and donut (strawberry-frosted, of course). She knew what she wanted, but she could see the exact moment Amanita was hit by panic from the size of the menu. Her eyes flicked slowly over a few lines, faster and faster down the next, then her ears started trembling. Luckily, she seemed to know what was going on and quickly settled on a regular glazed donut.

Then, to Bitterroot’s surprise, Amanita went straight for a cup of mulled cider. Large, too. Oily Cake’s cider was… solid, but nothing really special. Yet when they sat down, Amanita cradled her cup in both her hooves and her magic like it was a newborn baby made of glass and took the same slow, delicate sips from it one would some hyper-rare, hyper-expensive wine. Once the heat from her coffee was running through her body, Bitterroot asked, “No offense, but… cider? Not coffee?”

“We had coffee in jail,” said Amanita. “Being deprived of coffee would’ve been cruel and unusual punishment. But cider was a luxury. I haven’t had it in years. Circe didn’t like it.” She snorted. “Really should’ve been a warning sign. Who doesn’t like cider?” Another long, lingering sip.

“Heh. Right.”

One of the problems with being pen pals with somepony was that it was hard to tell what topics they didn’t like. In person, it was easy to press an issue, get rebuffed, and learn something. If she asked Amanita a question in a letter and Amanita ignored it, Bitterroot might forget which question she’d asked by the time she got the reply in two or three weeks. Still, she needed to get the conversation rolling somehow, and she might as well start with the obvious question. She kept her voice light as she asked, “So how was prison?” All the while, she prayed Amanita would see that as the joke it was.

She didn’t, but not in the way Bitterroot had expected. “Not that bad, actually,” said Amanita. “Security wasn’t that tight, so I had some freedoms, and I got to see a therapist.” She took a long drink of cider. “Either she was good at her job, I needed to just stop running, or both, but you know how I was a little ball of self-loathing when you last saw me? I managed to mostly wrestle that into submission. I still get nightmares, but it’s not all I can think about.”

“Yeah, you told me some of that.”

“Sorry.” Amanita’s face reddened. “I just- do better face-to-face than with letters. If I mess up now, I can tell you immediately. Not in letters.” She quickly stuck her muzzle in her cup.

Bitterroot took a sip of her own to give Amanita time. Already, she was less closed-off than she’d been before prison, or at least less fixated on her own guilt. Then again, the last time they’d talked talked, they’d just spent almost a week running through the Frozen North and fighting a lich. Maybe she’d just been tired. Either way, her mental health had vastly improved. She swallowed her coffee and said, “So, uh, what happened to Circe? I forgot.”

“She’s dead, thank the Princesses,” Amanita said. She almost sounded relieved. “Her phylactery was destroyed just after you left. Prince Shining Armor actually sent me a thank-you card for bringing it to him. Let me see if I can find it…” She levitated her bag to the table and started digging through it.

“Any chance of her coming back? Even if it’s from another necromancer?”

“No, also thank the Princesses. When a phylactery’s broken, you don’t just die. Your soul’s destroyed. You don’t even go to the afterlife; you just stop existing.”

“I might feel sorry for her if she wasn’t Circe.”

“I guess. Ma- Here we go.” Amanita pulled a card from her bag and passed it over to Bitterroot.

Bitterroot did a double-take. She’d expected a vague, generic card, something you picked up in a supermarket on the way home from work. What she saw was a beautiful miniaturized oil painting showing a smiling filly sitting in front of a dazed chimera with stars twirling around its heads. Above the picture were the (embossed!) words, Thank you for saving Equestria! She flipped it open; inside was hornwritten, Circe has been properly dealt with. Thank you for your help; I hope you find your peace of mind. —Prince-Captain Shining Armor

Shaking her head, Bitterroot passed the card back. “Did he have this custom-made or is Equestria’s card industry a lot weirder than I think?”

Amanita shrugged. “He’s Twilight Sparkle’s brother, right? He probably has a stockpile of them.” She nibbled at her donut for a second, then asked, “Speaking of Princess Twilight, did I hear right? Celestia and Luna have abdicated and she’s now ruling Equestria?”

“Yep. Her coronation was a few moons ago, and holy Tartarus, did it clog up the streets in Canterlot.”

Amanita nearly snorted her cider across the table. “Said the pegasus.”

“These-” Bitterroot opened her wings. “-didn’t help! Other pegasi were also there and they didn’t bother following any pinnaestrian traffic laws and that idiot was crossing the street at the wrong altitude, it’s not MY fault she-” She snapped her eyes shut, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly, closing her wings as she did so. She opened her eyes. “It was busy,” she said flatly.

“Kinda strange, isn’t it?” Amanita said quickly, taking the hint. “Celestia just up and retiring after millennia. Nothing against Princess Twilight, she’s just not Celestia. You’d think that she’d always be there. I mean, she’s Celestia! She’s the constant in this world if there is one.”

“So was Luna, until Nightmare Moon.”

“Eh. True.” Then Amanita frowned. “So, wait, if Luna’s also abdicating, who’s taking up dreams? Is Princess Twilight also doing that? Are we all just on our own? Or…” Her voice trailed off.

“What? Pfft. No.” Bitterroot snorted. “That’s Princess Moondog’s domain.”

Amanita’s face went blank. “Princess Who?”

“Moondog. You kno- Oh, right. You don’t. She’s…” Bitterroot rustled her wings and frowned at her coffee. What was the best way to describe this? Sometimes, she had trouble believing it herself. “She’s a dream automaton,” she said slowly, “built by Luna to… I don’t know if she was made to replace Luna or just to help Luna. Either way, Luna retired and Moondog took up her mantle. As far as I can tell, she does a good job. I guess Princess Twilight’s reign is gonna have some big changes.”

Amanita blinked. “…When… When did this happen?!”

“Eh, two years ago. I think.” Bitterroot wiggled a hoof and grinned apologetically. “Sorry, I’m a little fuzzy on the details.”

Amanita blinked again. “I- Our dreams are being protected by a one-year-old golem?”

“I just said she was two.”

Amanita hat-tricked her blinking streak. “…So how ’bout that weather, huh?”

They exchanged inane pleasantries for a little while, Bitterroot doing most of the leading. Amanita didn’t have much to talk about from her time in prison; ponies steered well clear of her after hearing she was a necromancer, so the last two years had been about as dull as you could hope for. Bitterroot was fine with that. She hadn’t expected much, anyway. Although there was one question that was nagging at her: “Is this a simple parole or is it some other kind of early release?”

“It’s not parole. No officer to report to and no restrictions on movement. I think Prince Armor talked with my therapist a lot to get a feel for how I was doing and might’ve pulled some strings.”

“Really?”

“Dumping a lich’s phylactery and the lich herself on his doorstep left an impression on him. That, or he’s learning from his sister.” Amanita shrugged. “Either way, I’m grateful.”

“Yeah. I’d be, too.” Bitterroot lapped at the last few dregs of coffee. “Do you have anywhere to go? ’Cause if you don’t, you can stay at my place.”

Amanita pulled into herself a little. “I don’t want to be a bother,” she said quietly. “I’ve got the money to-”

“I don’t care,” Bitterroot said flatly. “Do you want to live alone out of a hotel room for the rest of your life? Living on precooked meals every day, having to leave during the day so somepony else can clean the place, sleeping in a bed that’s had Celestia knows what happen in it? It’ll be prison all over again.”

“Could be worse,” Amanita mumbled.

“Could be better, too.”

“And when your neighbors hear you’re housing a necromancer?”

“The ones that would disapprove of me because of that already do because I’m a bounty hunter.”

“Is that most of them?”

Bitterroot opened her mouth, then snapped it shut. Her social skills weren’t the greatest, she knew. But you didn’t need the greatest social skills to see what was going on. All of these were decent excuses, but terrible reasons. There was something else going on, something Amanita didn’t want to admit. Maybe she was scared of it, maybe she didn’t want to bother Bitterroot, whatever. Everything she was saying was just a smokescreen in the hopes of dissuasion, pretty much grasping at straws.

Bitterroot leaned forward, propping herself up on her foreknees. “You know staying at my place won’t be a bother,” she said as kindly as she was able to. “Why don’t you want to?”

“It’s not that- There’s no-” Amanita bit her words back and sighed. “Because the last time I forced myself into somepony’s life, I got them killed and couldn’t bring them back,” she said distantly. “Before that, I’d been raping my dead marefriend’s mind without knowing it every time I called her up. I, I know neither of those was my fault, but…”

There it was. Something Amanita never would’ve been confronted with in prison. She’d been surrounded by ponies who she didn’t need to be friends with, had her needs for food and shelter met free of charge, and even gotten therapeutic help. She might’ve thought that she had her mental issues under control, only for them to return the second she was in a position where they mattered. It wasn’t like she’d depended on a friend to survive in prison.

“Look,” Bitterroot said lightly. “Maybe you think something bad’s going to happen to me, but I’ve already died. You were the one to kill me! It can’t get worse than that, right? But if it does, you’ll just bring me back anyway.”

“I guess,” Amanita said. But she grinned, just a little.

Bitterroot hid the silence from her thinking by taking a bite of donut. When she swallowed, she said, “How about this? You stay at my place for, I don’t know, two, three days. We’ll see how it works out and go from there. Okay?”

Amanita stared down into her cup. Bitterroot wanted to push her, but knew it’d be a bad idea. Amanita was going through a lot and snapping for an answer now was probably one of the worst things Bitterroot could’ve done. She didn’t know what having that… paranoia could do to a pony’s psyche. Just the thought that if you hung around somepony for too long, they’d get hurt. It might’ve been amazing that Amanita was thinking about this at all.

Then Amanita downed the rest of her cider in one gulp and nodded. “Sure. Let’s do that.”

“Alright.” Bitterroot stood up and flexed her wings. “Let’s get to the station. It’s a long trip to Canterlot.”

Everyone was staring at Amanita behind her back. She just knew it. It was obvious from her pallid coloration that she was a necromancer (and the facts that she’d had that color before taking up necromancy and that she wasn’t even the only pale pony on the platform didn’t matter). She whipped around to catch them-

But nopony was looking at her. Nopony was giving her a wide berth. She was just another pony.

Except she wasn’t.

Bitterroot emerged from the crowd. “Got the tickets,” she said. “Straight shot to Canterlot. It’ll take most of the day, so you got any place you want to sit?”

Amanita twitched and gave the crowd behind her another look. Still nobody was looking at her. “Uh… N-not really, no.”

“Observation car, got it. Come on.”

They walked through the train. Amanita found her gaze flicking back and forth. Nopony was looking at her any more than they would any other pony. She looked over her shoulder. Nothing.

They don’t know, she told herself. They don’t know.

Maybe they should.

Amanita imagined herself climbing onto a seat and yelling that she was a necromancer. The reactions of the other passengers ranged from a terrified mob lynching her to crickets. Weirdly, the crickets seemed more likely. Why would they believe her? What kind of idiot just proclaimed that she was a necromancer like that, out in the open? They’d probably think her drunk or joking. Maybe both.

But the truth would come out eventually and, if she wasn’t the one to reveal it, the needle would swing more towards the lynch mob. Run out of town, at best. And Amanita couldn’t blame them; she didn’t think she deserved it anymore, but at least the reaction was semi-understandable in a knee-jerk sort of way. The history books weren’t exactly teeming with nice necromancers. Or necromancers at all, really, unless you got into the weirder, darker parts of Equestria’s past.

If she ever settled down, when would be the best time to reveal her past?

They were in the rearmost car. “You ride trains a lot?” Bitterroot asked.

“Not really, no.” Only once or twice. Circe had claimed they could be tracked by their tickets. Amanita didn’t think so, but she’d learned to keep her mouth shut.

“I do. Love ’em. Flying’s nice, but it just doesn’t have the same… I don’t know, relaxedness of trains. You don’t need to work at it, and if you’re ever bored, just read a book or fall asleep.” Bitterroot flexed her wings and took a seat near the back of the carriage. “Just don’t get me started on them.”

Amanita sat across from her. “Why not?”

“ ’Cause I’ll never shut up. Like, this locomotive is a 4-6-2, which means-” Bitterroot clapped her hooves over her mouth and muttered, “No. Bad time.”

A piercing shriek filled the air as the whistle blew and the train lightly lurched. Outside, the station slowly began moving back. Bitterroot immediately looked out the window, as if this were the most interesting thing in the world. Amanita turned her attention to the other passengers.

They were ordinary, something that’d been missing from her life for a long time. They were doing plain, boring things: reading the newspaper, nibbling on a snack, trying to keep their foals corralled. The small, quiet actions of ponies without much in the way of issues or problems. Amanita found herself imagining doing those things, but it always felt like she was forcing those acts. Nothing ever really fit.

Except for one thing. Maybe.

Amanita found herself staring at a couple near the front of the car. A stallion and a mare were talking about something, easy, casual smiles on their faces. She was resting her head on his shoulder as he made gestures to punctuate his words. The two of them were holding hooves and their tails had gotten twisted together. They didn’t look at each other. They didn’t need to. They knew each other well enough to be alone together.

A pang jolted through Amanita’s heart. Love. That was something she missed. It was love that’d driven her to necromancy in the first place, after all.

Zinnia hadn’t been sweet. “Sweet” implied a certain naïveté. She’d known the ills of the world and had been delightful anyway. She’d been honest, both with herself and with others, without either being abrasive or sugarcoating things. That was probably why she’d been so accepting of her illness.

Amanita and Zinnia had first met in high school as freshmares. By the time they’d graduated, they were dating, even exchanging cheap lockets to remember each other. They didn’t have much money, either to move out or to go to college, so they’d started working odd jobs around town. For her “real” job, Zinnia wanted to be a florist. Amanita didn’t know what she wanted to be. Not until she first heard the news.

Zinnia got liver cancer. Just like that. No real reason. The universe had apparently decided it didn’t like her. It only took a few moons for her to be moved to hospice as her vitality evaporated and her body withered. Amanita’s special talent was related to healing magic. She could heal cuts and bruises in a few seconds, worse if she had more time. She could fix this, right?

With the confidence of every young adult who’d learned a little bit about a skill, Amanita threw herself into it, working day and night. She withdrew from society. Her performance at her job suffered. Her friends drifted away. She didn’t care. She needed to save Zinnia. She almost did it, plenty of times. Almost.

“Zinny, I think this could work-”

“Nita, stop burning yourself out-”

“No, listen, I really think-”

“Why are you the one figuring it out and not any of the doctors?”

“It WILL work!”

It didn’t work. It never did.

“Told you.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m grateful that you’re trying, but you need to face the truth.”

“I’m sorry, I just… I-it’s not FAIR, y-you sh-shouldn’t…”

“Oh, come here. It’s okay. You know I’ll always be with you, right?”

She was still there, if painfully thin with breathing tubes and an IV drip. Easy to believe then. Less so after her funeral barely two weeks later. If only Amanita had worked a bit harder… If only, if only, if only.

Zinnia’s family was supportive. Amanita didn’t know them very well, but she knew them well enough that they knew what she was going through. Amanita’s own, less so. They’d always been distant, never really caring much about her. Or each other, for that matter. Maybe it would’ve turned out okay if Amanita had just had a familiar shoulder to cry on, but she was left adrift and drowning in an ocean of grief.

Amanita had heard ponies drank to dull emotional pain. And so, on the evening of her nineteenth birthday a moon later, Amanita’s first real experience with alcohol was going to a bar and drinking herself into a stupor. She regained consciousness in an alley in a puddle of her own vomit. It hadn’t worked. She still despaired. Zinnia was still dead.

That was when Circe found her.

Amanita blinked herself back to reality and quickly looked away from the couple. It’d only been a few seconds, but it felt like much longer. Was Bitterroot staring at her zoning out? Not yet, no. She was watching the station lumber by, then disappear. As soon as the train was clear of the platform, Bitterroot got up. “I’m gonna be on the observation deck for a little,” she said, and sidled to the back of the carriage.

And suddenly, Amanita felt very alone.

Nopony had cared about her in prison except for someone who was paid to do so. She hadn’t minded at the time. But Bitterroot had seen her in action and still thought she was alright. They could chat. Not talk; that implied something meaningful. Just chat about… whatever. Cider. Coronations. The weather. Banks. Inane, but so what? It was like standing in a warm shower: pointless, but pleasant. Now that Bitterroot was “gone”, just about every other pony in the train would shun her if they ever figured out what she was.

Amanita wasn’t paranoid, thinking Bitterroot would vanish and leave her alone. Of course she wouldn’t, she was right there. It was more a realization than anything else. This entire car was the world in microcosm, a collection of ponies that didn’t care who she was now but would suddenly have a lot of opinions on her once someone said she was a necromancer. Even if they thought she was okay, they’d have their preconceptions and would likely walk on eggshells around her. She couldn’t even blame them. She was walking on eggshells around herself.

But not Bitterroot.

Bitterroot stood on the deck and let the wind tug at her mane and feathers. Amanita looked at her, at what she represented. She hadn’t been this connected to her when they were exchanging letters; why now? Why were all of these feelings suddenly exploding to the forefront when she thought she’d vanquished them already?

Simple: she literally hadn’t known what she was missing.

It was almost in a daze that Amanita stumbled onto the deck. She wanted to be near a friend.

Bitterroot nodded at her and didn’t say anything beyond a vague, “Hey.” Amanita nodded back, but inside, some part of her cringed. Fear had driven her out when she’d just been alone on a train car. She knew so little about normal ponies, it was like she was starting life anew, which sounded grand until it happened to you. And she was paranoid of being found out because of her past, something she couldn’t change. Even if she adjusted, figured out the best way to play nice with everypony else, would Equestria have a place for her?

Well. One way or another, she’d find out.

Civilization vanished into the distance as the train streaked across the Frozen North.

3 - Speed Bumps

Amanita took several long minutes to gawk at Canterlot’s main train station. She turned on the spot, staring up at the glass arches and iron trusses that made up the roof, at the walkways crossing the tracks, at the observation platforms for pegasi hanging from the ceiling. Bitterroot knew the feeling and she still snorted. “Haven’t you ever been to Canterlot before?”

“No. I grew up in Grassham and I’ve never been further east than Des Maines or further south than Thunder Basin.”

“Oh. Huh. …You, uh, wanna stay and look? I’m fine with that.”

Amanita’s tail twitched. “Um, no, we, we should probably get going.”

“Alright. Come on.”

Modern-day high-speed rail was something else, but it’d still been a long trip from the Crystal Empire and the sun was setting. Canterlot was in the last throes of rush hour: still a bit busier than usual, but not to the point of inducing madness anymore. As Bitterroot led them through the streets, Amanita kept lagging behind to stare at this or that. Even if “this” was just a donut shop. Canterlot’s architecture wasn’t like anything else in Equestria, true, but Bitterroot was used to it. Having somepony else boggle at one of the plainer fountains was weird. “You want to take a tour of the city tomorrow?” she asked.

“Maybe,” said Amanita, tearing herself away from a set of cobblestones. “This place is amazing.”

“Eh.” Bitterroot shrugged. “You get used to it.”

They entered Bitterroot’s neighborhood, a not-particularly-special place that she still loved nonetheless. It wasn’t far to her house, especially since Amanita was stopping to stare less and less. When they reached their destination, Bitterroot pulled open her mailbox to retrieve her mail and newspaper. “It’s not much,” she said, tucking everything under a wing, “but it’s home. Come on.” She put a hoof on her walk.

A black shape suddenly fell from the sky and onto Bitterroot’s railing. “Bread?” squawked Lenore.

“I’m getting to it,” said Bitterroot. She reached out to try and pet her, but as usual, Lenore just hopped away and made angry unfed raven noises at her.

“This is Lenore,” Bitterroot said to Amanita. “She’s learned to ask ponies like me for food and hangs around looking judgmental when we don’t give it to her.”

“Oh. Um, hello, Lenore?” Amanita asked. She tentatively extended her hoof; Lenore gave a sort of throaty gurgle and hopped up to let Amanita rub her. “How come she can talk?”

Bitterroot gave Amanita a Look. “Didn’t you know? Ravens can imitate pony speech pretty well. She’s just learned that when she makes that sound, she’ll probably get bread.”

Amanita scratched Lenore’s head; the raven rumbled happily and ruffled her feathers. “No, I didn’t know that.”

“Huh. Well, now you do.”

Inside, Bitterroot tossed her coat onto a hook. “You’re free to go anywhere,” she said. “My house is your house. Bathroom’s over there, and I hope you don’t mind sleeping on the couch.” She dropped the mail and newspaper on the dining room table and opened the fridge. What did they have to eat?

“Couch is fine. Just one bedroom?”

“Two, really, but only one bed. Other bedroom’s a storage-”

“Holy Celestia.”

At Amanita’s tone of voice, Bitterroot’s head shot up in surprise and she banged it against a shelf. Rubbing her head, she turned to Amanita, who was staring at the newspaper with big eyes. “There’s a… a serial killer in Canterlot?” she whispered.

Bitterroot didn’t need to look at the headline to know what she was talking about.

A pony had been found dead one morning in an upper-class neighborhood three weeks ago. At first, it’d just seemed like a murder. Those were rare enough in Canterlot, particularly that area, to get the Guard’s attention to begin with. Then, a mere three days later, another body turned up, killed in a similar way; for some reason, the papers saw fit to give them a neat sobriquet. Then another victim, three more days later. And again. And again. And again. Curfews had been implemented — nopony going outside from 11 PM to 5 AM — and Canterlot was quieting down, growing more still and anxious. It wasn’t anything a tourist would notice and there was nothing specific Bitterroot could point to, but everything was just a little bit more fearful. Tension was slowly ratcheting up and what little of Canterlot’s nightlife there still was was growing quieter and quieter. And there were barely any clues.

“Yeah,” Bitterroot said soberly. “The paper calls her the Mearhwolf of the Mountain. Seven ponies dead in three weeks.”

“Eight,” Amanita said quietly. “They… found another body.” She held up the paper to show the front page.

A knot formed in Bitterroot’s stomach. Right on time. “Well… eight, then. The Royal Guard doesn’t know anything and they’ve posted a bounty for whoever has information. Twenty-five thousand bits for a good lead. A hundred thousand if you can prove who it is. I’m… kind of after the hundred grand.”

“Bounty hunters gonna bounty hunt, right?” Amanita gave the paper one last look, shuddered, and dropped it on the table. She levitated the sports section out and buried her muzzle in it, upside-down. “Any luck?”

“No. Not even for the twenty-five thousand.” Bitterroot sighed and shook her head. “I’m not gonna lie, I’m kind of worried. Not scared, but… what if the killings just stop one day and whoever this is just gets away with it? I think I’d feel… responsible, you know? It’s kind of my job to help catch runaway criminals, and now that I’m set on catching this one, if she escapes… I don’t know.”

“I’m sure they’ll find her. Or you will. One of those two,” Amanita said, convincing neither of them.

Bitterroot usually tried to stay optimistic — optimism and realism went hoof-in-hoof in Equestria — but it was hard to do that after seeing a killer strike casually like this for two weeks. Eventually, you were just lying to yourself and had to face facts. Speaking of facing facts, she pulled the paper over to her and forced herself to look at the headline for the first time. Eighth Pony Found Dead in-

Her mind changed gears so quickly she didn’t finish reading. Her head snapped up and she stared at Amanita. At the paper. At Amanita.

Holy crow, this was perfect. “Amanita,” she said slowly. “Amanita, I’ve got an idea.”

“Yeah? What is it?”

Bitterroot didn’t say anything, just held up the newspaper and grinned.

Amanita looked at the front page for a few moments. The second she got it, her eyes doubled in size and she backed up. “No,” she hissed, giving quick little shakes of the head. The tip of her horn swished through the air like a sword. “No no no no no no no no no.”

“Look,” said Bitterroot. “She’s a victim of a spree killer. You’re a necromancer.” She made a “duh” face and spread her legs and wings wide.

Amanita’s voice rose in pitch and her tail grew restless. “Ex-necromancer, and I’m a convicted felon. Because of necromancy! What, are we just going to walk into the Guard’s barracks and go, ‘hey, here’s a necromancer who wants to work for you’?”

“Worth a shot. No, seriously, it is. You know Princess Twilight’s deal, right? She wouldn’t just accept you, she’d probably take you in as an apprentice or something. And you’ve already served your time. If you get arrested again, I’ll find a way to get Shining Armor screaming at them. And that’d probably result in Twilight screaming at them, which… yeah.”

“I did some really terrible things as a necromancer. Want me to tell you?”

“No, because you won’t do it again, so it matters as much as what I had for breakfast a year ago.”

“I don’t-” Her ears back and her eyes glinting, Amanita glared at Bitterroot and growled, “Look, Bitterroot, for Celestia’s sake, I am not a necromancer anymore, okay? I just-” She looked away and mumbled, “Can we… not talk about this? Please?”

Bitterroot immediately winced inside as her mind caught up with her emotions. What had she been thinking? Hey, you know the thing you just got out of prison for doing? Let’s do it again! And that was the least offensive way of saying it. Sure, just go and rub your friend’s face in the thing she loathed remembering. Bitterroot wanted to say that if she was Amanita, she’d jump at the chance to save ponies like this, but if she was Amanita, she’d be saddled with trauma she didn’t notice now. It’d be like if somepony else reminded her of… She didn’t have anything remotely close to that. Nothing she regretted so badly that she was willing to be imprisoned over it. Yeesh.

“Right, sorry,” said Bitterroot. She self-consciously rustled her wings. “I…” Her stomach gave a tiny gurgle and she switched trains of thought so abruptly she risked derailing. “You want pizza for dinner? It’s probably been a while since you had pizza.”

Amanita’s ears went up and she turned back to Bitterroot. “Pizza sounds nice.”

Bitterroot had plenty of frozen pizzas to choose from. Truth be told, there was probably something wrong with how many she had at any one time. But if she worked late, she could just throw a pizza in the oven, set the timer, and not worry about anything else. It was quick and easy, and that made up for how bad it was to her body. Less than half an hour later, the two ponies were pigging out on slices of frozen four-cheese pizza (one of the better brands, luckily). Amanita seemed to have her mouth perpetually full.

When they talked, during dinner and after, Bitterroot did her best to steer clear of the Mearhwolf and anything relating to necromancy. She actually managed a stellar job, focusing mostly on what Canterlot was like. She’d never talked to somepony who knew this little about Canterlot before. After a while, she felt like she was rambling on about nothing, but Amanita hung off her every word.

It didn’t seem like long, but suddenly it was dark and Amanita said, “Hey, um, since I’m sleeping on the couch, do you have any blankets and pillows? It might-”

“Yeah, sure, hang on.” Bitterroot quickly retrieved a nice set of thick blankets and a spare pillow. Passing them over to Amanita, she asked, “Why? You’re tired already?”

“No, but I will be in ten minutes,” Amanita said as she laid out the blankets. “I had a schedule beaten into me.”

Bitterroot’s wings sprang open and her eyes went wide. “Wait, what-”

“Not literally!” Amanita yelped. “Not, not literally. I, I mean, I- Just schedules. Everything in prison ran on schedules and I’m… really used to… Yeah. Not literally. Nooooo.” Her grimace was probably supposed to be a smile. “Who’d risk beating a necromancer, anyway?” she muttered.

“Right. Got it.” Bitterroot swallowed. “Speaking of which, I, um, I’m sorry for… bringing up necromancy earlier tonight.”

Amanita immediately turned to the sofa, blinking and fluffing her pillow mechanically. Bitterroot shuffled from hoof to hoof and unclasped her wings, continuing, “With the Mearhwolf. I really should’ve known that you wouldn’t like talking about it. I mean, with… everything. I…” She rubbed one of her forelegs. “I wasn’t thinking. Sorry.”

Closing her eyes, Amanita took a deep breath through her nose. She gazed at the wall and said, “You know what? Thank you. Really.” There wasn’t a trace of sarcasm in her voice. “You’re probably the only pony in the world who could do that. Know I’m a necromancer and not care. And after I spent years hiding out because I was a necromancer, I-” With a swallow, she turned to Bitterroot. Her eyes glistened. “I shouldn’t’ve gone off on you like that-”

“No, I deserved it,” Bitterroot said quickly, “I wasn’t thinking-”

“I don’t care. You knew I was a necromancer and you took me in and- And a roof over my head and a friend is worth a few thoughtless remarks here and there.” Blink. “I, I mean I forgive you, no offense,” Amanita added quickly, turning slightly pink.

“None taken. It’s just karma.”

Amanita nodded, then rubbed the back of her neck. “Besides, you… have a point. I could bring that pony back. But I’m… not really ready to just… instantly jump in like that.”

“Want me to shut up about it until you are ready?”

“…Yeah.”

“Right. Shutting up.” Bitterroot mimed zipping her mouth shut. “Speaking of changing the subject, do you need more blankets?”

Amanita shook her head. “Don’t think so. Maybe?”

“There’s a linen closet right over there. Take whatever you need.”

True to her word, Amanita was out like a light in ten minutes. She lay sprawled across the sofa, breathing deeply, not snoring at all. Bitterroot occasionally glanced up from her book to look at her. If Amanita was having any nightmares, she definitely didn’t look it.

Bitterroot worked a crink out of her wings and walked over to the kitchen, where the newspaper was still sitting on the counter. She skimmed through the article on the latest Mearhwolf victim, one Cobalt Shine. It was the usual. What was it like, to have to repeatedly write articles about ponies dying to a spree killer?

And suddenly, Bitterroot felt tired. Burned out. Tired for herself, who’d been exhaustively digging through dead ends. Tired for the Guard, who were probably analyzing dirt in the hopes of finding something. Tired for the newspaper writers, who had to keep repeated murder interesting enough to sell without turning lurid or sensationalistic. Tired for everyone in Canterlot, who had no end in sight. And tired for Amanita, who’d had her traumatic past casually brought up by an unthinking absolute tool.

She wanted to go to bed. She wanted to go to bed and wake up and have everything be hunky-dory. Part of her said to give Twilight a year, she’d work it out. Unfortunately, she was tired now. Even then, before she went to bed, there was one last thing she needed to do.

Shaking her head, Bitterroot dug through her junk drawer and pulled out a pair of scissors. She sat down at the table and began snipping out the headline as she fought a desire to dream the night away.

She didn’t have a clock, but Amanita knew it was 6:28 AM when she woke up. She pushed herself up and rolled off the left side of her cot, only to bump into the back of the sofa, because it wasn’t her cot and the left side of it wasn’t open.

The sofa was comfortable beneath her. If she wanted to, she could go back to sleep. She had the time. Did she have the ability, though? She hadn’t slept this soundly in years — psychologically or physically — and might’ve been too well-rested to get to sleep. Although… she didn’t need to sleep. She could just lie on the sofa until… whenever, really. The thought was terrifying and she loved it. So Amanita just lay there, eyes closed, thinking about nothing.

But eventually, she got restless. She kicked off her blankets and cautiously walked over to the window, feeling her way through the dim light. The clouds outside were orange on their bottoms, but the roofs of Canterlot were still dark. It wouldn’t be long before the sun cleared the horizon. When did Bitterroot usually get up? Amanita didn’t have much to do, but she didn’t want to wake her up, either. There was no quicker way of getting kicked out of a place than preventing your host from having a good night’s sleep. She settled for familiarizing herself with the house some more.

After prison, fluffy carpets that didn’t immediately chill your hooves were a blessing. Amanita dragged her hooves as she walked, letting the fabric trail across her frogs. Her eyes had adjusted to the near-dark by now, so she could at least see well enough to not bump into anything. She trod lightly through the house.

The first floor was nothing special, a small place for a small family. Living room, kitchen, dining room, bathroom, closed (but not locked) doors. The backyard had two trees, one of which looked like an apple tree, with a hammock strung between them, and a small patio with table and chairs for when it was warm enough to eat outside. Amanita almost went upstairs, but when the first step squeaked, she nixed that idea. Still didn’t want to wake Bitterroot up.

She tried some of the closed doors. One was just a closet for cold-weather clothes. The second one was too dark to see, even with the window, so Amanita lit her horn. A paper disaster area of a room confronted her, an organizer’s worst nightmare. Sheets with nigh-illegible scribbles were scattered across the floor and the short stacks on the one desk were uneven. There was a cork board along one wall that fared a little better, but not by much. A map of what was probably Canterlot hung on one wall, eight X’s clearly marked in red in two loose circles inside each other.

Amanita was about to look at one of the papers when she stopped. This was probably an office, someplace personal. She shouldn’t be here. Although… if Bitterroot didn’t want her in here, she’d’ve said something, right? She’d specifically said, You’re free to go anywhere without adding except this room right here. Plus, Bitterroot still wasn’t up yet and Amanita needed something to do. (She would later contend that she hadn’t woken up as fully as she’d thought.)

She pushed a little bit more light from her horn to get a better look at the board. It was crisscrossed with strings connecting little sheets of scrap paper. Once Amanita was able to decipher the chicken scratch, it said things like Drafton — enemies? EVERYONE loved him or Hole-in-the-Wall: patrons knew nothing or Guard gave me everything they had: nothing. It started out something vaguely resembling neat, with consistent lines and clean cuts, but some of the more recent “signs” had clearly been scribbled in anger, even punching through the paper entirely at one point, and the paper itself roughly cut.

In one corner of the board, separate from everything else, were yesterday’s headline and seven articles with pictures of ponies next to them. Some of them were flat and old, some of them were wrinkled and looked like they’d been pinned recently. Amanita read a few words from one and sucked in a breath.

They were all obituaries. And it wasn’t hard to guess why those ponies had died.

“Amanita?”

Amanita jumped at the voice and her light winked out as she spun around. Bitterroot was standing in the door, her head very beddy, her eyes glazed. “I, I’m sorry,” gasped Amanita. “I didn’t mean-”

“Y’re fine,” Bitterroot slurred. “Y’can be in ’ere. I’m jus’ s-s-s-” She yawned, arching her back and flexing her wings. “Just surprised,” she mumbled. “What’re you doing up?”

“Full night’s rest. Your sofa’s comfier than a prison cot.”

“Good, good.” Bitterroot nodded vaguely, like she hadn’t really heard what was said, but her eyes were sharp after she blinked a few times.

“What’s, uh…” Amanita gestured vaguely at the articles. “Why do you have these obituaries up?”

“Keeps me grounded.” Bitterroot rubbed her eyes. “Two years ago, I captured a lich. That’s the sorta thing that gets you… all puffed up, like a beach ball. Now I’m hunting a spree killer, the big classic crime drama thing. I don’t want to turn into some glory hound, hunting down big names solely because it’ll make me a big name. I want to stop stuff like this.” She pointed at one obituary. “This one? He was stabbed in the back twenty-six times. Twenty-six. What sort of- thing does that? I know I can’t bring him back, but I can stop it from happening to somepony else.”

Twenty-six times. Sweet Celestia. Somepony capable of doing that — repeatedly — was just running around Canterlot. Like Circe had done. Except this was apparently Just Because. Amanita was glad she’d gotten enough sleep, because she didn’t think she was going to be able to sleep tonight.

Maybe Bitterroot was right about what she’d said yesterday.

Bitterroot was still talking. “Sorry to lay that on you first thing.” She ran a hoof through her mane and yawned again. “You hungry? I’m hungry. You want eggs? I’m making eggs.” She unsteadily turned around and loped over to the kitchen.

“Uh…” Amanita heard herself saying. “Two. Fried. Sunny-side up.” It’d been a while since she’d had eggs.

“Two sunny-side ups, coming right up.”

Within seconds, the sound of a stove came through the doorway. Not long after, the sizzle of frying eggs. Amanita couldn’t pull herself away from the board. In fact, she leaned in closer, looking at the column Bitterroot had pointed at. It was a lanky, not-quite-middle aged pegasus stallion who somehow made sitting in a tree look debonair. Several twigs were artfully arranged in his mane and his coats, natural and artificial both, boasted a thin, patchy layer of dirt. She read the obituary.

Drafton died on Grain Moon 22, 1004. He was a fast friend to make, always making things easy for those around him. He taught these same values to his children. He loved spending time outdoors and was a summer camp counselor in White Tail Woods. Although he didn’t have the same connection to the land as earth ponies, he loved gardening…

Amanita swallowed and stopped reading. She almost left then, but she found herself going to the next article. A buckball mom of a unicorn, dumpy but friendly-looking, brightly colored, eyepatched. Her shirt looked like it’d been poorly tie-dyed by foals.

Dame Lilac Shade was taken to Elysium on Grain Moon 16, 1004. She is preceded in death by her husband, Musgrave, and their daughter, Juno. She first met Musgrave on a equitarian trip to the Badlands in 984. They stayed in touch when she left and, with her family’s assistance, he moved to Canterlot three years later. They married in 988. Juno was born to them…

Next one. A young earth pony, sharply dressed and impeccably groomed, grinning like he’d just won the lottery. His suit was pristine and a collegiate pin was stuck in his lapel, still glinting from a recent polish.

Caraway, 10/25/976 — 3/25/1004. His mission in life was to understand the supernatural world. He had recently earned a PhD in Theoretical Transformational Thaumatics from Canterlot Institute of Arcana and was due to leave for a job with the Hockheed Corporation in Los Ambeles in a week. He had advanced through school quickly and always enjoyed a mental challenge. In his AP classes…

The pictures and text were getting blurry; Amanita blinked to clear her eyes.

Next one. A slender, older unicorn with a well-weathered body and a loose stance, her dull, ashy coat contrasting dramatically with her bright eyes and sparkling smile. Her hat had the specific rattiness of a favorite hat worn for ages. She was holding up an oil painting of a mountain range at night, the aurora crystalis twisting through the skies above.

In loving memory of Silverbird. We miss you already.

Next-

“Amanita! Eggs’re ready!”

“Coming!” Amanita gave the board one last look before wiping her eyes down and ripping herself away.

Her eggs had the bland, pleasant familiarity of well-made, unadulterated eggs. Her orange juice had that little tangy punch of good orange juice (no pulp, too!). Both had been in short supply in prison, but she didn’t pay them much attention. Her thoughts wouldn’t let her.

I know I can’t bring him back. Bitterroot had still been too woozy to choose those words as a guilt-trip, but they gnawed at Amanita all the same. She probably couldn’t bring most of them back, not if their bodies were too far gone. After spending this much time in the afterlife, they might not want to come back to the trials of life, anyway. But anyone in the future? She could do that. As long as she was willing to dive headfirst into a life she’d sworn to leave behind.

Her history of necromancy clung to her like an oil stain. She wasn’t feeling any compulsion to use it, like other forms of dark magic, but Amanita knew enough of what it could be used for to find it repulsive. She’d seen horrible things, done horrible things herself completely by accident through wilful ignorance when she played with death. The mere thought of involving herself in that depravity again churned her stomach.

And yet.

Not all of necromancy was a crime against nature. Amanita had saved Bitterroot’s life with it. She’d almost saved a hapless ranger’s life with it, foiled only by outside circumstances. She would never, in a million years, make herself a lich or build an undead horde. She was just bringing murder victims back to life or giving them one last word with their families. It wasn’t harmful. Couldn’t be. And she’d never be tempted by anything more.

But she still remembered the thralls and enslavement of souls that had been Circe’s stock and trade. She couldn’t think about necromancy and not remember that. Her own involvement in that, however unknowing. Again, it made her skin crawl. Necromancers were feared for a reason, after all. Just because she was a necromancer didn’t mean she wasn’t afraid of them. Including herself? Especially herself, because she knew exactly all the terrible things she could do. She’d been comfortable with puppeting the dead once; the last thing she wanted was for that to happen again. No, the memories couldn’t harm her. That didn’t mean rolling around in them was any less unpleasant.

Or would doing good exorcise those demons?

And if it didn’t, was she willing to hurt herself to save somepony else?

“You’re quiet,” Bitterroot said. She took a nibble of her eggs.

“So’re you,” Amanita said. She took a sip of her juice.

“Hmm.”

There wasn’t enough morning energy for much more. Silverware clinked against glazed ceramic. Eggs were eaten. Toast was buttered. Juice was drunk.

“Bitterroot?”

“Yeah?”

“Let’s talk to the Guard.”

4 - Insert Tab Necromancy Into Slot Death

If you knew the right ponies, the Royal Guard was one of the most easily accessible organizations in Equestria. If. Fortunately, in Bitterroot’s case, that condition evaluated to “true”. Knowing the right ponies to talk to in order to find somepony else was an important skill to have, whether you were looking for a runaway in a dive bar or a warrant officer in a barracks. Bitterroot strode through the grounds of Canterlot Castle with the unthinking confidence of somepony who knew exactly where she was going.

Amanita, on the other hoof…

Amanita kept looking around like she expected somepony to jump out and stab her. She’d walk a few steps, then whip around to look behind her. She tried to look casual, but her motions were jittery, her eyes kept darting around, and she was holding her head low to make herself smaller. Bitterroot was surprised she couldn’t hear her heartbeat.

“You okay?” Bitterroot asked.

At least Amanita didn’t explode in shock. “Fine,” she muttered in a high-pitched voice. “Nervous. Habit. Paranoid. I’m a necromancer walking into a military base, what’d you expect? I, I, I’ll get over it.” Swallow. “In time.”

Uh-huh. Sure.

When Amanita started strategically walking so Bitterroot would shield her from the gaze of somepony who looked important, Bitterroot flapped to get in front of her and brought them both to a halt. “You’re moving like everypony in this place hates you and wants to kill you. That’s… Are you sure you want to do this?”

“No, but I want to try. I’m never going to not know necromancy, so I might as well own it, right?” Amanita smiled weakly. “Maybe it’ll give me something to remember besides the lowest point in my life.”

“But… seriously, like this?”

“It’s, I don’t think this’ll change.” Amanita’s head shakes were short and quick. “I’ll always panic around guards unless I can confront it head-on, and-”

“Amanita,” Bitterroot said softly. It wasn’t a tone she was used to using, but she managed. “Are you okay? Be honest. Please.”

“I…” Amanita’s voice trailed off. She wasn’t that much shorter than Bitterroot, but she looked small. Not unassuming-small; vulnerable-small. Just the way she held herself looked like a nervous foal expanded to an adult’s body, no one thing clearly marking her as nervous. To an outsider, it was a miracle that she was standing in a rough wind, let alone here at all.

Yet she still managed to look Bitterroot in the eyes when she said, “Can… Can you please just trust me? It’s… I don’t know if I can describe it, sorry. Just, with everything going on, I, I need to head in here, now.”

For a brief moment, Bitterroot entertained the idea of demanding Amanita try to describe it, just so they could be on the same level. Then she kicked that idea out, because: “Of course I trust you. I let you kill me.” (Amanita flinched, but nopony else seemed to notice.) “Come on, then.” She turned around and continued walking. “And if you change your mind and want to get out, the safe word is ‘kumquat’.”

Amanita snorted.

Things calmed down a little once they got inside the castle; less enlisted ponies in armor, more officers in service uniform. It didn’t change what they were, but it definitely made them look less threatening, and when Bitterroot glanced over her shoulder, Amanita’s stride was a little looser. Good.

The pegasus clerk at the desk glanced up when she heard them approach and gave them the casual nod of familiarity. “Hey, Bitterroot.”

Bitterroot nodded back. Whenever she worked with the Guard, she ran into this particular pony a lot. “Hey, Graphite. I-”

“Still looking for the Mearhwolf? You weren’t in here yesterday — first time we actually got some new evidence, believe it or not, hang on.” Graphite pulled open a drawer and began rummaging through it. “Had instructions to give it to any bounty hunters who came in, so of course that’s when the trickle stopped… Aha.” She pulled out a sheet of paper with an arcanocopied picture of a bar token on it and passed it over to Bitterroot. “Found that at the crime scene, near the victim’s body. Pretty sure the Guard’s already gone over it with a fine-toothed comb, but…” She shrugged.

Bitterroot grabbed the paper and stuffed it in her saddlebags without looking at it. “Thanks, but I’m actually here for something else.”

“Mmhmm.” Graphite leaned to one side. “Your friend? Never seen her before.”

“First time in Canterlot,” said Amanita. She coughed and stepped forward; Bitterroot scooched aside. “Hi. Um. I’m Amanita, and I’d… I’d like to offer my… services in catching the Mearhwolf.”

“You and everypony else,” muttered Graphite. A sigh, and she slipped into the specific enunciations of memorization and repetition. “Look, ma’am, it’s not that the Guard doesn’t want the help, but we’ll need more than just ‘I’ll keep an eye out’ or ‘I know a thing or two about this neighborhood’. We have good ponies working on this and a glut of offers that, to be honest, don’t really provide much help. Thank you, but-”

Amanita spoke up. “A-actually-” (Graphite twitched, like she hadn’t been prepared for an interruption.) “-I have… Um. I have… skills that nopony else has.”

“Uh-huh. And what are those?”

Bitterroot felt her wings tense up as Amanita continued. “Well, it’s, just, I…” Swallow. “I’m a necromancer.”

Graphite grinned. “Heh. Cool. For real, though, what skills?”

Amanita’s ears twitched. “This isn’t a joke.” Her voice had grown a little firmer. “I’m a necromancer. I can call up the Mearhwolf’s victims, ask them questions, give their family some peace of mind, maybe even bring some back.”

“Eh-heh.” Graphite’s laugh had a cynical edge. “So, what, you picked up an illegal branch of magic to help ponies, is that it?”

“Well-” Ear flick. “Not, not originally, no. But I’ve served my time for it and I want to-”

“Look, we’re busy-” (Bitterroot looked behind them; no line.) “-so cool it with your game and-”

Bitterroot stepped forward and nudged Amanita aside. “Look,” she said. “Graphite. You know me. And remember Circe?”

“Oh, sure, that lich.” Graphite nodded. “You brought her in… three years ago, right?”

“Two. And do you remember what else?”

“Sure. There was another necromancer who-” Graphite suddenly sat up straight, staring at Amanita. She stared at Bitterroot. At Amanita again. At Bitterroot again. She pointed at Amanita and opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

“Yeah. That’s her,” Bitterroot said. “She was released yesterday.”

“Re- Really.” Graphite sounded like she didn’t know whether to be skeptical or terrified. “She’s a necromancer.” She pointed at Amanita, who forced out a grin and waved halfheartedly.

“She is. She killed me and brought me back. Or did you think that this scar suddenly just appeared one day?” Bitterroot held her chin up and traced the crescent on her throat.

Graphite looked at Bitterroot’s scar with new eyes. She looked briefly at Amanita and her throat tightened. When she spoke again, her voice shook. “Um, o… kay,” she said, “I’ll, um, h-have to… get you… a-approved. Why don’t, why don’t you… uh, take a seat?” She motioned towards a set of chairs and quickly scurried into the offices.

Bitterroot was about to take a seat to wait when Amanita coughed. “Um, listen,” she said, “thank you for the, uh, for the help, but, but you don’t need to stay here. I can do this and you gave me that spare key of yours. You… go off bounty hunting, following that lead, and… stuff.”

“You’re sure?” Bitterroot asked. “You seem-”

“I’m fine,” Amanita said, a bit too quickly. “I, I need to do this on my own. Just to… get on my feet, you know?”

Bitterroot raised an eyebrow. “Do you need to do it alone?”

Amanita didn’t have an answer for that.

Sigh. “But if you really think so…” Bitterroot stepped away. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

“Yeah. Um.” Amanita nodded. “Thanks for… getting me this far, at least.” She smiled a little, then slumped into one of the nearby chairs to wait.

Bitterroot inched out of the castle, keeping her eyes on Amanita. But Amanita never got up. She probably ought to press the issue, she knew, but Bitterroot had never been a ponies pony. She couldn’t bring herself to and she wouldn’t know how to do it anyway.

What she was, though, was a bounty hunter. Bitterroot pulled the evidence sheet from her saddlebags and examined the picture. A bar token, shiny and new, but with little flecks of dirt on it. A typed note at the bottom said it’d been found on the ground near the victim, possibly dropped by the Mearhwolf. Bitterroot wasn’t so sure — anyone could happen to drop a bar token on the street — but it was still possible. On one side, a pony hoof, a griffon claw, and a dragon claw clinked frothing mugs together. On the other, the token was clearly marked as a two-bit one (ha ha). Not a lot of beers there, but useful for change.

Then Bitterroot noticed the bar name emblazoned around the border of the denominational side: Hangnail.

Huh. The Hangnail. Who would’ve thought? Even if Bitterroot hadn’t been starved for evidence, this would’ve been interesting. Nopony who lived in that part of Canterlot would be found dead in the Hangnail, partly because they didn’t know where it was, assuming they’d even heard of it. Yes, this was actually something, finally. Bitterroot stuffed the paper back into her saddlebags and took flight. Time to head to the Roost.

Everyone was either staring at her or going out of their way to not stare at her and Amanita wasn’t sure which was worse.

Starers: Well, ponies were staring at you. Nopony liked that. These particular ponies were like paparazzi chasing a shamed celebrity, freely and openly taking in someone else’s misfortune. Except Amanita didn’t have any misfortune, just a history. Staring at her like they would a convicted felon, then. Which… fair. Ish. She’d changed, but when was the last time a necromancer had changed? The assurance that she was totally one in a million wasn’t that great with the weight of the other nine hundred ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred ninety-nine against it.

Not-starers: So they weren’t looking at you. A good start. But they were so conspicuous about it, you knew they were thinking about you. They’d decided to stop by a gruesome train accident, only to chicken out and not look at the last moment, but hadn’t chickened out enough to walk away. Or maybe they’d already formed their own conceptions about her and thought she was worse than a sleeping dragon, then, a beast that might lash out and kill anyone nearby at the slightest nudge. For Celestia’s sake, no. If she was that violent, why would she walk into the one place in Canterlot where most of the staff were, effectively, trained killers? Any one of the ponies here could probably take her down on their own, let alone all of them at once.

And if she just up and walked away, ponies would talk. They’d know she was a necromancer, but she wouldn’t have done anything to give them a reason to think she wasn’t the usual necromancer. She would’ve come here for nothing. She’d have given up at the first sign of difficulty. No, she had to sit and both get stared at and get definitely-not stared at until someone came to talk to her.

Deep breath. She could do this.

Graphite returned, looking shaken but less so than when she’d left. “Um.” Cough. “There’s a… meeting between… the right officials to see… um, to see… if…”

“To see if they can trust a necromancer?” Amanita asked.

“Ehm. Yes.” Graphite looked embarrassed and relieved at the same time. “When they make a decision, they’ll come for you. But that… might take a while. I don’t know how long.”

Sigh. “Alright. Thanks.”

Graphite nodded stiffly, hesitated, and returned to her desk. Amanita settled in to wait.

And wait she did. She waited and waited and waited for what felt like hours — and when she looked at the clock, actually was nearly three hours. Big discussion, then, but what else had she expected? Everyone was either still looking at her or still resolutely looking away. It got her used to ponies knowing she was a necromancer, but still. With a sigh, she glanced down the hallway. Then she sat up straight as her attention was drawn to a pair of ponies walking in her direction: a big, fully-armored unicorn guardstallion with the stocky build of an earth pony and a bespectacled, uniformed earth mare half a head shorter than Amanita herself. Ponies were stepping out of the way for them and the guard was talking animatedly to the mare. “-really need to think this through, ma’am,” he said. Then he added, “With all due respect.”

“The committee already has,” she replied without looking at him.

“…And you’re still going through with this? Even though she’s a necromancer?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t find it suspicious that we’re dealing with a spree killer and then a necromancer just happens to show up, claiming to want to help?”

“Given the details? No.”

“You’re-” The guard rubbed his head. “I want to find the Mearhwolf as much as you do, but this is going too far. She’s a necromancer, she has to be up to something.”

“No, she doesn’t. We’ve made our decision and I’ve made mine.”

“YOU CAN’T TRUST HER!” roared the guard. “WHO KNOWS WHAT SHE’LL-”

The mare looked him dead in the eye. “You do not yell at me.”

She didn’t raise her voice, but everyone stopped and looked in her direction.

“Yes’m,” the guard said, promptly snapping into a position of attention and looking straight ahead. “Apologies, ma’am. Won’t happen again.” His ears were folded back and his tail was close against his body.

The mare eyed him for several long moments. Then she turned away and said, “Dismissed.” The guard was gone in seconds and business chugged back to life again. The mare didn’t follow him, but instead walked on up to Amanita.

Although the mare was a bit short, she was short in the “ten pounds of business in a five pound bag” sort of way. Her pace was quick but confident, like she knew where she was going and wasn’t about to wait for anypony or let anypony wait for her. She was thin, not small around the trunk, but in the sense that her entire left-right distance looked smaller than it should have been. Between that, her glasses, and some wrinkles from age, she had a bad case of resting bureaucrat face if you didn’t notice the tiny scar on her lower lip. Her coat was a bright, glossy red, clearly well-shampooed, and her close-cropped mane was dark orange. Not brown, for whatever reason; it was the right shade, technically speaking, but Amanita somehow couldn’t look at it and claim it was brown. Her uniform had several ribbons pinned to it and an insignia Amanita didn’t recognize, and a sword was sheathed at her side.

“You’re the necromancer, yes?” the mare asked in a voice of detached professionalism. It was impossible to tell her feelings, one way or the other.

“Uh…” Amanita got the distinct feeling she should stand at attention. She got up, brought her hooves together, and stood like she’d just been shocked beneath the tail. “Y-yes, ma’am,” she said. Should she continue or add something? But the mare had only asked if she was a necromancer; probably not yet.

“Hmm. Come on.” The mare clicked her tongue and nodded down the hall. “We need some privacy.” Without waiting for an answer, she turned around and began walking. Amanita scurried after her. Ponies parted for them as they walked and the mare didn’t slow her stride.

It wasn’t long before the mare led them into an office, pulling them through before Amanita could read the plaque on the door. The office was a bit small, just barely large enough to tell Amanita that this mare was a very important pony in an unimportant department. Two walls were lined with huge overstuffed bookshelves, and there was a good-sized window on another, but other than that, the only noteworthy thing was a glass jar of candy on the desk.

They each took seats on their respective sides of the desk. From this angle, the mare felt considerably bigger than she was. She cleared her throat and said, “Before we get to the introductions, I must apologize for the length of your wait. I hope you understand, but the possibilities of what you can do are immense. In both moral directions.” (Amanita nodded jerkily. She knew. And they were taking both sides of her seriously.) “We debated the risks of allowing any necromancer in at all, but decided it was acceptable, so long as you were supervised by the proper authority figure. Hence: myself.”

“And, and what if,” Amanita heard herself say, “what if I just overpower you and-”

Her words came to a halt as the mare looked over the top of her glasses and pursed her lips. “If you think it’s that easy,” she said in a voice that sounded oddly relieved, “you are definitely harmless.”

Amanita twitched, forced a smile, and squeaked out a laugh. “Heh…”

“Now, I am Doctor Restricted Code, High Ritualist of the Royal Guard. And you are?”

“A-Amanita, ma’am.” Amanita felt like she was a naughty foal brought to the principal’s office for some unknowable reason. Combined with the fact that she was really doing this, little shakes broke out all over her body. “I’m- I used to-” Swallow. “Like I said, I, I know necromancy. I’ve- served my time for it. And, and I was wondering if… you’d be open to… me using it… to save the Mearhwolf’s victims or… let them… say their goodbyes.”

The words tumbled out haphazardly, in chunks at a time. Amanita swapped between having nothing to say and having too much to say. She wasn’t sure what was weirder; casually going “I’m a necromancer” to an officer of the Royal Guard, or that officer not immediately wrestling her to the ground and slapping a suppression ring on her horn. Both of them went against everything Circe had taught her. The fact that Circe was wrong didn’t mean those lessons weren’t ingrained in her. Adrenaline was pumping through her body but she had nowhere to go.

Code’s ear twitched, but she otherwise didn’t react. “When you say ‘save’…” she prompted.

It took Amanita a few moments to realize what Code was actually asking. “A-actual, real resurrection,” she said quickly. “Not, no enthrallment. I don’t- I didn’t know what I was doing when I did that and I wouldn’t’ve done it if I had.” It seemed right to mention that.

Code could beat a statue with that poker face. “Mmhmm. And what made you seek out a shunned branch of magic, only to walk into a military base and offer your services?”

And there it was, the million-bit question. Amanita had suspected it’d come up and had been thinking about it for a while. Walking into the base was easy. Learning necromancy to begin with? That was something else.

Amanita had regained consciousness in that alley when an earth pony roughly turned her over. “ ’Least ye weren’t on yer back,” she said gruffly. “Ye’d drown in yer own puke.”

“Sorry,” Amanita mumbled. “First time drinking.” Retch. Wretch.

“Firs’ time? What ’appened?”

After the apathy from her family, Amanita would cling to any shoulder to cry on. The alcohol hadn’t helped. Without thinking, she’d told that stranger everything about Zinnia, there in that cold, wet, stinking alley, bile and half-digested food clinging to her coat, tears and snot running down her muzzle. She couldn’t remember, but she’d probably sounded like the epitome of the angsty teen, thinking they’d found true love after three weeks. And yet that pony, calling herself Circe, had listened.

Before Amanita left, Circe had offered to be at the same bar the next night. And when the time came, there she was, nice and friendly, picking up the tab. She kept Amanita at just the right BAC, near-incoherent with no filters or inhibitions without blacking out entirely. She listened, nodding sagely, as Amanita spilled her heart out.

“…and I-” Amanita coughed. Her throat was burning. She pawed at Zinnia’s locket, so cold. “I wasn’t ready, I didn’t get to really say goodbye, I’ll never be able to-”

“Y’sure ’bout that?” Circe asked with a grin.

If she were sober, Amanita might’ve noticed how fake the smile was. But she wasn’t, so she didn’t. She gawked at Circe, the obvious question refusing to leave her lips.

“C’mon. Lemme show ya.”

In a deserted lot, with nopony else around, Circe did things. Amanita couldn’t remember much besides a circle of chalk, the locket, and Zinnia’s spirit. She’d been so happy to see Amanita again. So spirited. So perfect. So agreeable. Just as Amanita had wanted, not as Zinnia had been. A warning sign unnoticed, for they were together. Eventually, the circle was smudged and Zinnia was gone. Amanita was sad, but she didn’t despair. Some more time would have been nice, though.

It was like Circe knew what she was thinking. “Lissen, I gotta get goin’. Sorry, but ain’t got time t’teach ya the ritual. ’Less y’wanna come with, o’course.”

Amanita didn’t think twice. She had never been so invested in anything in all her life.

Later, she wanted to say that Circe had slipped drugs into her drinks to make her more pliant. Maybe so. Maybe no. Either way, it didn’t justify what she would go on to do.

They left on a train within the hour. Amanita didn’t say anything to her family, didn’t even return home. They didn’t care for her; why should she care for them? She was off, off to a new life, away from the pain she was feeling, away from her grief. She’d hit rock bottom. Things could only get better from here.

It was in an empty, drafty passenger carriage rattling through the night that Circe first used the word “necromancy”.

In all honesty? The reasons she’d learned necromancy were the same reasons she was here. She’d just been… less aware the first time around. More tunnel-visioned. More wilfully ignorant. And now, she wasn’t doing it for herself. Although Code probably didn’t want to sit through her entire past.

Amanita swallowed. “It’s- It’s complicated. The short version is, when I learned necromancy, I was in a bad place. I wasn’t thinking straight and there were… ponies I’d do anything to have back. A-and I mean anything. When I came to my senses, I realized just how terrible all the things I’d done were and I turned myself in. Now, I- I still don’t like my past, but it’s there and I still know necromancy, one way or another. If I can use some of the less awful branches of it to- save just one pony who died before their time, I’ll feel like I can turn my life around.”

That finally got a nod from Code. “That’s what Shining thought would happen. He-”

“Wait, Shining?” Amanita nearly toppled forward as she pushed herself upright. “Shining Armor?”

“Yes. You gave him Circe’s phylactery, did you not?”

“You know about-” Amanita forced her mouth shut and herself back into her chair. “Sorry,” she said quietly. “And yes. I’m- just surprised.”

Code shrugged. “Much of necromancy involves rituals. I am the High Ritualist of Equestria. I am kept as up-to-date as possible on known necromancy around Equestria in case I am needed. It’s not common, but Shining notified me of you and Circe. After seeing your behavior in prison, he suspected you might come here. In fact, his testimony was a large factor in why you were accepted at all. I asked you because I’d much rather hear it straight from the horse’s mouth.”

“Well. Um.” Gulp. “Alright then.”

“So. Resurrection.” Code pulled out a pen and a stack of papers from a drawer. “Would you mind describing whatever spell or ritual you plan on using? Step-by-step, please.”

Easy. Probably the easiest part of the day yet. Amanita knew her resurrection rituals and they didn’t have much potential for misuse. Confidence made her sit up straighter. “It’s a ritual. First, you draw a magic circle-”

“What kind of circle?” Code immediately asked.

“What?” The suddenness of the question threw Amanita off like nothing else. Literally the first step, the first part of the first step, before anything had been written down, and something needed clarifying?

“The kind of circle,” Code repeated patiently. “Is it a Haymiltonian circle, a Foucolt circle, a generic circle, what?”

“Uh.” At the unfamiliar terms, Amanita willed herself deeper into her seat; she felt like she’d been pushed out to give a speech with no rehearsal. Or notification that she was giving a speech in the first place. “I wasn’t taught the names of the specifics of my rituals, just what they did. It’s- Does a buckball player need to know the projectile equation to kick the ball?”

The corner of Code’s mouth twitched and, heaving a sigh, she pushed her glasses up to rub her face. “Why is it,” she murmured to herself, “that no hedge mage ever takes the time to learn the jargon of elementary thaumatics? It was formalized for a reason.” She straightened back up. “Sorry. Does the orientation of the creation of the circle matter?”

“Okay. Um. I was just about to get to that. You use chalk and you start by facing north…”

And so they went for quite a while, Amanita explaining the steps of the ritual, Code writing those steps down. Code kept asking for clarification on this or that aspect of the ritual, but if she was frustrated, she never showed it. As she wrote down the ritual on one set of papers, she took her own notes on another set, constantly switching between them so quickly Amanita gave up trying to follow it. It couldn’t’ve taken more than half an hour, Code’s digressions taking up most of that, but describing a ritual meant for necromancy to a guard was so strange that it felt like it went on for hours. But, finally, Amanita was saying, “…and if you leave them be for long enough, eventually, their body will be as fixed as the spell can make it and it’ll kickstart their heart, and they’ll be alive again. And… that’s it.”

“Hmm. Interesting.” Code remained an ideal of stoicism as she looked over the papers. “It’s certainly an unusual ritual.”

“I wouldn’t know. Um, all my rituals have been… necromantic.”

“Mmhmm.” Code was silent for several long moments as she thought, then she turned one paper back towards Amanita and circled a large chunk of instructions. “What does this do?”

“It, uh, rebuilds the body,” said Amanita. She squirmed in place. “Heals wounds, loosens muscles from rigor mortis, decoagulates blood, that sort of thing. Otherwise the person would just die again the second they were brought to life. It needs to be done within three days after death, though, before putrefaction really sets in.”

“I thought so, but it works slowly and over half the ingredients can be replaced with a few tufts of phoenix down.”

“Phoenix down is hard to get when you’re hiding off the map in the Frozen North.” Amanita winced slightly as the words came out more snippily than she intended.

But Code seemed understanding, or at least thick-skinned. “Of course it is,” she said, mostly to herself. She tilted her head to examine the paper more closely. “Yes, limited resources explains a lot… For an evil capital-B witch, your master knew her stuff.”

“Um. She… didn’t make that. I did.”

Code’s gaze flicked up. When she locked stares with Amanita, her eyes were just a little bit bigger. “Did you,” she said. She was trying to keep her voice bland, but Amanita could hear interest attempting to break through.

“I, I did. Sort of.” Amanita swallowed and sat up a little straighter, just so she wasn’t looking up at Code as much. “Circe, she, she didn’t give two whits if the body was fully healed. Or the person had their free will. She was just interested in thralls and- Do you want to see the ritual she used for that?”

Although Code’s face stayed neutral, her ears immediately pivoted forward and Amanita caught the swish of a tail getting flicked. “Yes,” she said, her voice a register higher. “I would.”

Amanita grabbed a pen and some sheets of paper and scribbled the instructions out. It was a process she’d hoped to never see again; it was all hidden behind ingredients and instructions, but this was a way to enslave someone’s soul after they died. If anything, the scientific, dispassionate nature of it just made it worse. The pony who’d made this didn’t, couldn’t, care about others. They could cut up people just as easily as they could an apple. She wanted to say that she’d never use it again, but she’d used it just fine before knowing what it truly did. Still, Code needed to know it. Once she had the instructions out, Amanita passed the papers back to Code.

Code took one look at it and grimaced. “Yulgh. If that’s not necromancy, I don’t know what is.” She opened up the candy jar and popped a peppermint into her mouth like she was downing a shot or a painkiller. She turned it around in her mouth as she looked over the ritual more deeply, her eyes flicking back and forth. More than once, Amanita thought she saw her twitch in a suppressed retch. “And this is what she taught you? Nothing from the first ritual?”

“No. Erm, ye- Right. The first one I made on my own, based on the second.”

“Hmm.” Code took up a red pen in her mouth, placed the two rituals side-by-side to compare them, and nudged the jar in Amanita’s direction. Amanita swiped a peanut butter cup and a mint; if taking two was wrong, Code was too deeply invested in the directions to either notice or care. She kept jotting things down, crossing other things out, drawing arrows to move things around. At one point, she just pulled up a spare sheet of paper and wrote out several whole paragraphs herself. All the while, Amanita just watched, letting the peanut butter cup melt in her mouth. When it was gone, she tried to say something, only to be stopped by Code holding up a hoof the second she opened her mouth. She swallowed her question and let the mint rest on her tongue.

She was doing this. Even if she wanted to, she couldn’t, in good conscience, back out now. Not after dropping a resurrection ritual on the Guard’s desk. And it was being looked over by somepony with the title “High Ritualist”. Amanita felt like her skin was crawling, that at any moment, it’d be pronounced that she was trying to trick the Guard and she’d be cut down where she sat. But she’d always known that was a risk. Why would it matter now? So she kept her breathing level and tried not to sweat as her necromancy was scrutinized. Code still was unreadable.

After what felt like hours, Code spat out her pen and asked, “Would you prefer the good news or bad news?”

Amanita nearly choked as she swallowed what remained of the mint in shock. “Erm.” When it came to rituals like that, “bad” could mean terrible, terrible things for the pony being resurrected. She didn’t even know what, but you didn’t want to think too much about misapplied resurrection magic unless you wanted nightmares for the next week. And she’d used that spell on Bitterroot, so if there was something wrong with it… She forced herself to say, “Bad.”

“Your lack of formal education is… painfully obvious. This-” Code tapped Amanita’s ritual. “-is messy, inefficient, roundabout, and bloated. You’re throwing away your quill and buying a new one every time it runs dry.”

“But it-” Amanita swallowed. “It works, right?”

“Oh, certainly. Which ties into the good news.” Code tapped one of the sheets she’d gotten out. “This one does the same thing far more quickly, assuming my calculations are correct. I simplified it rather dramatically. I could probably go even further if I knew more about necromancy. Could you tell me what you think?”

Amanita snatched up the paper and scanned it intently. While Code had been exaggerating a little, the ritual was definitely easier, assuming you had all the ingredients. The bits Circe had said were important for bringing the dead back were still there, while the bits for binding them to your will (and, in Amanita’s ritual, re-un-binding them so they still had their free will) were gone. The symbolism of their replacements was esoteric, but it felt right, and esoterica that felt right was generally a good sign in a ritual. Getting a true toadstone would be tricky, and the three tufts of phoenix down it needed were pretty much out of the question, but if you got them… Amanita cleared her throat. “I might need some explanation for your replacements but I don’t see any reason why it shouldn’t work.”

“Could it work if a body’s been autopsied?”

With a full-body twitch, Amanita jerked her head up and stared at Code. Code stared back, barely blinking. After a moment, Amanita stammered out, “W-well, I mean, yes, if it was done soon enough, but if you were going to bring them back anyway, why would you-”

She jerked her mouth shut as the answer hit her. Her train of thought tried to go a dozen different tracks at once and ripped itself to pieces. Just before she looked foolish, Code spoke up. “Because we didn’t know we could bring them back.”

Code leaned forward. It was probably the most dramatic movement she’d made in this conversation. “Amanita. Two nights ago, a pony was killed by the Mearhwolf. Following protocol, we autopsied her to see if there was any evidence of foul play beyond the expected. Today, you came in. She is still within your three-day ritual period. If you are willing, the Court would like you to resurrect her. I apologize for being so sudden, but Canterlot-” Her voice abruptly stopped; she blinked a few times as she collapsed back into her chair. She was quiet when she spoke again. “Canterlot could use some good news.”

It was like Amanita had nearly been hit by a train. Of course she’d known it was probably coming; she’d just never imagined it could be this soon or straightforward. A brief talk, an exchange of paperwork, and bam: she’d be in the morgue in an hour. It probably had something to do with Code; she seemed pragmatic enough to not care about whatever Amanita’s past might have been. Still, doing it now was… fast. Part of her wanted to say, “I’ll think about it”, go back to Bitterroot’s house, and curl up with a nice, big bottle of club soda for six hours, just so she could have time to unwind and think (and thinking required a lack of alcohol).

“I understand that this is rather abrupt,” Code continued. “If you want some time to think it over, you can have it. The ritual needs to be done by tomorrow evening, correct? So I simply need your answer before then, before it’s made for us. I have already been authorized to ensure that you have the legal space necessary to work.”

And suddenly, once waiting became an option, it also became less appealing. Because Amanita knew what her answer would be. It was the only right answer in this situation. And this was what she’d hoped for, wasn’t it? Being overseen as she did necromancy so she’d stay on the straight and narrow. Might as well dive in.

“Alright,” Amanita said. It felt like she was in a dream, like she hadn’t consciously willed those words to be said even though she wanted them said. The environment suddenly felt hazy. “I, I’ll need the ingredients, but, um, yeah. I’ll do it. A-as soon as possible.”

Code nodded and stood up. “Very well. Let’s get your materials. Consider yourself deputized.”

5 - Reaching Beyond the Veil

Amanita knew that the Royal Guard probably had some sort of cache of various magical materials. If they wanted to test rituals, or enact their own, they needed ingredients, and it wouldn’t do to have to stop by the apothecary every Tuesday. No, they needed an official store of some sort. But she was picturing a dusty warehouse that was rarely touched and everything just sort of settled wherever.

Having a secured, well-organized storage wing/vault for paraphernalia on-site where you just needed to fill out the right form and you’d get whatever you needed in a few minutes, though, was something else. Code walked through the department with an automatic ease, snatching up certain forms without even looking at them, exchanging pleasantries with various clerks by name. The second she was sitting at a table, she was filling out those forms like a machine.

Amanita looked over Code’s shoulder at the current form and gawked at what she saw. “These are all the ingredients. You can just… give me phoenix down?”

Code didn’t look up as she scribbled away. “Celestia has had a phoenix for a pet for over four hundred years. Philomena, I think her name is?” (Her voice was shockingly clear for the pen in her mouth.) “And she’s been storing Philomena’s cast-off down since day one. Canterlot’s stores have more phoenix down than anywhere else in Equestria combined and tripled.” She finished one form, pushed it aside, and started on the next one. “She’s also promised to keep sending us down as Philomena’s life cycle continues.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. Seriously, don’t. If you need materials, we’ll get them for you.”

Don’t mention it, she said, while doing something Amanita would sing from the rooftops. In the north, she and Circe had always had to make do with limited resources, often spending a week to look for (say) just the right yew branch. And here was Code, casually signing away for three tufts of phoenix down, among other things. Oh, the joys of working within the system.

Code gave her last signature a flourish and set off to the requisitions desk. It was staffed by a bored unicorn using her pencil to bounce a little paper ball around. She glanced at Code as she approached, not missing a beat in her ball-bouncing. “Hey, Code.”

“Morning, Dunnage.” Code dropped the forms on the desk. “Could you get these ingredients for me?”

“Sure.” Dunnage let her ball drop as she whistled at the stack. “Lotta forms, even for you,” she said, picking them up. “And who’s your friend?”

Amanita opened her mouth, but Code quickly said, “Amanita. She’s a deputized necromancer.”

Dunnage twitched. She looked between the nervously-grinning Amanita and the expressionless Code, her ears slowly folding back. “What’s a necromancer doing here?” she asked in a low voice. “As a… deputy?”

“Necromancing,” Code said tonelessly. “And waiting on her paraphernalia.”

“…Wwwwwhy?”

“Because you feel the need to quiz me rather than doing your job.”

Dunnage looked at Code, at Amanita, at the stack of papers. She began looking through the forms; at first, she was just confused, but at some point she put everything together and her jaw dropped. She looked up at Code with big eyes.

“Yes, I’ve thought it through,” said Code firmly. Actually, there were less firm bridge stanchions. “If you think you know better, feel free to apply for my position. You’ll get a raise. As long as we’re not still waiting.”

Dunnage nodded jerkily and scurried off into the storehouse. Code sighed and rolled her eyes, putting a hoof on the handle of her sword in an incredibly aggressive fidget. Amanita looked at the floor, rubbing her hooves together in an incredibly unaggressive fidget.

Luckily, they didn’t have long to wait. In less than fifteen minutes, Dunnage returned with a filled set of saddlebags. As she levitated them over to Code, she said, “Uh… let me know how it turns out, will you?”

“Mmhmm. Thank you.” Code dropped the saddlebags across her trunk with the solidity of earth ponies and promptly left. Amanita followed, feeling Dunnage’s eyes on her every step of the way.

As they walked, Amanita fell back into old habits. Code’s fidget had reminded her of who she was, where she was. Slowly, doubts began to creep in. Did soldiers always have their weapons sheathed on base? Maybe. The only thing she knew about the military was that it was a good idea to stay away. And Code seemed… frank and intense at the same time. The kind of pony who didn’t feel the need to hide her actions. Who’d openly wear the sword she’d kill you with.

But Code had welcomed Amanita — and not blindly, either. She’d grilled Amanita on the ritual she’d use, personally looked it over, made it better. She’d defended Amanita’s motives before she even knew what they were. She’d gotten Amanita everything she needed to do her work and fended off doubters. All while staying professional to an absolute T. This was everything Amanita wanted and more.

Then again, if something seemed too good to be true, it probably was.

She couldn’t help herself. “Is that for me if I’m lying?” Amanita asked, pointing at the sword. “Be honest.”

Code stopped walking and kept looking straight ahead, flicking her tail. Then she turned to Amanita and said, without a trace of shame, “While I am ninety-nine percent sure you’re being honest, there’s always that one percent, and I’ve been burned before. My sword was silver-plated long before you arrived. I will not apologize for caution, but any anger you may have with me is justified.” Then she started walking again.

Amanita quickly trotted to catch up with her. “Well, um, actually,” she said, “if it is for me, it means you’re taking me seriously. Like, all of me, including my past and-”

She cut herself off before her babbling got worse. It was a screwy situation, but one she felt weirdly pleased by. Code was taking her skills seriously. Code was taking her terrible past seriously. And Code was taking her desire to change seriously. And Amanita liked all of that. Seriously. At least she wouldn’t need to worry about slipping back too far.

“-I mean, um, thank you,” Amanita mumbled.

Code didn’t stop, but her pace wobbled a little. “…You’re welcome.”

They wound their way through the building, Code moving with such a purpose Amanita got the feeling she’d walked this route plenty of times before. Luckily, reaching the morgue didn’t take long. Code rapped lightly on the door. “Escharia! You in there?”

The unicorn who opened the door was a deep purplish-blue with eyes that seemed a bit too big for her head. She had quite a bit of mane, although since she was on the job, it was tied up in a hairnet that seemed almost the size of her head. Amanita thought the pony was smoking until she had a closer look and realized what she’d assumed was a cigarette was actually a lollipop stick.

“I am indeed. Mornin’, Code. Mornin’, Pony Whose Name I Don’t Know,” said the mare, nodding in greeting. Her voice was only slightly muffled from the lollipop. “It’s still morning, right? Ain’t looked at the clock in a while.” A shrug. “Ah, well. What can I do you for?”

“About ten minutes. Thirty, max,” said Code. “Amanita, this is Doctor Escharia. Escharia, Amanita. She’s an outside expert.”

“Hey,” Amanita said tentatively.

“Pleased to meetcha.” Escharia gave a sort of casual salute and stepped aside to let them in. “Can’t say it’ll stay that way, but benefit a’ the doubt, eh?” She chuckled.

Laughing weakly, Amanita stepped into the morgue and the voidic smell of sterility assaulted her muzzle. Somehow, knowing bodies were approaching decomposition around her, it felt wrong; death needed to smell like death. She shuddered at what that said about her. Trying to divert her attention, she looked around. The morgue was an ordinary morgue, with hard, easy-to-clean surfaces and several gurneys and a chilly atmosphere from the coolers. With so much ordinariness, Amanita found her constantly being drawn back to Escharia’s lollipop. She couldn’t help herself. “Should… you be eating…” She pointed.

Escharia shrugged. “Helps fight the gag reflex if I smell something terrible.” She closed her mouth; the stick rotated around as she sucked. “Also tastes good. If you’re gettin’ prime lollipops…” She whistled. “Ain’t nothin’ like it. Want one? I got plenty.”

“N-no thanks,” said Amanita.

“I’ll have one when we leave,” said Code. “Can we see the victim that came in yesterday morning?”

“Cobalt Shine? Sure, but we didn’t find nothin’ wrong with her.”

Escharia rolled the body out from the cooler on a gurney and unzipped the body bag. Cobalt Shine was a thirtysomething unicorn with a hard gray coat and a still-glistening black mane. Her hooves had been polished semi-recently, as well as her horn; Amanita knew from experience that giving your horn that shine was far more a fashion choice than a practical one. A Y-shaped incision had been made across Cobalt’s trunk for the autopsy, although over a dozen stab wounds along her body clearly showed what had killed her. Her eyes were closed, but she didn’t look like she was sleeping; she looked dead. Even if you only focused on her face, she was strange, waxy, and far too still.

It was disturbingly familiar to Amanita.

It started small. A ritual here, bits of bone there, a strangled raven here, a hidebound book there. Gross? Yes. Illegal? Almost definitely. But Circe still called Zinnia back, so Amanita didn’t care.

It helped that Zinnia was so happy. She loved being with Amanita. She gushed about oh, how great it was that even death couldn’t keep them apart. She sang Circe’s praises, how smart that pony was, how kind she was to be doing this for Amanita. Given her previous acceptance of her impending death, it should’ve been suspicious. But Circe still called Zinnia back, so Amanita didn’t care.

As Amanita learned her bits and bobs, Zinnia stopped being a favor and started being a carrot on a stick. Not obviously, of course, but Circe stopped saying, “When yer done with ’er, could y’copy these fer me?” and started saying, “Copy these fer me firs’.” Amanita chalked it up to her being more Educated and Responsible. Like the adult she was supposed to be. But Circe still called Zinnia back, so Amanita didn’t care.

One night, Circe had them pack up and head north from Vanhoover into the glacial wilderness. “I think yer ready fer some more… compre’ensive instruction,” she’d said. “But, y’know these narrow-minded ignorami. Can’t stand a whiff o’anythin’ that ain’t squeaky-clean. Gotta keep this all hush-hush, y’hear?” And so she took Amanita far away from any sane ponies, far away from law and order, far away from help. But Circe still called Zinnia back, so Amanita didn’t care.

Circe brought an aged corpse over one night. A hermit, found dead of old age in his shack, or so she said. It was stiff and pallid and Amanita nearly vomited when she saw it up close and smelled it. “Get a grip, ya pansy,” Circe snapped. “You’ll be seein’ these a lot more soon.” She took the body and did something that made Amanita’s stomach turn and then the corpse was unpacking their bags at Circe’s command.

Even Amanita couldn’t ignore that for long. “Isn’t making a thrall evil?”

Circe snorted. “Don’t listen t’the mainstream, ’course it ain’t. Jus’ makin’ a dead body do some work. Ain’t like somepony’s usin’ it. ’Sides, it don’t mind. Ain’t that right?” And the thrall nodded. Of course he would. He was a thrall. But he washed and cooked and cleaned, so Amanita didn’t care.

With their new help, they started moving around a lot more. Every now and then, Circe would find another poor soul who apparently couldn’t handle the north. Even though they clearly could. After a while, she stopped making excuses and would simply return to their camp with another dead body. But those servants made life easy, so Amanita didn’t care.

Circe started teaching more advanced necromantic theory. The ways an ingredient could be used. The proper runic sentences. The symbolism behind every action. Rituals that were less effective than normal but only needed spit and prayers to work. The sacrifices required — both metaphorical and literal. The energies they channeled and shaped. After a bit of token moral resistance, Amanita began drinking it up. She studied, even when she didn’t need to, burning candles made from leftover tallow at midnight to read. Examining body after body up close. Making theories, testing them when she could. Asking questions. She couldn’t call up Zinnia herself yet, but she was getting there. Circe began smiling, praising Amanita’s skill. It was nice. The only pony who’d wanted her around before was Zinnia. And so Amanita plunged deeper and deeper into the miasmatic bog. But she was invested, so Amanita didn’t care.

One night, while they were camped on the outskirts of a rundown village, Circe dragged a bound pony into their campsite, both of them bloodied. Before Amanita could ask a single question, Circe dropped a bounty poster on the ground. Theft, assault, arson, murder, worse. The picture matched the mare exactly.

“I think it’s time y’got real,” Circe said. “Y’been dabblin’ in necromancy, but y’need t’swim.” She tossed Amanita a long, recently-sharpened knife. “Kill ’er.”

The request shocked Amanita far less than it should’ve. She looked between the knife and the outlaw. “Really? What if somepony notices?” To think that was her objection.

Circe shrugged. “No one’ll miss ’er. See ’ow much they’re askin’ fer her?”

The mare was a violent thug, true. That didn’t stop her from weeping until her muzzle was stained, from whimpering around her gag, from weakly straining against her bonds, from clearly pleading for mercy as best she could. As reprehensible as she was, she was, right then, pitiable.

But Circe had told her it was okay, so Amanita didn’t care.

She was yanked back to reality when Escharia said soberly, “Cobalt Shine. They found her early yesterday morning. Forensics thinks she died ’round midnight.” A sigh. “Don’t know what she was doing out that late, ’specially after seven murders, or how she’d gotten ’round the curfews.”

“I read the report. She was working late and her home neighborhood was some distance from the other deaths,” said Code. “Perhaps she felt safer. However, she was found some distance from her home and her wife didn’t know why, so I can’t say for certain.”

“Hmm. Cryin’ shame, at any rate.”

“Yeah,” Amanita said quietly. The funny thing was, she actually felt that way. For too long, whenever she saw a body, she’d only seen it as a potential tool. Or, more recently, something to be dispassionately fixed. Now, her empathy had found its way back and she was seeing a dead pony as a dead pony: not something, but someone whose life had been cut short far too soon. Of course, death wasn’t necessarily fatal when she was around, but still.

The tip of Escharia’s lollipop wiggled. “So, what do you want with ’er? Something that you can’t get from a report, I imagine.” She gave exaggerated squints at Code and Amanita in turn. “But what, I wonder…”

Code took a deep breath. “Amanita-”

“Wait, wait, lemme guess,” said Escharia, holding up a hoof. “You’re here, so it’s gotta be big. Don’t recognize you-” She pointed at Amanita. “-so ain’t never been here before. A specialist in somethin’ Code don’t usually work with. Which ain’t much.” She looked at Cobalt’s body and rolled her lollipop around. “And it’s about death. But it ain’t a sacrifice, ’cause she’s already dead. Nothing new in the autopsy, so you two learned somethin’ new about the body from what we already got. Probably from the newbie. ’Cept I don’t know what the newbie does.” Escharia hmmed, rubbing her chin with a hoof. She chuckled and shrugged. “I got nothing. Necromancy!”

Amanita laughed nervously. “W-well, uh, funny story about that…”

After a second, Escharia’s head snapped up and her ears went limp. The lollipop nearly fell from her slack jaws. “…No.”

A nod, unsure, jerky. “Yeah…”

Escharia stared at Amanita. She raised an eyebrow at Code, who nodded. “Her,” Escharia said. “A necromancer. Her.”

“Yes,” Code replied.

Escharia glanced at Amanita, who grinned uncertainly. “She could be my kid sister.”

“I could be your mother.”

That made Escharia snort. “…And it’s all legal?”

“I’ll save you the morass that is ritual legalese: yes.”

A brief pause, then Escharia shrugged at Amanita. “Well, if Code thinks you’re good. Need me for anythin’?”

The casualness of the response was immediately a huge weight off Amanita’s back. It felt like she’d just taken a breath after swimming. “Just help me clear a space.” She rolled one of the empty gurneys off to the side. “It needs to be at least nine feet by nine feet.”

Escharia glanced at Code again. Another nod, another shrug, and she moved a gurney of her own. From the way she kept looking between Amanita and the floor, she had a lot of questions, but she didn’t say anything.

Between the three of them, it wasn’t long before they had a nice, clear space. Amanita crouched down and ran her hoof across the cool tiled stone of the morgue’s floor. It’d been years since she’d done something like this. It was like slipping into an old sweater she hadn’t worn in ages, one that was rather itchy but you wore it anyway because it was so warm and it was the only sweater you had. In spite of all she now knew, even though it was far from her only sweater, it was still warm. The idea of necromancy slunk through her mind like oil across a pond. But she needed to do this. Falling into the tainted halls of muscle memory, she took a stick of chalk in her magic.

She started by facing north. North was the top on maps. The circle would go down, then return to the top, just as she would reach into the underworld and pull someone back.

She turned counterclockwise, just as she would turn back time.

She kept herself in the center of the circle as she pivoted, just as she was the constant around which the ritual would revolve.

She drew the circle nine feet in diameter, three threes.

The moment she closed the circle, it started. A low infrathaumatic resonance that could set one’s nerves on edge right down to the roots of their teeth, regardless of tribe. It was nearly impossible to notice unless you knew exactly what you were looking for. Indeed, Escharia didn’t react, unless continuing to suck on her lollipop counted as a reaction. Code, however, twitched her ears and tightened her jaw. She noticed. She knew. But she didn’t go for her sword.

Amanita cut a gap in the eastern side of the circle with an athame, enabling her to step back out without breaking it. She walked over to Cobalt’s body. “Help me bring her to the circle,” she said, taking Cobalt’s rear hooves in her magic. Immediately, Code hooked her hooves around Cobalt’s shoulders. Together, they carried Cobalt’s body to the circle and laid it down, her head facing north.

As they left the circle, they locked eyes. Code nodded and stepped aside.

Next, Amanita licked the chalk, putting a bit of herself onto it. Circe had told her to use blood, but Code’s rewriting of the ritual said saliva worked just fine, thank goodness. The way the hum remained constant as she re-sealed the circle seemed to bear that out. Then she set to the runes.

No one really got runes, and anyone who said they did was lying. Even Circe had admitted she didn’t know what was up with them. Oh, sure, ponies knew what each rune symbolized and how to put them together, but how runes worked was another story entirely. Those odd, angular letters of unknown origin could work strange magic all by themselves if you used them right, somehow. It was like the alphabet of the gods had been stitched into the fabric of reality. Maybe you could do even more by merely speaking, but no one had figured out the language yet.

Amanita walked around the edge of the circle, carefully but quickly sketching out each rune, her actions guided by blithe skill. She didn’t know the words or sentences they made, but she knew they worked. At each of the cardinal directions, she scraped out some sigil, unlike any other runes, where her chalk made a grinding sound twice as loud as usual. As she wrote, she murmured, “If high on a tree I see a hanged mare swing, so do I write and color the runes that forth she walks and to me talks.” Pointless for the ritual itself, but it helped focus her mind. Code walked behind her, carefully examining her technique and never saying a word.

With each stroke, the resonance grew, bit by bit. It wasn’t any pony magic, not from any tribe. No, this was something deeper, more fundamental, like the mathematics behind musical harmony, the facts behind the planet’s magnetic field. As it strengthened, Escharia slowed down licking her lollipop. She looked at Amanita, at Code, at Amanita again, and took a step back, keeping her tail close to her body. Her pupils were half their usual size.

When the last stroke was made, the hum pulsed. Escharia winced; Code’s only reaction was to have the candles ready. Amanita laid them out on the cardinal sigils according to their color. Yellow, air, north, first and last. She would start with nothing and end with the breath of life. Green, earth, west, second. She would make the flesh, the firmament of the body, whole again. Blue, water, south, third. She would make the blood run again. Red, fire, east, fourth. She would give the body vim and vigor again. She lit the candles one at a time, in the order she put them down, starting with the yellow one. There was no wind, but as she was lighting the blue candle, the yellow one went out. And so was air both the first element invoked and the last.

Amanita sat down south of the circle. Code was expressionless, while Escharia looked ready to run. Amanita ignored both of them. She closed her eyes and waited, muttering mnemonic nothings under her breath. Underneath one of her front hooves, she had a toadstone, health; beneath the other, three tufts of phoenix down, rebirth.

Then the paraphernalia’s symbolism opened up.

Nothing changed physically, but she half-fell, half-rose into a hole in existential mindspace. What lay beyond was an abstract place of thoughts, associations, emotional links, and metaphysics. Even calling it a “space” was to assign it far more physicality than it possessed. Amanita saw nothing and felt everything. Ideas and perceptions churned and roiled around her, threatening to cast her out, but she’d trained as a necromancer; staying in was as easy as breathing.

Contained within the circle was a fact: Cobalt Shine was dead and this should not be so. The various symbols used in the ritual — the candles, the runes, the ingredients, the circle itself — kept the fact strong within that area, holding it as far above “the princesses are important for Equestria’s future” in importance as that fact was above “blue is pretty”. Reality began coalescing, slowly pulling Cobalt back from the dead, but at this rate, the resurrection would take decades — assuming the body didn’t decompose and the circle’s magic didn’t degrade, both of which would happen within weeks at best. That was where Amanita came in.

The fact of Cobalt’s death being improper was so strong that Amanita didn’t need to know a thing about Cobalt herself to pull her back. She just needed to find where reality had diverged from the truth. With reflexive ease, she pulled herself back along the corpse’s timeline, feeling it get wheeled out from the cooler for the ritual, get sliced open in the autopsy, get laid in an ambulance cart after being found on the street. None of this hurt; a corpse couldn’t feel pain.

Then she stopped being Cobalt’s corpse and started being Cobalt. She felt a dagger plunge into her body over and over, a metaphysical disconnect keeping her from hurting. She felt Cobalt scream in pain and shock as she struggled against the ropes that bound her; Amanita’s heart twinged in sympathy, but she kept following the line back. She felt an impact on Cobalt’s head, then a sense of calm as she lapsed into unconsciousness. Cobalt was walking through the streets at night, unaware of what would befall her.

This was right. This was where reality stopped being true.

And so Amanita dove into the hardest part of the spell, relatively speaking: following the path Cobalt’s soul took from her body upon death. Thanks to her preparations, it was clear and obvious, but that didn’t make it easy. Weaving together a spell, she went away, away, away, in directions that weren’t directions, twisting magic all the while. After an imaginary second, she found Cobalt’s soul, forced out of the afterlife by the ritual. Amanita seized her patient in the torrent of magic and traveled back, across the voids that said she was dead, to the small bubble that said she was alive. It was a complicated affair, skipping across fates and planes of reality, and the actual specifics of it defied words or thought. Most ponies would’ve found it maddeningly difficult at the absolute best, but it was even easier for Amanita than usual; she didn’t have to worry about binding wills anymore, thanks to Code’s ritual.

Cobalt’s body and soul rejoined the second Amanita returned to the circle, and the fact truly took hold. As the gap between truth and reality shrank, Amanita let herself fall back into her body. Not an iota of time had passed in the physical world, but she felt the effects of her actions and her head spun like a gyroscope. Short of breath, she nearly toppled over; by the time she put out a hoof to keep herself up, Code was already at her side, ready to catch her with an outstretched leg. “Are you okay?” Code whispered.

“Yeah,” Amanita gasped. She rubbed at her temples, trying to get rid of all the pins and needles inside. “Yeah, I’m fine.” The funny thing was, it wasn’t half as bad as her old ritual, where she definitely wouldn’t have been able to stand up straight already. Katabasis, diving to the underworld, was an intense process, although the strange satisfaction of a job well done helped her get over it. She clapped herself on the chest, coughed once, and looked up.

The runes she’d scribed were wiggling, like seen through a heat haze. The toadstone had cracked in half and the down had been consumed by the magic. The candles continued to burn smokelessly. The thaumatic hum was running up and down her nerves. And Cobalt’s body was repairing itself.

It was slow, but faster than in any ritual Amanita had used before. Cobalt’s flesh writhed as edge met edge and closed. Stab wounds were wiped away and the autopsy cuts sealed up zipperlike. She made jerky, vibrational movements as if every muscle in her body was twitching intermittently. Ponies didn’t move like that. Nothing did. The motion was uncanny, abominable, the sort of thing primal instincts warned you against, the kinetic equivalent of vomit’s uniquely revolting stench. Escharia was only a foot away from the wall and staring at the body the way one would a train crash in progress. Code’s jaw was clenched. Amanita didn’t budge. She was used to it. Compared to the usual, this was quite nice, actually.

Then the body went still.

The final wound closed up.

The candles all went out.

The hum vanished.

And Cobalt Shine, dead approximately thirty-four hours, opened her eyes.

6 - Threads to Follow

The uses of “shady” to mean dishonorable and probably illegal and “underbelly” to refer to a hidden, seedy, corrupt part of something had sprung up from the darker sides of Canterlot for one simple reason: Canterlot’s shady underbelly was literal for both terms.

It had first originated with batponies and caves. And, no, that wasn’t some crazy tribalist accusation-slash-conspiracy-theory, the involvement of chiropteri in the growth of the Roost was very well-documented. Batponies often lived in the more mapped-out portions of Canterlot’s labyrinthine cave system, not far into the mountain. Why didn’t they go further in? Oh, nothing much, just rumors and occasional evidence of bloodthirsty monsters lurking just out of sight. Hence why not all of the cave system was mapped. Guards (chiropteri themselves, most of the time) patrolled the inhabited parts, keeping at bay whatever beasties might crawl from the dark. Even when the monsters learned to stay away from ponies, still the guards patrolled. The name might’ve made them sound like a nightmare, but the Granite Wards were easily among the safest regions in Canterlot.

Which was a bit of a problem for criminals. It’s no good trying to smuggle restricted goods or perform that old black magic or just have a nice, illegal punch-up competition if there is, almost literally, a guard around every corner. They began taking their business outside. But they couldn’t go up. Straight into the heart of Canterlot? Yeah, no. So they went down. Being chiropteri, flight was an option. So they started congregating on the vertiginous slopes of Canter Mount, right beneath the city’s infamous platform. Over time, little structures, then big ones, began slowly springing up to accommodate the needs of the unlawful as Canterlot’s population grew and more crooks gathered. Bars, stores, houses, apothecaries, even a smithy or two, you name it, you could probably find it if you didn’t have a fear of heights. When building on the cliffs became impossible due to a lack of space, they started hanging establishments right from the marble cladding, making some thousand-year-old mason spin like a dynamo in his grave. Semi-scrupulous mages with an eye for elegance began pooling their skills to cast illusions that hid the ramshackle array from a distance, keeping the city looking pristine and perfect and letting ponies ignore it. And thus was born the Roost, a literal underworld and an invisible island of nigh-lawlessness in Equestria’s capital.

By the time of the Reunion, the Roost was a bit of a public secret. Sure, everypony knew about it, but it wasn’t the sort of thing you discussed in Polite Company, and Canterlot was nothing if not ponies pretending to be Polite Company. Plenty of rumors flitted about as to why Celestia didn’t do anything about it. Too expensive, too risky, some secret brother of hers was hiding out there, everything. Bitterroot’s personal theory was that, because of the way the Roost attracted the criminal element, keeping it alive gave Celestia (Twilight, now) an easily-monitored heart for organized crime. Destroying the Roost — or worse, properly zoning it — would force every bad guy in it to disperse throughout Canterlot proper, making them far harder to track. If you couldn’t control it, you could at least corral it. Sometimes, Bitterroot wondered just how many ponies she passed on the catwalks were undercover guards keeping their hoof on the pulse.

Bitterroot didn’t spend much time in the Roost. Professionally, the sorts of ponies she searched for either never went there or only briefly stopped there before fleeing Canterlot entirely. Leisurely, the Roost offered very little useful for her that she couldn’t get topside, and with better quality guarantees, too. Topside costs had added taxes, but that was a small price to pay. Still, every now and then, she swooped around Canterlot’s lip to see if there was anything she’d missed under the rock.

Today was one of the few times she’d ever done it with a specific idea in mind. Bitterroot glided to the edge of Canterlot’s platform, took a brief moment to admire the view, then casually looped over, hugging the bottom edge and tracing it with a hoof. When contact with the rock suddenly vanished in spite of her hoof still touching it, Bitterroot flew on a dozen yards more, then pulled up, straight into the marble.

And straight through. The illusion buzzed slightly as it passed around her and her wings discharged tiny lightning bolts as they shed excess magic. In front of Bitterroot was, essentially, a small village, with buildings and services and roads, only dangling from an overhang rather than sitting on the ground. Cables kept it all firmly anchored, each one a foot in diameter at the minimum. When you flew over the roofs of the buildings, it looked like a metal forest from all the connections burrowing into the cladding with varying levels of expertise. With the place in the literal shadow of Canterlot, light gems dotted every possible location to give some semblance of illumination. The illusion was invisible from this side, so Bitterroot had a clear view allllllllll the way to the ground.

The Roost was not for the squeamish. Then again, neither was criminality.

Bitterroot alighted on one of the supported streets. It was probably technically a catwalk, but, being able to hold five good-sized ponies abreast, it seemed too wide to qualify as a “catwalk”. The road itself was guardrailed and held up nice and firm beneath the hoofbeats of its travelers; besides the usual strengthening enchantments on the road, Canterlot itself shielded the Roost from the worst weather. After a few moments of refamiliarizing herself with the area, Bitterroot set off. Luckily, the Hangnail wasn’t far. She inconspicuously scooted away from every creature, pony or otherwise, she saw. Another reason she didn’t go to the Roost much? Criminals didn’t make for the best company.

It wasn’t long before Bitterroot got lost, reoriented herself, and strode into what would’ve been an ordinary dive on the edge of town if it’d been on the ground. Its façade was worn down and falling apart while the inside wasn’t much better, but the floor was solid as a rock. Even in the absence of safety inspections, having prospective customers plummet screaming to their deaths miles below when the floor collapsed beneath them was bad for business. There weren’t many customers this early, which suited Bitterroot just fine.

She scooted onto a stool at the bar and was immediately greeted by a smiling bartender (and so quickly that, considering the bartender was a unicorn, Bitterroot wasn’t totally sure she hadn’t just teleported in). “Hello, good pony,” burbled the bartender, “and welcome to the Hangnail, where your drinks will never have any illegal ingredients you don’t want! Unless you order the Potpourri Potion, in which case you’re literally asking for it.”

The funny thing was, the Roost being the Roost, that wasn’t a preemptive claim meant to imply something about other bars in the vein of “asbestos-free cereal”, but an entirely legitimate assurance. Two decades ago, the Hangnail’s previous proprietor sometimes slipped dangerous magical substances into the drinks for laughs. When she was found out as the source of the arcane maladies, her patrons broke her wings and tossed her off the catwalks. (Well, most of them. Some were disappointed, at least until the Potpourri Potion reached the menu.)

“Hey,” said Bitterroot. She tried to downplay herself, keep from standing out too much. While she’d been to the Hangnail once or twice before, she was unfamiliar to the usuals, and if her token thief/possible Mearhwolf was still hanging around, the last thing she wanted to be was a memorable newcomer. But she still needed information, and one of the quickest ways to ingratiate yourself to a stranger was: “Thanks for coming so quickly… I’m sorry, what’s your name?”

“Swizzle Stick.”

Bitterroot immediately winced. “I am so sorry.”

Swizzle chuckled, not a trace of sardonicism in her. “Don’t be, ’cause it’s my name and I like it.”

In other words, Swizzle was somepony you did not mess with. Not when she went flaunting a name like that in a place like this. Bitterroot wanted to jump right into the questions, but she didn’t frequent the Hangnail enough for that. She needed to butter Swizzle up a bit with some business, and so ordered a beer. This early in the day, ponies would judge her topside (and for understandable reasons), but this was the Roost; once somepony started judging somepony else, one thing would lead to another and the entire place would collapse (not literally).

Fortunately, Bitterroot could hold her liquor if she really wanted to and felt absolutely no buzz by the time she was licking up the last dregs. Swizzle was right in front of her the instant her empty glass hit the bartop. “Need anything more, like a refill?” she asked.

“No, thank you.” Bitterroot coughed a little to clear her throat. “Although, I’m curious… One of this bar’s token’s was just found near one of the Mearhwolf’s victims-”

Immediately, Swizzle tightened. It was subtle, but just about every muscle of hers tensed up; her smile became fixed, her eyes narrowed slightly, veins stood out on her legs. She looked less like a talkative bartender and more like somepony who wouldn’t think twice about pounding your face in if it came to blows. But of course she was; this was the Roost. “Yeah, I know,” she said in the voice of an approaching train, “because just yesterday, a group of guards spent a sunblasted hour badgering me about that exact topic and left me mighty peeved.” Still smiling that statue’s smile, she tilted her head. “Are you a guard? Because my answer to you is the same as to them: I don’t know anything.”

Bitterroot didn’t flinch (much); she’d been expecting a reaction like that. Honesty was the best policy, at least according to Applejack, and she seemed like the most level-headed of the Elements, so… “Bounty hunter, actually.” (Swizzle immediately relaxed a little.) “There’s a lot of money in catching the Mearhwolf. Plus, y’know, stopping a spree killer.” She pulled out the picture of the token and set it on the bar between them. “So you can’t help me with this?”

Swizzle sighed; her voice was already back to its original registers. “Look, we give out a lot of those tokens, I don’t keep track of who gets them, and even if I just narrowed it down to the suspicious-looking types… Well, you know where you are, right? Sorry.” She glanced at the paper briefly, then twitched and snatched it away. “Whoa, hold up.” She held it up to the light, as if she were examining it for fakery. “These ones haven’t been released yet.”

BItterroot got hit with a buzz right then, a little click that told her she was positively, absolutely on to something and needed to follow this at all costs. “Really?”

“Yeah, see, this-” With a spark of her horn, Swizzle flicked a token onto the bar in front of Bitterroot. “-is the style we have now, and take a look at the design, it’s nothing like this-” Indeed, the pattern on the non-denominational side was just a bubbly beer stein. “-but Gruit was about to release the new ones in a week.”

“Really.” Bitterroot craned her neck to look at the picture of the token again. “Huh. So why the change?”

“Princess Twilight, believe it or not,” Swizzle said as she passed the paper back to Bitterroot, “ ’cause she’s the Princess of Friendship, so she’s gonna start a whole bunch of outreach programs to the surrounding nations, and then suddenly we’ll have a bunch of vassal states ’cause every nation’ll want to join us.”

“You really think so?”

Swizzle snorted. “I don’t, but Gruit swears Griffonstone’s gonna join Equestria in like ten years and she wants to be welcoming, and I mean, I do, too, but we don’t need to waste money on new tokens when the old ones’re species-neutral already. Anyway, before you ask, yes, these tokens have been stolen recently, as in ‘just a few nights ago’ recently, when somepony broke into the storehouse and made off with a bunch of tokens, rye bread, and grape juice, of all things, but nopony saw anything, I mean, nopony who cared, anyway.”

Rye bread and grape juice. Huh. Something about that flickered through Bitterroot’s mind like a half-remembered thought. She filed that away for another time. “Weird. You know anything else about that?”

“Nope. Just that the Hangnail got broken into and our guards didn’t see a thing, or so they say, and it couldn’t’ve been Acrospire, since she never stabs you in the back — always does it face-to-face. The storehouse is at the corner of Second and Sea, if you want to take a look at it.”

The tips of Bitterroot’s feathers were buzzing. Honestly, as tenuous as this lead was, it was still miles ahead of what she’d been experiencing. Still, it was one of the most bizarre things she had ever seen, and she’d once seen somepony get paid for their own bounty. What did a spree killer want with grape juice? (Or rye bread or bar tokens, for that matter. Unless it was the victim’s…) Might be magic. Might not be. Hopefully, the truth would come out sooner or later.

“Can I keep this?” Bitterroot asked, holding up the token that Swizzle had put down. Evidence for the Guard; it’d be proof that the current token and the dropped token weren’t the same. There was still a reward for leads, after all.

“Not for free,” Swizzle said immediately.

“It’s just two bits, they won’t be missed.”

The uncaring look Swizzle gave Bitterroot was downright record-setting.

Stupid Roost. “Fine.” Bitterroot begrudgingly dropped two bits on the table in exchange for the token. Two of her own bits; self-employment let you set your own jobs, but it also meant a dearth of expense accounts.

“Thank you,” said Swizzle as she took the bits.

“And thank you,” said Bitterroot, pocketing the token. She stood up, arched her back, stretched her wings. “I’m off.”

So. Food robberies. Who would be the best pony to ask about that? The storehouse guards, maybe. Or maybe she should take a look at the storehouse itself? But what would she look for? It’d raise questions if she, a relative newcomer, started asking the guards about what happened that night.

She needed some time to think. Blood flow got her thinking. Once outside the Hangnail, she stepped to the edge of one of the streets and let herself fall. For a second, the wind pulled at her feathers, then she flared her wings and swooped away, out from under Canterlot. Flying was very much a high-blood-flow activity, excellent for-

“Excuse me? Bounty hunter.”

The voice was some distance behind her. It was polite, but not in the double-entendric crime-boss “‘polite’ means you stay quiet while I break your legs” sort of way. More polite in the deliverymare way: quick and to the point. Bitterroot rolled onto her back and looked behind her. A slender, burnished-blue pegasus she’d never seen before (definitely not in the Hangnail) was following her at just the right distance for either of them jumping the other to be awkward. When Bitterroot brought herself into a hover, so did the other pegasus, keeping the same distance. The message was clear: she didn’t want to hurt Bitterroot (whether or not that was true remained to be seen). “Yeah?” asked Bitterroot.

“Interested in learning more about the robbery?” the pegasus asked.

Bitterroot’s wingbeats briefly faltered. “From whom?” she asked suspiciously. And how did she know Bitterroot had been asking about the robbery?

“Somebody working with the Royal Guard,” said the pegasus. “Come on. We can talk topside. Less chance of the wrong ponies listening in and we won’t be hovering until our wings fall off.” She nodded upwards and rose a few yards, keeping her eyes on Bitterroot.

Paranoia made Bitterroot think this was somepony sent to silence her (for whatever reason) before common sense beat it down. If the pegasus had wanted to kill her, she would’ve attacked by now. Shot in the wing with an arrow, smashed by a mace, something like that. She hadn’t noticed the pegasus until she spoke up, after all. Well, she didn’t have any better leads at the moment. Worth a shot as long as she kept her wits about her.

“Alright,” she said as she climbed. “Lead the way.”

It was so much cleaner than other necromancy.

Amanita’s old rituals had left behind… basically, thaumaturgical vomit. A sort of skin-crawling sensation most easily sensed by unicorns but that earth ponies or pegasi might be aware of. It was disgusting if you had any sort of empathy, feeling like you were forcing someone to wade through rotting flesh, not that that had stopped her from using them. Circe had said it couldn’t be helped, but Amanita suspected she either didn’t care or she liked the feeling of domination it gave her.

This, though? This was just like finding bits of mold on a piece of bread you were about to use for a sandwich: somewhat icky, but fine once you got the icky stuff away, and at least it didn’t cling to you. Honestly, plumbers went through worse just about every job.

Of course, Amanita could only think that because she’d raised the dead before. Code and Escharia were dumbstruck, watching as what had once been a corpse stretched and yawned.

Cobalt groaned, rolled onto her stomach, and sat up. She stared at her hoof, turning it over and over like she was examining a new limb. She rubbed her face, licked her lips, bit her tongue, winced. She turned to the assembled ponies and asked quietly, “Why am I alive? I… died, right?” She made a few motions that looked like she was nibbling the inside of her cheek. “But I… I’m definitely alive now.”

“Ehhfaaaahhhhh…” said Escharia sagely.

“You’re… in the morgue at Canterlot Castle,” Code said distantly. “We’re with the Royal Guard. You were resurrected after being killed by the Mearhwolf.”

“Really? Huh.” Cobalt looked away at nothing in particular and muttered, “So where… Where was I? I…” She rapped herself on the head a few times. “I was somewhere, I know it. Somewhere nice.”

“Elysium,” said Amanita simply. It had to be. Where else would she have gone? Code twitched and stared at Amanita, then her head snapped to Cobalt. One of her ears was folded back and she was flicking her tail constantly.

Cobalt waved a hoof in Amanita’s direction without looking at her. “Yeah. That’s part of it, but… Grfh, stupid brain.”

Code suddenly cleared her throat and pulled herself up. She looked every bit the professional; you’d’ve never guessed that she was gawking a mere moment ago. “So you don’t remember the afterlife?”

Cobalt was silent for a long time, only clicking her tongue as she thought. She rubbed one of her legs with another, apparently just to feel the ruffle of hair. Eventually, she said, “Okay, I’m probably gonna sound pretentious, but this… body isn’t me any more than your… uniform is you. It’s what I’m in, but it’s not me. And your uniform, it can restrict your movements, right? That’s what it’s like for me. It’s…” She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. “My soul remembers it, but my brain doesn’t. It’s that thing where you’ve only half-forgotten something, and you know that if you could just get the right jolt, you’d remember enough to fill an encyclopedia, but that jolt never comes.”

Code and Escharia looked at each other for a moment before Escharia bolted to her office. She was back moments later, putting a pen and paper in front of Code, who immediately started jotting things down.

“But I can still remember some things.” Cobalt was still talking. “It’s all just… feelings and… impressions. Like how you can remember having a good time at the theater without remembering a thing about the play you just watched. I…” She rubbed her forehead. “I… liked it. A lot. And-”

The words spilled out before Amanita could stop them. “D-do you want to go back?”

Code’s head snapped up, the pen falling from her mouth, her pupils shrinking to pinpricks. One of Escharia’s ears drooped. Cobalt simply looked at Amanita like she’d just proposed crossing the street. She tilted her head and asked, “How long has it been? Since I…” She drew a hoof across her throat.

“About a day and a half.”

Another pause from Cobalt. Then: “No, I don’t think so. Covert’ll miss me, and it’s not like Elysium’s going anywhere, right?” She laughed. Somehow, it wasn’t forced.

“Amanita,” Code suddenly said, “I’d like to talk to you outside.” She jerked her head towards the door.

“Right now?” Amanita asked. “Shouldn’t we-”

“Amanita,” Code said. Her tone of voice hadn’t changed, but her words now fell with the weight of an anvil. “I’d like to talk to you outside.”

Amanita immediately scurried outside, Code following. Escharia said, “Whoa, hold up,” but whatever came next was cut off by Code slamming the door shut.

Code whirled on Amanita before the echoes had fully faded away. “What are you doing?” she demanded, and for the first time, her voice was sharp. Coming from her, that sharpness had some extra bite.

Not like somepony else’s sharpness, bared at every point.

“Just what d’ye think yer DOIN’?” snapped Circe. “Are ye thinkin’ at all?”

When Amanita started dipping into practical necromancy, she didn’t make many mistakes. But whenever she did, Circe, once so open, pounced on them like a jackal would a dying foal. The slightest slip-up made her froth with rage, regardless of that slip-up. A rune not angled correctly. A slightly lopsided circle. A throat cut open an inch from where it should be. If it was wrong (or “wrong”), it was fair play.

“I-I’m sorry, master,” babbled Amanita, “I-”

Somehow, Amanita never thought ill of Circe. Her master wasn’t to blame; no, she herself was. Communication was a two-way street, yet by some miracle, all the fault lay with her. She applied herself harder and harder. Sometimes it worked and she learned. Sometimes it didn’t and she didn’t.

“If’n y’wanna kill ’er quickly, go DEEP. Y’don’t know ’xactly where th’arteries are.”

Technically, Circe never hit Amanita. But after too many mistakes, things started happening. Food slipped into the fire. A cloak was misplaced. A gash was torn in a tent. All accidents that never seemed to hit Circe. Between these utterly coincidental happenings and her own failures, Amanita was oh, so miserable. But Circe still gave her Zinnia. She couldn’t be all bad, right? And things were worse out there, where Zinnia wasn’t.

“I’m sorry, I’ll do better next time-”

Sometimes, Amanita did the right thing and felt revulsion at killing off ponies just to test necromancy. But she brushed those feelings away. This was one of those vocations where you were supposed to be disgusted the first few times you did it, right? Like a plumber or a mortician. These were bad ponies, they wouldn’t be missed. Circe assured her of that.

“You better. I take y’in, and y’repay me wi’ THIS half-assed excuse for studyin’? Pfeh.”

When it finally clicked, when Amanita could finally make a body stand on her accord, Circe started mellowing out. Praise came here and there. Sometimes she gave Amanita tips rather than reprimands. But she still reacted harshly to mistakes, no matter how quickly Amanita corrected them. Perfection was necessary and she’d accept nothing less.

“Remember: it’s a dog-eat-dog world out there. Y’gotta put yerself at the top o’the pile, and if y’ain’t willin’ t’do the work t’get rid o’ yer own death, y’might as well off yerself now.”

But Amanita forged on. Between Circe’s “scoldings” and her own work, she immersed herself. A tentative step by a corpse became a dance recital. Whispering shades became talkative spirits. Death turned from an infinite chasm, impossible to bridge, to a burbling river, something you could skip across easily with some small amount of effort.

“What do you mean by that, master?”

And so, far too quickly, Amanita became comfortable with performing necromancy.

“Let’s jus’ say we’re gettin’ there. ’Ssumin’ y’can learn this proper-like.”

“What in Celestia’s name are you doing?” snapped Code again, jarring Amanita out of her memories.

“W-what?” was all Amanita could stammer out. She’d done everything she’d been asked to do. She’d done everything right. She’d been comfortable with it. She instinctively pulled in a little and tensed up.

“You bring a pony back to life — mind and soul alike apparently intact — bring the Mearhwolf’s body count down by one, maybe give some hope back to a city that desperately needs it, and the first thing you do once the pony’s back is offer to kill her again? I-” Code rubbed her head and took a few deep breaths. When she spoke again, her professionalism was back. “I want to know,” she said technically calmly, “what your reasoning for that is.”

Ha. Reasoning. Circe never asked for that. “Okay, that, that mare, Cobalt,” Amanita said, pointing back into the morgue. “When she died, she went to Elysium, right? And she… had experiences there, even if she doesn’t remember them.”

“Yes,” Code said neutrally.

“Elysium is, I mean, it’s the afterlife. As far as we know, it’s where we’re going to spend eternity. What if it’s the kind of place you’d want to spend eternity? What if she reconnected with her family? Or what if- What if life just hurts and we don’t know it because we’ve never been dead? At first, she seemed… I don’t know, out of it. And if she’s seen the other side of death and wants to go back, I- I’m not sure I’d stop her. I couldn’t justify taking away eternal happiness from her.”

Code stared at Amanita even more intensely than usual, her tail rustling. Amanita felt her eyes watering, even as she blinked freely. None of these things had come up with Circe, but Amanita knew Code was drinking them in like a dehydrated seapony. Right before the silence became awkward, Code asked quietly, “You put all that together in a few minutes?”

“No, I put all that together across years,” Amanita snapped. “I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you have.”

Ear flick, nod. “Yes, of course. I’m not sure I agree with you, but you’re right, this is new to me. Maybe it’ll change once I’ve thought about it.” Code bowed her head slightly. “I apologize. It’s been a while since I’ve philosophically engaged with a new field of ritualism.” Then her ears twitched up and she looked off into the distance. “…Huh. It is new,” she murmured to herself. A grin briefly flashed across her face, so quickly Amanita almost missed it. Then she shook her head and re-entered the morgue. Amanita tentatively followed her.

“-don’t know whether I forgot anything,” Cobalt was casually saying to a wide-eyed Escharia, “but it’s definitely hazy.”

“Uh-huh,” said Escharia dully.

“More like I had a-” Cobalt glanced over and noticed that Code and Amanita were back. “That was fast,” she said.

“It was a simpler matter than I anticipated,” said Code. “Cob-”

“Okay, so, seriously, why am I alive?” asked Cobalt, nearly demanding. “I remember my death. And being alive’s cool and all, but… how?”

Amanita and Code looked at each other. Code seemed ready to say something before Amanita blurted out, “I’m a necromancer.” It had to come out at some point.

Cobalt froze and stared at Amanita, her pupils shrinking. She inched a tiny ways away and pulled her legs in slightly. “Necromancer?” she asked quietly. “But- A-am I really-”

“You’re alive, not undead,” Amanita said. She pointed jerkily at her neck. “You- have a heartbeat.”

Immediately, Cobalt’s hoof went to her carotid. Her ears quivered as she held her breath, then drooped as she released it. “Oh, thank Celestia.” When she looked at Amanita again, her fear had been replaced with confusion. “I… Aren’t necromancers…?”

“Amanita came to us and offered her assistance,” said Code. “She did nothing without the Guard’s approval.”

“And I- couldn’t let you stay dead,” said Amanita. “It’s- I just- couldn’t. I, I mean, you get it, right?” She briefly flashed a nervous smile. They got it. Hopefully.

“As you can see,” said Code, “she’s broken the mold.”

“Oh.” Cobalt nibbled on her lip. “Um. Thanks. For… necromancing me.”

Amanita looked away so they couldn’t see her face redden. “You’re welcome.”

Code cleared her throat. “Now, Cobalt, if you don’t mind, I have some questions I’d like to ask you.”

“About what?” Cobalt asked, tilting her head.

“Although I approved of the spell used, resurrection is a new procedure. I simply want to be sure it worked correctly. I’d rather not find out about any metaphysical ailments when it’s too late.”

“Alright,” Cobalt said, shrugging. “Shoot.”

“Um.” Amanita coughed quietly. “I’m gonna… wait outside, okay?”

Code didn’t say anything, but she nodded and waved Amanita to the door. “First question,” she said to Cobalt. “Do you notice any… changes in perception between before your death and after it?”

Once she was outside, Amanita slouched against the wall, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. Okay. First hurdle done. One Court-approved resurrection, performed. And how did she feel?

Relieved, mostly. She’d done everything she’d been asked and had come out alright. Happy that she could save a murder victim. Maybe any future victims would get shipped to her. Overwhelmed that all this was happening at once. She’d only gotten out of jail yesterday and was performing necromancy again.

Which. Um. Well. Being given oversight wasn’t helping much with the knowledge that she was doing what had gotten her in jail in the first place. And it felt…

It felt good. It was necromancy, and it felt good. She wanted to say it was saving Cobalt, but when she let go of her history or intent and acted, it… felt right. She had control. She was powerful. Death was nothing to her and she liked that feeling. And this? This was just a small part of what she knew. She knew how to enslave dead ponies, strip them of their free will. She wanted to say she wouldn’t do that, but she’d slipped down that slope before. And if this small part felt good, what if-

She jumped when the door to the morgue opened up and Escharia half-walked, half-stumbled out. She quickly shut the door behind her, then stared at Amanita, her lollipop stick twitching. “Please, oh great necromancer,” whispered Escharia, “don’t put me out of a job.”

Amanita winced and looked away. “I’m not great. I’m giving in to peer pressure.”

“Please, oh peer-pressured necromancer-”

“Could you not?”

“Pardon,” Escharia said quickly. “It’s just-” She swallowed and sat down opposite Amanita. “When Cobalt’s body came in, I led her autopsy. I cut her open. I handled her guts. Like, physically reached into her chest. And now she’s right. In there. Talking!” Each word was punctuated by a jab at the morgue. “My mare, you even flabbergasted the High Ritualist. That just ain’t somethin’ that happens! Never!” She squinted at Amanita. “And you’re real calm ’bout this, laughin’ in death’s face like that. You don’t get you, do you?”

“I’m a necromancer,” Amanita said. “It’s what I do.”

“…Don’t know what I expected, really. Guess I’m the one who doesn’t get you.”

Amanita shrugged.

It was quiet in the hall. No ponies were nearby and the door muffled Code’s and Cobalt’s conversation. Amanita glanced up and down the corridors. Where to from here? She’d probably be told. She’d been told what to do for most of the past few years of her life, after all.

“Y’know,” Escharia said, “for what’s it worth… thank you for doin’ this. I’m used to seein’ the dead, but my heart still goes out to those poor souls that get wheeled through my door. ’Specially these last few weeks, with the Mearhwolf. It’s strange to see one of ’em walk out, but… the good kinda strange. So, yeah. Thanks.”

A knot formed in Amanita’s throat. “You’re welcome,” she heard herself say.

“Guess I’d rather lose a job than have ponies like her stay dead.”

Amanita grunted noncommittally.

Several minutes passed in near-silence. Here, in the middle of Canterlot, Amanita suspected the morgue had probably gotten more traffic in the past few weeks than in the entire rest of the year. Then, suddenly, the door opened up, Code standing in the doorway, Cobalt right behind her. “As far as I can tell, Cobalt is both physically and metaphysically healthy.”

“Oh, thank the stars,” said Escharia.

“She’ll go through questioning about if she remembers anything about her death,” Code continued, “but once that’s complete, that leaves the matter of what, precisely, to do with her.”

Amanita sat up straight, her rear hooves scrabbling the linoleum as she tried to push herself higher. “What? Can’t she just go back ho-”

Cobalt nudged Code aside slightly. “I was dead,” she said flatly. “What do you think’ll happen if I just show up at home?”

“And necromancy is still… feared,” Code said delicately. “I was planning on sending her on her way with a guard, so her family could at least have the assurance of the Crown that she was safe, but… Amanita, would you be willing to accompany her as well?”

Amanita’s ears twitched and she began connecting the dots. “So they can… see who did it…” she said slowly, “and… connect necromancy with somepony who isn’t an obvious monster?” On the one hoof, it’d be great PR for her, but on the other, good gravy, did everyone need to know she was a necromancer? …Well, kinda, if she was going to continue doing this.

Code nodded. “Precisely. I understand if-”

“Yeah, I’ll do it,” Amanita said quickly. This whole thing was a band-aid mid-pull. It was going to hurt, but it was already hurting, so what was the point in stopping? If she got it out now, she’d never need to get it out later.

Code looked blindsided for a quarter of an instant, only to collect herself again. “Excellent. Then we’re done here. Escharia, thank you for your time, your trust, and your room. Is the offer of lollipops still open?”

“Sure!” Escharia was on her feet in an instant. “You got a flavor you want?”

“The purple agglomeration claiming to be grape.”

“Alrighty,” Escharia said. “You want one, Amanita?”

“Eh… no, thanks,” Amanita said reflexively.

“Your loss. Cobalt?”

“Uh…” Cobalt glanced between Code and Amanita, her ears flopping. She licked her lips and twitched. “Why not, lemme see.”

Maybe it was peer pressure, maybe it was realizing how little she really cared, but Amanita heard herself saying, “Actually, um, yeah, I’ll have one.” Life was too short to give up free sweets, necromancer or not. “Uh…” She picked the first flavor that came to mind. “Bubblegum.”

“Is that actual bubblegum, bubblegum flavor, or blue flavor that’s misleadin’ly sold as bubblegum?”

Candy was weird.

7 - The Kindness of Strangers

Bitterroot guessed that the founder of Traverse Tea was from Trottingham. The non-rhotic accent would make the seemingly-obligatory pun slightly less awful, reducing it to merely eye-rolling rather than, “Do you know how pronunciation works?” Fortunately, the place wasn’t as twee as the name made it sound; oh, it had all the light teas and dainty little cakes and delicate flowers you’d expect from a pun-titled teahouse, but if you wanted strong black coffee and big nutty muffins and full thistles, it had those, too, along just about everything in between, plus a number of things that weren’t directly in between but off to the side a bit.

Traverse Tea was on street level in Canterlot and the place the mystery pegasus had selected to lead her to. It was crowded enough that anypony would think twice before trying something, yet also empty enough that, with only slightly lowered voices, you could talk about something without being overheard. And the pegasus was paying. Oh, happy day.

Bitterroot sipped at her tea and nibbled at a donut as the pegasus slurped down a smoothie. “So,” Bitterroot said. “We’re settled in. I’m Bitterroot. What’s your story?”

“Name’s Cocoon, and I practice the fine art of informancy,” the pegasus said. “I hang around in the Roost, hardy har, and tell the Guard anything I hear or learn. They stay on top of what’s going on down there, fnah fnah, and I get paid for it.” Shrug. “Simple.”

Was it? People would notice the same pony hanging around down there all day and not actually doing anything, right? Maybe; the Roost wasn’t huge, maybe the size of a small city block. But maybe it was easier for somepony who knew what she was doing. Still, she hadn’t seen this pegasus anywhere near the Hangnail. “So how did you know I was asking Swizzle about the robbery? I didn’t see you anywhere near the Hangnail.”

Cocoon grinned. “Oh, you saw me,” she said. “You just didn’t recognize me.” And she winked at Bitterroot.

Briefly flashing the monochrome gloss of a changeling eye.

Bitterroot reflexively sucked in a breath, clamped her wings close, and pushed her chair away from the table. Nope. Nuh-uh. Nope. She wasn’t going to work with one of those-

She bit her tongue and took a deep breath to derail her train of thought. Changelings were not bad, no matter what memories she had. Chrysalis was gone. Their king was a happy-go-lucky dork, if she was hearing things correctly. The magnitude of changeling-related incidents in Equestria had dropped precipitously, both in quantity and severity. And this one was apparently working with the Guard. They could be okay.

Besides, why should she let a necromancer crash on her couch and not be fine with changelings?

Cocoon noticed Bitterroot’s reaction — how could she not? — but looked superbly unconcerned. She took a long slurp from her drink and said in a casual, nonaccusatory voice, “You don’t like changelings?”

Bitterroot swallowed and forced herself to look Cocoon in the eye. She wasn’t sure whether Cocoon’s eye being a plain pegasus one again made it better or worse. “Not really,” she admitted, ruffling her wings. “Bad memories of the Pink Wedding.” Celestia, the paranoia she’d felt. “But I’ve worked with a lot of people I didn’t like, and Princess Twilight’s welcoming you, so I better get with the program, right?” She took a deep breath and said, “Look, I- If I say something out of line, just- call me out on it, okay?”

Cocoon snorted. “See, this is why I like the Roost,” she muttered, half to herself. “No one’s this frigging concerned about stepping on each others’ hooves.” A sigh. “Look, I’m not a nymph and my chitin is thick. As long as you can work with me, I don’t give a hoot what you say. Honestly, you’re not even the worst pony about this I’ve seen.”

“Outside of the Roost, post-coup?” Bitterroot asked tentatively.

“Outside of the Roost, post-Abdication.”

“…Whoof.”

“Eh. Still not as bad as plain old existing pre-coup.” Cocoon shrugged. “Look, I’ve bowed out of the Equestriangst Games, can we stop feeling sorry for me and get to the robberies?”

Get it together, Bitterroot. She took a bracing sip of tea. “Right. Robberies. So…?”

“Bet it wouldn’t surprise you that Swizzle wasn’t totally honest with you about what was stolen.”

Bitterroot nodded. Whenever you were new in a place, nopony was forthcoming unless they were paid to be, and even that was patchy unless it was official.

“But-” Did Cocoon’s grin make her look more like a changeling or was that Bitterroot’s imagination? “-you’re wrong about how she wasn’t totally honest. Rye bread, grape juice, and tokens weren’t the only things that were stolen. They’re the only things that were stolen from the Hangnail. But Swizzle only cares about the Hangnail, so whatever else was stolen, she doesn’t care. I don’t think she still remembers, and that’s if she ever bothered to know to begin with.”

Cocoon leaned back in her chair, her words flowing easily, and made vague gestures in the air. “Because, see, funny thing about the Roost: land is precious when there’s no land. It’s technically one of the densest urban areas in Equestria. They could expand, but building buildings would require work, and who in the Roost wants to work? So they squeeze everything out of every square inch they can. And with no silly rules and regulations to, say, remind them to not let sodium get wet, things get weird, especially in…” Her eyes glinted as she paused for dramatic effect. “…storehouses. Storehouses that, because of the lack of space, rent out to multiple customers.”

Already Bitterroot could see where this was going. “So we’ve got two different ponies in the same warehouse,” she thought aloud, “with two different stocks right next to each other. Diapers and baby powder right next to dog food and cat litter.”

“Try crossbows and halberds,” cackled Cocoon. (Did it really sound like a cicada’s buzz?) “But yeah, you’re getting it. Oh, and ‘right next to’ means right next to, like literally inches away.”

“So the stuff from the Hangnail was stolen by accident? It just happened to be next to what the robber was actually looking for?”

“Might not be. Bet it is,” said Cocoon. “It was all just a bunch of boxes sitting right next to each other, and if you went one box too far, you get the tokens and bread.”

She took another sip of her smoothie and licked her lips. Bitterroot surprised herself by not flinching at the suddenly-forked tongue. “Anyway, here’s the full story, not that there’s much to it. Two nights ago, a certain warehouse got broken into, I think around 11:30. The thief made off with a bunch of ritual paraphernaliac stuff, don’t ask me what ’cause I don’t know, and some good old bread. Those two things were close enough to practically be making out in storage, so I think our burglar buddy was going for not-quite-illegal substances and accidentally snagged the Hangnail’s food along the way. Maybe they were in a hurry, maybe they went a bit farther along the aisle than they should’ve, maybe they were blind, I dunno. But I’d bet money that’s what happened.” Cocoon punctuated her words with a jab in Bitterroot’s direction.

“Yeah,” Bitterroot said. “Yeah,” she added to herself. It made sense. Tightly-packed inventory like that was always at risk of collateral selection. Hay, sometimes she picked up the wrong food at the grocery store just because it was right next to what she did want. Cocoon hadn’t even listed all the possibilities, like the thief getting spooked and grabbing the wrong thing in a panic. Yeah. She was going to share Cocoon’s bet.

It didn’t explain everything, though. “So what about the guards? I heard-”

“Thief bribed ’em,” Cocoon said immediately. “Simple, quick, clean.”

“But Swizzle said none of them saw anything.”

“It’s the Roost,” Cocoon said with a shrug. “Money’s the only thing that gets loyalty down there, and that’s only as long as there isn’t other, more money. Give a guard a hundred bits to look the other way for ten minutes? That’s like a full day’s pay right there. Plus, you really think she told you what happened to them?”

Bitterroot thought about it and shivered. Probably best she didn’t know. But there was still the matter of- “So the guards were bribed. Nopony’s looked into taking a robber down? It’s not like the police know.”

“It’s the Roost. At least half the ponies down there are robbers.”

Stupid criminal underworld. “Robbers that are going after them?”

“It’s the Roost. Down there, you can count the number of people any given pony really trusts on one hoof. So-called ‘colleagues’ still screw each other over all the time. If their rivals get undermined without them doing a thing, they’re happy and think it’s worth it.”

“What, no empathy?”

“It’s. The Roost,” Cocoon said emphatically. “Empathy’s related to friendship and Twilight’s the Princess of Friendship. If they really cared, they’d be up here and merely shady rather than down there and shaded. Great Queen Below, the emotions down there taste awful.”

Which fit in with Bitterroot’s experiences with the Roost, she had to admit. No one got too attached to anything they couldn’t leave in thirty seconds if they felt the heat around the corner. You didn’t have friends, you had vague acquaintances. Even the “emotions tasting awful” thing fit, sort of; she got bad vibes whenever she went down there. Another entry on the list of reasons she didn’t like the place.

“So I heard you talking about the Mearhwolf and the token,” continued Cocoon. “I told the Guard about the ritual ingredients getting stolen yesterday, but I didn’t know they were maybe connected to the Mearhwolf until you came along. Now, just to refresh your brain, I don’t know what, exactly, was stolen. But with your help, maybe I can figure that out.”

“How?”

“…Dunno yet, to be honest.” (Bitterroot didn’t quite groan.) “Sneak into the warehouse and take a look at the inventory list? Find the ponies on guard duty that night and get them to spill the beans?” Cocoon’s shrug managed to look nonchalant. “I’m open to suggestions.”

On another day, it probably would’ve taken a while for Bitterroot to come to a decision as she mulled it over: she looked for ponies and not evidence, she wasn’t used to this sort of thing, and so on. After weeks of fruitless work, however, it was easy: “As long as whatever we do isn’t too dangerous.” She was still riding the happiness of discovering something in the bar token, which might’ve played a role.

“No promises, but I’ll do my best,” said Cocoon. Then she grinned, puffed her chest out, and flared her wings. “And my best is pretty dang good.” Pause; her wings twitched inward slightly. “Usually.”

On a whim, Bitterroot jumped on another thread. “Also, I know being an informant’s your job, but is there any way I could turn in what evidence we find? I’m a bounty hunter, and there’s a bounty out for the Mearhwolf and information on her, and it’s the principle of the thing, you know? But if that won’t work, that’s fine. Catching the Mearhwolf’s more important.” Unfortunately. They were the Elements of Harmony, not the Elements of Financial Liquidity.

But Cocoon grinned. “Heh. The nice thing about working for somebody else? A steady paycheck. I’m salaried, baby!” She slapped her chest. “The quality of my reports doesn’t matter, just that I keep an eye out. You get first dibs on whatever we find. I come in later and corroborate, and your info seems even more solid.”

“Nice.”

“As Princess Twilight reminds us, friendship is magic. As a corollary, cooperation is physics.”

“Eh…” Bitterroot grimaced and wiggled a hoof. “Not really that catchy.”

“Nope!” Cocoon chuckled and rustled her wings in amusement. “Not at all.”

Bitterroot downed a large gulp of tea and took an impressive bite of donut. Right back in it. “So what do you think we should-?”

“Whoa, hey, not just yet. We are here on my bit, and I am not brainstorming until I’ve finished this minty goodness.” Cocoon held up the last little bit of her smoothie and took a long, satisfied slurp. “Too much thought interferes with the taste.”

“Hmm.” Her tea sitting deeply in her stomach, Bitterroot glanced at the smoothie again. It was an ordinary smoothie, but… “You know, I thought changelings ate love.”

“Oh, we do.” Slurp. “Pony food can give us some energy, but it’s all so physical, it’s crazy inefficient. Tastes good, though.” Slurp, and the last dregs of the smoothie went up the straw. Cocoon licked her lips and pushed the glass aside. “Alright. You got any ideas?”

“Not yet. Still thinking.” Infiltrating and getting secret looks at cargo manifests wasn’t really part of a bounty hunter’s job description. First time for everything, though.

“Alright, lemme know if inspiration strikes. I was thinking we could…”

She had a badge. She was a necromancer and she had a badge.

It wasn’t much of a badge. Just a tiny metal shield marking the wearer as a very-much-temporary member of the Royal Guard. Tomorrow, it might not mean anything. But Amanita still felt that slight amount of weight on her chest and kept coming back to the fact that she was a necromancer and she had a badge.

She could raise and control the dead at will and the Guard trusted her.

Huh.

Amanita was walking through one of the lesser of the nicer neighborhoods of Canterlot with Cobalt and a pegasus guard, a staff sergeant named Iron Phalanx. Apparently, he’d volunteered. (“Do we really need a staff sergeant?” Amanita had asked. “No, but he’s bored and I owe him a favor,” Code had said.) Phalanx had proven to be almost as unflappable as Code, never batting an eye at the fact that he was escorting a necromancer and that necromancer’s most recent… masterpiece. Or maybe he was just happy to be out and about; from the way he sometimes interjected and asked Cobalt questions, he seemed eager to be doing something.

“And when they got you,” he asked again, “they took you to somewhere else where they killed you?”

“I think so, yeah,” Cobalt said again. Amanita knew the story by heart by now; Cobalt had been through a round of questioning about her own death before they set out, Phalanx had been unlucky enough to not be around during that, and now he kept asking her about every part of it, over and over and over. Cobalt, normally so chipper, was starting to slide into irritation. Amanita was surprised it’d taken her so long to be irritated in the first place.

It was pretty simple. Cobalt had left from her metalworking forge just after 9 PM, having worked late to finish up an order. That was still two hours before the curfew started, but she wasn’t an idiot; she wanted to get home ASAP. About halfway home, on an empty street lined with closed stores, she was jumped from behind by two or three ponies, had a bag stuffed over her head, and got thrown beneath a blanket in a wagon. Unfortunately, she hadn’t gotten a good look at her attackers and wasn’t even sure how many there were. When she’d tried to struggle free, a blow to the head had knocked her out. She couldn’t remember much after that, only waking up to the agony from getting stabbed over and over. “I could actually feel it hitting my heart,” she’d quietly said. And yet, she’d remained surprisingly chipper as they walked. A side-effect of resurrection, or had she always been that happy?

Might as well ask her. Phalanx was mulling something over, so Amanita coughed. “Um. Cobalt. How are… How are you doing? Really.”

“You’re like the fifth pony to ask that,” Cobalt said casually. “But… fine. Really. Yeah, I’m weirded out by it all, but…” She looked down at her legs and flexed them a little more than usual as she walked. “I’m… I’m here. I’m alive and I’m planning on staying that way for a while. It’s not like Elysium’s going anywhere.” She shook her head. “It’s like… I woke up one morning and found I was bankrupt, then got it all back the next day. Except I can’t really remember being bankrupt at all, and… It’s confusing, but I think it’s working out to ‘fine’.”

“And your death?” Amanita asked. “You were stabbed. Like, a lot. And you’re just…” She waved a hoof around. “…okay with that?”

“Eh.” Cobalt shrugged. “It’s a bad memory, nothing more. Dying doesn’t seem so bad once you’ve done it.”

Amanita glanced at Phalanx, who just shrugged. “Don’t look at me,” he said. “I just stab things.”

If only she were so lucky. All he had to do was stand around and look imposing. She’d be front and center, since this was the first time Amanita would be introduced as a necromancer to somepony who wasn’t being paid to tolerate her — and considering the actions of some ponies who were being paid to tolerate her, she wasn’t looking forward to it. Bringing that pony’s wife seemed like it’d be a good start… unless, of course, it was assumed that the dastardly necromancer was Up to Something and it was all a lie. Although, with the backing of the Royal Guard, maybe her motives wouldn’t be questioned. If she were lucky.

Her constant thoughts diverted her attention, and before she knew it, they were standing before the front door of a house like any other. Cobalt eyed the door, took a deep breath, raised a hoof. She paused for a moment, like her mind was just as busy as Amanita’s, then knocked.

A few moments later, Cobalt’s wife (Pinwheel, Amanita had heard) pushed open the door, her eyes puffy. She took a deep breath and raised her head. “Yeah?” she asked. “How can I he…” Her voice trailed off as she noticed who, exactly, was on her doorstep. Her eyes became the size of dinner plates and her jaw plummeted. “C-Cobalt?” she whispered.

“Hi, honey,” said Cobalt.

The silence was oppressive for an eternal moment. Then, cringing backward like she’d seen a corpse, Pinwheel screamed, “The Guard told me you were DEAD!”

Cobalt tried grinning, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Those reports were greatly exa-”

“No, no, nonono, it’s been days. It was not an exaggeration. The Mearhwolf- It was in the papers! I’m preparing for your funeral! Stars above, I’M WRITING YOUR OBITUARY RIGHT NOW! It- You- I-” Pinwheel paced back and forth, her head twitching in the quick, jerky manner of somepony looking for something to hit. Her wings refused to hold still. Nopony said anything. Finally, she whirled on Cobalt, but when she spoke, her voice was tired. “What happened? Really.”

Cobalt’s tail twitched. It was a long moment before she took a deep breath and whispered, “I was killed by the Mearhwolf.”

“Honey, I’m not in the mood for jokes.”

“This isn’t a joke. I died. And a ne- A- I was- And I was brought back. By- By necromancy.”

Pinwheel twitched like she’d been stuck by a pin. She raised a hoof like she was going to start walking, but didn’t move forward or back. “N-necromancy?” she whispered. “But… that’s…” Her wings were moving restlessly. “Are… You can’t be-” She pointed a shaking hoof at Cobalt, her eyes watering. “Y-you’re not… You-”

Phalanx stepped forward. “Ma’am,” he said, “your wife’s resurrection was completely overseen by the High Ritualist. This is her. She isn’t being controlled in any way. You have the Crown’s word on that.”

Pinwheel’s haunted gaze jumped back and forth between Phalanx and Cobalt, her mouth working soundlessly. Her legs twitched like she wasn’t sure to run away or embrace Cobalt. Slowly, she put her hoof down. She took a deep, shuddering breath. “T-tell me something only m-my wife would know,” she whispered.

Cobalt opened her mouth, glanced at Amanita and the guard, and took a step forward. Pinwheel spasmed, but didn’t run. Another few steps forward; the two ponies were almost muzzle-to-muzzle. Cobalt leaned in and whispered something in Pinwheel’s ear.

Pinwheel said nothing, but her eyes went wide. Breathing heavily, she stepped away, a hoof at her mouth in shock. She and Cobalt stared at each other. Then she lunged forward and wrapped her legs around Cobalt, sobbing. “Oh, C-Celestia,” she whimpered. “I… I thought…”

“Shh, shh,” whispered Cobalt. She ran her hooves through Pinwheel’s mane. “It’s okay. I’m here now. It’s okay.”

“I- I was p-planning your f-funeral, and- Oh, Celestia.”

The two ponies held each other, taking deep breaths of raw emotion. Amanita felt like she needed to give them space, but where would she go on an open street? She settled for turning around and looking at nothing. At least she wouldn’t be looking at them. She glanced at Phalanx; he seemed to be investigating the front door’s trim.

When she heard a sound like they were breaking apart, Amanita risked turning around. Cobalt and Pinwheel were on their own feet again. Cobalt had laid a hoof on Pinwheel’s shoulder and was whispering in her ear. Pinwheel wiped her face down as she shuddered and gasped. In what looked like a supreme act of will, she raised her head and managed to ask, “Who, who, who can I… thank? For this.”

“I’m just a guard, ma’am,” Phalanx said, taking a step back. Pinwheel’s eyes flicked to Amanita, like she was seeing her for the first time.

Amanita breathed deeply. Well. Here goes nothing. “I’m Amanita. I’m the necromancer who resurrected your wife.” Why did that sound so natural?

“You are?” Pinwheel looked her up and down. Her eyes lingered on the badge for a long moment. “You are.”

It was only by a miracle that Amanita’s expression looked more like a nervous smile than a grimace. “Yeah…”

“Huh. I…” Pinwheel shook her head. When she spoke again, it was like she was forcing the words out to say something. “I was just putting tea on. Do, do you want some?”

Suddenly, Amanita felt hungry. What time was it? Was it past noon already? Why hadn’t she eaten anything besides three pieces of candy since breakfast? “Um. Sure.”

Pinwheel nodded, but her eyes remained fixed on Amanita. After an awkward moment, Cobalt nudged her in the ribs and said, a bit loudly, “You can have some too, Mr. Guard!”

“Sir Guard,” said Phalanx, also a bit loudly. “And, thank you, that sounds nice.”

“Come on in, then!” said Cobalt loudly. She vanished into the house after giving Pinwheel’s tail a light tug. Pinwheel slowly walked backwards into the house, watching Amanita all the while. Phalanx gave Amanita a light shove and Amanita stumbled into the house.

“Living room’s over there!” said Cobalt, pointing. “Go, go sit!”

At Phalanx’s insistent prodding, Amanita toppled into an armchair in front of a coffee table. Phalanx took a seat on another, less-comfortable-looking chair. Amanita turned her ears to the kitchen; she picked up some quick, hushed words, but nothing comprehensible beyond a boiling tea kettle. Then the kettle stopped. Not long after, Cobalt marched into the room, levitating a tray of four teacups before her. Pinwheel followed behind, looking at Amanita with distant eyes.

Cobalt passed out the saucers and cups. Without any conversation, the clinks of the china seemed unusually loud. Once the hosts took a seat, Amanita waited for Pinwheel to say something; nothing came. Was she supposed to say something? She was the one who’d been invited in. She didn’t know what to say. She’d had a job — a job that reminded her of all the wrong things, but a job nonetheless — and had done it. That was it.

After a long moment, she remembered she had tea in front of her. The urge to end the silence made her hurriedly take up her cup and sip. “Good tea,” she said. It really was, steeped just right and at exactly the perfect temperature.

“Yes, thank you,” said Phalanx.

“Of course it is,” said Cobalt. “Her tea is always great.”

Silence.

“So…” Pinwheel took a sip of tea. “Ama- Ammy-”

“Amanita,” Amanita said.

Pinwheel turned bright red. “Amanita, yes.” She swallowed. “You’re, you’re a necromancer?”

“Yeah. The High Ritualist looked at the spells I was using and had them approved.”

“And I feel fine,” Cobalt said quickly. “One hundred percent.”

Pinwheel barely glanced at Cobalt. “Hmm. Most necromancers…” She put her teacup down on her saucer and nudged it, trying to look like she was doing something so she wouldn’t have to look at Amanita. “I heard they were monsters.”

“Most are. I wasn’t one yet, but I sat by and watched as one did her work. I’m… doing my best to avoid anything like that now.” It was a weak justification, but it was true; what more was there to say?

“Oh.” The china-on-china grinding was quiet. Pinwheel still didn’t look up. “What changed?”

She’d opened her eyes, mostly.

At first, Amanita had simply doven into her studies to avoid Circe’s ire. If she fixed herself, if she did good, then she wouldn’t make the master angry. But as she got better and truly realized what she could do, she hunted for one thing: Zinnia.

Circe still used Zinnia like a carrot. Do well, and you could talk with your love. Don’t, and… As Amanita worked, she realized that, once she got good enough, she wouldn’t need Circe anymore.

So she worked. She studied. She practiced. She pulled ponies apart to see what made them tick, physically and metaphysically. She found the right ways to bind spirits to this earth and prevent them from leaving. All this and worse. The deeper she dove, the stronger the ethical pangs at what she was doing became. When it became too much, she tore out her feelings and replaced them with facts. Facts were true, and the truth was good. If it weren’t, Honesty wouldn’t be an Element of Harmony. That these truths happened to revolve around killing ponies and exploiting their deaths was irrelevant. Her feelings were a distraction from this goodness of fact, and so they were for Zinnia only.

As she worked and tinkered with the summoning spell, Amanita found something suspicious. A little part of the binding that bent Zinnia’s will to hers. She took it out, examined the remaining ritual. Did it still work? Yes, it did. It was easier, in fact. Amanita rewrote the spell without it and nearly forgot about it. She didn’t need it; Zinnia would love her anyway.

One day, when Circe left for a while, Amanita was ready. She had the ingredients. She knew the actions. She had a chance to do it all without Circe knowing about it. She performed the ritual perfectly. She summoned Zinnia’s spirit with no adulteration. And so it was that the first proper words of the love of her life were to scream in terror, “YOU STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!”

Amanita couldn’t remember the exact words of the next few minutes anymore, just the implications behind them. Amanita pleaded, but still Zinnia shied away in fear, sobbing, calling her a monster. Slowly, firmly, bit by bit and word by word, pieces fell into place. Whenever Circe had called Zinnia up, she’d hijacked her free will, leaving her snared in her own mind. All to make Amanita more pliable. Zinnia continued in Elysium, what should’ve been her eternal rest, in a state of constant fear that it would happen again, at any time. How many times had Circe summoned Zinnia, again, idly raping her mind for Amanita’s clueless amusement? Countless. When even one would’ve been far too many.

Amanita stammered out weak, ineffectual apologies — she didn’t know, she wasn’t the one that had done it, she’d NEVER… They wouldn’t have convinced the world’s most empathetic pony. They weren’t supposed to; they were all she could say. Her mind was racing, looking back on everything she’d done. With every body she saw, her bile rose again. There were a lot of bodies, yet numbness never graced her to soothe her pain.

At some point, Amanita realized the only reason Zinnia was still there at all was because her own spells were keeping her there. Before she released Zinnia, those final words came out: “I promise I’ll never call on you again!”

“Please don’t,” Zinnia whimpered.

That was the last time they saw each other. And as Amanita sat there, numb from the cold and disbelief alike, thinking about the depravities she’d done to see her teenage marefriend one more time, one single possible avenue of hope illuminated itself. One last way to weasel out of responsibility. One final self-delusion. Surely, SURELY, Circe didn’t know the spell worked like that, right?

That night, at dinner, Amanita cleared her throat. “Um, Master? I… looked a bit at the spell you were using for Zinnia-”

It was astonishing how Circe’s smile, so treasured mere hours ago, held so little warmth. “Good for you! Figgerin’ out how it works, are ye? ’Bout time y’really pushed yerself.”

“And it… sorta… binds her will to mine. Makes her subservient to me.”

“So?”

“It’s… It’s not supposed to work like that, is it?”

“Well, ’course it is. It’s what y’wanted, ain’t it?”

And Amanita’s self-image collapsed.

“Love,” said Amanita. It was kind of one of the two defining factors of her life, now, and arguably the more important one. She’d become a necromancer because of love, she’d left necromancy because of love. Funny how that all worked out. Hopefully it wouldn’t stay that way.

Pinwheel took a long sip of her tea. “You know,” she sighed, “part of me says that that’s hokey, childish, and could never happen… then I look at how a dark god was healed with magical friendship lasers four years ago, and…”

“It’s more complicated than, ‘I found love so I left necromancy’,” Amanita said, surprising herself. The words had slipped out like they’d been waiting to be said. She hadn’t even planned on saying anything, but to just let Pinwheel keep talking. That part of her was private. But… the phrase was ambiguous and didn’t let any actual information out, right? Or would it just start sucking in questions she’d have to deflect? She quickly lowered her gaze and took a long, distracting drink.

Pinwheel finally raised her head and gave Amanita a good, long look. Suddenly, her ears twitched upward and her pupils dilated at the same time she took in a small, quick gasp. Her hoof was steady as she put her teacup back down on the saucer, although her wings were tense. “If you went through what I think you went through,” she said, “then… I’m sorry. I know how you feel.”

Amanita’s throat curled into a knot. Pinwheel knew — maybe not much, but enough. The surrounding circumstances might be different, but the grief itself? That was the same. It was the same for everyone. “Thanks,” Amanita managed to choke out.

“And… I…” Sniff. “I’m not s-sure I would’ve… if…” Pinwheel’s chest heaved and a tear rolled down her cheek when she blinked. “I-if-”

Cobalt immediately wrapped a leg around Pinwheel’s shoulders and pulled her close. Pinwheel buried her face in Cobalt’s shoulder; she kept making small, gasping sounds, always teetering on the edge of crying without actually falling over. “Th-thank you,” Pinwheel whispered. “I…” She straightened up slightly and rubbed her head against Cobalt’s neck. “I… don’t know what to s-say. I thought- I was n-never going to-” Suddenly, she sat up, rubbing her eyes down. “Listen to me, babbling like that,” she muttered as she hung her head. “I- I’m doing my best, but I’m, I’m going through a lot right now and my head’s all…” She waved a hoof around vaguely. “…mixed up.”

“Do you want us to leave?” Amanita asked. “I can, I can- take a letter. Later, I mean. You can get your thoughts in order and- tell me what you want to say when you know what you want to say and- yeah.” Swallow. Why was talking to ponies so much more difficult than necromancy?

Phalanx spoke up, making Amanita jump; she’d practically forgotten he was there. “I assure you, ma’am,” he said, “the Guard will make sure Amanita gets any letter you write to her.”

“Let’s do that,” Cobalt said quickly. “We… We need some time together.” Pinwheel sniffed and nodded shakily, her head wobbling like a bobblehead’s.

Phalanx quickly scribbled out some contact information on a napkin for them and passed it over. Goodbyes were bid, but just as Amanita had her hooves on the front step, Cobalt tapped her on the shoulder.“She really does appreciate it,” Cobalt said in a low voice. “It’s just…” She gestured back to the living room.

“Yeah,” said Amanita. “I get it.” She very much got it.

Amanita let Phalanx lead the way back to Canterlot Castle. Besides not really knowing the streets, her head was swimming enough that she probably would’ve gotten lost anyway. She’d been confronted about being a necromancer and had come away squeaky-clean. Good, right? Or was it just because she’d given Pinwheel something? Or was that last thought just paranoia?

Hadn’t she gotten over this in prison therapy? She’d felt so much better about herself then. Everything was simpler. Because it was dictated for her and feeding her guilt complex. It was easy to feel bad for yourself in a controlled environment. Feeling proud of yourself in spite of your past in the real world… That was something else. So was she proud of performing necromancy?

In this context? Kinda.

She was proud of being a necromancer. And that scared her.

Less than she’d thought it would, though.

Phalanx cleared his throat. “Hey. Are you feeling okay?” His voice was casual, but not mechanical.

“I… I think so,” Amanita replied. Was she? Ish. Good enough, anyway. “I’m having a… very confusing week.”

Phalanx chuckled. “I can imagine. Let me know if something’s bothering you and I’ll do my best to fix it. Even if that’s just giving you an excuse to leave.”

“Right. Sure.” It was a small thing, but at least Amanita had something resembling a shoulder to cry on. Or a guiding hoof. Or both. “Thanks for. Um. Coming out here. You’re a… staff sergeant, right? So this is… probably below your pay grade.”

“Don’t worry about it, it’s no big deal. In the last few years, life in Canterlot is either sitting around peacefully waiting for something to happen, or something happening violently, taking you out, and making you sit around in anxiety waiting for Twilight and her friends to fix it. She’s implementing reforms to minimize the latter, but still. Sheesh.” Phalanx snorted. “I’ve wanted to do something interesting for ages, and tagging along with a necromancer sounded like a good idea. It was this or hang around the barracks listening to old soldiers brag about their battle scars. Scars that I don’t have, so naturally they don’t stop ribbing me about it.”

Amanita looked him up and down. His pristine coat was definitely a far cry from the stereotypical battle-hardened warrior. Well, that was Equestria for you. “I could cut your head off and resurrect you,” she said.

“Nah,” Phalanx said faux-casually. “Too much work, and nopony’d believe me.”

Amanita snorted.

8 - Mean Streets, Clean Streets

“Hey, Bitterroot?”

“Yeah, Cocoon?”

“Ponies change the seasons in Equestria, right?”

“Sure. Harvest Moon 1’s in… two days, and that’s when we start the autumn changeover. Not much to do in Canterlot, but rural villages have a lot.”

“Do they… line up with other countries or anything? Like, uh… Zebrabwe. Do pony seasons match zebra seasons?”

“I actually heard that zebras only have two seasons.”

“…Wait, seriously? I thought Tambarare was full of it.”

“Who?”

“Tambarare Kubwa. She’s the Zebrabwean ambassador or an aide or something. I was hanging around the castle one night and heard her talking with ponies about seasons. She said zebras only have a wet season and a dry season, which sounded a lot like something you make up to be spayshul and younee-kuh.”

“Nope. Weird and absolutely true. All their rain is focused in the wet season. They even ride great big birds to manage it. They’re called, uh… iimpundulu.”

“See, that sorta makes sense, ’cause how else would they? Zebras can’t fly. Wonder why they have seasons like that, though…”

After some back-and-forth, Bitterroot and Cocoon had hammered out an… adequate plan: track down one of the guards from the night of the robbery, chat him up, and see what information fell out. Cocoon vaguely knew of one of them. “He’s a real night owl — I mean, ’course he is, he’s a night guardspony — and ought to be getting up soon. His shift doesn’t start for another few hours. I’d say we got time to grill him.”

Thusly, the pair was returning to the Roost to track down that particular guard. They’d just crossed the illusion line and were nearing the walkways. They’d been about halfway there when Cocoon had struck up conversation.

They swooped up and over the edge of one of the walkways, landing lightly. Cocoon was still rambling. “But then what did they do before they had those birds? Not like they just popped into existence with tamed thunderbirds ready to go…”

“No idea,” Bitterroot said. She tried not to look at Cocoon; she was a different pegasus now — stocky and emerald rather than lean and teal — but still speaking with the same voice, and that made Bitterroot’s stomach churn. “You’d have to ask a zebra.” She looked over the nearby walkways, trying to see the pony Cocoon had described.

“I could, but ponies don’t know what moved the sun and moon before the unicorns figured it out.”

“Where’d you say this guy was?” Bitterroot asked.

“Oak Branch’ll probably be on the other side of the Roost,” Cocoon said. “Close to some of the ground entrances up to Canterlot, so he likes to hang out around thereabouts. And down here in general, really. Knowing he can beat up whoever he feels like without the Guard getting involved makes him feel big. Which, of course, guarantees he’s small. Follow me. So, see, just because your species does something doesn’t mean you know what came before it. I don’t expect zebras to know, anyway, I’m just thinking out loud…”

Aiming towards where Canterlot’s rim met the mountain, Cocoon navigated the Roost’s spiderwebbed streets like a pro, taking weird turns that always pushed them in the right direction, sometimes bounding over gaps where there should’ve been a bridge, and weaving around certain ponies like she knew them. Bitterroot could’ve easily gotten lost and had to throw herself over the edge to reorient herself. And all the while, Cocoon kept talking about history in a low voice.

“-don’t really know why Chrysalis was so hellbent on stealing love,” she said. “ ’Cause when Starbright or whoever came around and we metamorphosed, free food, right? I’m cool with that. But no, it has to be stealing for her, like it’s revenge or something. And, c’mon, I was ruthless, but I wasn’t a sadist.”

Bitterroot quickly glanced around. No one was paying them any attention. That she could tell. “So how’d you join up with the Guard in the first place?”

“Traveling recruiter,” said Cocoon quietly. “Thorax’s hive is nice, what with the general lack of risk that you might get your head bitten off if you say the wrong thing, but it’s all so… level. There’s good vibes, but they’re all the same vibes. Chrysalis had the same problem, actually, once you got past her sociopathy: all mean vibes, all the same vibes. Monotony.” She blew a quick raspberry and turned around, smoothly transitioning to walking backward. “Then this pony comes along… about a year ago, and he’s offering changelings jobs in the Guard. Stuff like scouting, undercover work, you the drill. Perfect for us. And this sort of informant gig lets me go in and out of different environments, so plenty of different vibes. It’s bad down here, but it just makes the niceness of Canterlot proper feel better. Perfect.” She spun back around, her head high. “Variety is the spice of life, and I’ve got variety coming out the wazoo here.”

“You should probably get that looked at.”

“I did. Doc says it’s healthy as long as I’m careful.”

Bitterroot snorted.

A little more walking, and Cocoon flared a wing to bring Bitterroot to a halt. “Alright, that guy, right there,” she said. She pointed to a big, stocky earth stallion, dark green with a brown mane, talking with another unicorn. “That’s him. Oak Branch.”

Some sizing-up didn’t tell Bitterroot much besides the obvious. Thick, muscley, probably proud of it to the point of obsession. The kind of guy who’d scoff at mares spending hours putting on their makeup to look good while spending weeks at the gym to look good. Short mane, no facial hair. Was it just her, or did tough guys trying too hard to look tough never have much facial hair when they didn’t have a certain specific type of big, wiry, unkempt beard? Maybe he thought he had a good chin (he didn’t). Overall, a prime meathead. Perfect for getting information from, she knew.

“He’ll hang around here, then he’ll head to the Bat Bar, over there.”

Bitterroot did a double-take to be sure she was reading the sign right. “The… Bat Bar?” she hissed.

“It’s actually species-neutral-”

“Not that! It’s a terrible name! I could come with a better one! Like- Leatherwing Lagers or something!”

“The Roost despises marketers. Or, to be more precise, no one who goes into marketing ever needs to come down here.”

Standing just out of easy noticing range, Bitterroot and Cocoon watched Oak and the other pony talk. It was the kind of civil enemies used when they didn’t want to be remotely near each other: not quite shouting, but it was only two or three neighbors over. They were “discussing” a debt the unicorn owed Oak; the little context she gleaned told her it wasn’t relevant to her investigations, so Bitterroot had half-tuned it out. Their words were that stilted, trying-too-hard politeness and their voices were growing in volume, with more and more ponies giving them a berth.

Cocoon was rustling her wings restlessly; Bitterroot gave her a light nudge. “You’re fidgeting,” she whispered. “Don’t draw attention. You need to be a fly on the wall, no offense.” Weren’t changelings supposed to be good at hiding?

“None taken, and I know that, but the stuff they’re talking about is so… ordinary. I’ve heard it all before from different ponies, it’s not juicy.” Cocoon gave Bitterroot a guilty look. “I’m not good at waiting.”

Bitterroot looked at Cocoon without taking her ears from the not-quite-argument. “Usually, you just pick up and move to wherever the action is?”

“More or less. I-” Cocoon’s head suddenly went up, she blinked twice, and she snapped to look at the pair again. “Anger spike,” she whispered. “I bet-”

The unicorn backpedalled, his horn glowing, and screamed an insult at Oak, one uncreatively rife with four-letter-words and their derivatives. Oak bellowed an equally uncreative one back and took a step forward. There was a flash; Oak was driven back several steps by the magic missile, and by the time he’d waved the sparkles from his face, the unicorn was gone. Muttering something uncouth, he began heading for the (bleagh) Bat Bar.

Cocoon raised her hoof, but Bitterroot quickly waved her down. “Don’t follow him too quickly,” she said. “If you walk up to him right after he’s had a bad time, he’ll think you’re taking advantage of him. We know where he’s going. Let him get there first.” Yeah. Cocoon really needed help.

“Huh.” Cocoon shifted her weight around as Oak traipsed along. “Is following ponies always this slow?”

“Nah, usually it’s slower. It’s all about staying out of sight when you can’t just poof yourself a new body.”

Oak vanished into the bar and Cocoon gave Bitterroot another look, but Bitterroot shook her head. “Wait a minute,” she said. “Just a minute. Let him get settled in, let him not see you. When you go in and start chatting him up, it’ll look more spontaneous.”

For someone self-professed to not be good at waiting, Cocoon seemed quick to learn. The minute passed without too much restlessness on her part, and when the pair entered the Bat Bar, Oak was sitting alone at the bar itself, glaring sullenly at his (still full) glass like he’d bought it season buckball tickets that it’d turned down.

“All right,” Bitterroot whispered, nudging Cocoon, “work your magic.” Pause. “Do changelings have emotion-manipulating magic?”

Cocoon smoothed out her mane. “No, that’s crystal ponies.”

“Wait, wha-”

But Cocoon was already gone, sauntering up to Oak like he’d already asked her out. Bitterroot sighed and took a table not quite in the corner to watch — and jump in if it looked like Cocoon was failing.

Cocoon settled into the chair next to Oak and flashed him a grin. In a voice that had transformed into a brook flowing over rocks, she said, “Hey, good lookin’.”

Oak grunted.

“You seem down.”

Oak glanced at her, looked her up and down, eyed her rump for a second longer than anywhere else. “I guess not,” he grunted, and took a sip of his drink.

“Anything I can do to fix that?”

Bitterroot frowned. Maybe it worked for changelings, but that particular brand of flirting was not the route you took in this situation. It was too indirect. You needed to go for-

“Maybe.” Oak looked sidelong at her. Interest had given his voice a touch more life than usual. “What were you thinking?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Cocoon said with a laugh. “But two nice, strong ponies like us… I’m sure we could figure something out.”

No. No. Bad route. No. Bitterroot’s wings tensed up. Oak turned back to his drink and Cocoon blinked twice as her expression slipped; just a tad, but whatever her changeling senses had sensed, she didn’t like.

“Maybe I’ll just drink it away,” grunted Oak, his voice back to a monotone. Bitterroot bit her lip. Cocoon could work with that. She just needed to-

“Alone?” Cocoon fluttered her eyelashes. (Had she always had eyelashes like that?) “Come on. Surely you want a drinking partner who can match you-”

“Not really,” growled Oak.

Yeah, this was beyond Cocoon’s capability to save, but it might still be recovered. Bitterroot wished she had some beer to slop down her clothes — speaking of clothes, they could stand to be a bit trashier right about now. But oh well. She’d make it work. She quickly but quietly scooted back to the front of the room, then, just as Cocoon was opening her mouth to insert her foot back into it, Bitterroot burst in between her and Oak. “Oh, Celestia,” she said, adding a hint of slurred speech to her words and bumping their pitch up half an octave. “Are you listening to yourself? ‘Match him.’ Ha!” She glanced at Oak and winked as coquettishly as she could. “Can you believe that?” Every patron in the bar looked at them; she cringed at all the attention she was getting, but that couldn’t be helped.

As Cocoon and Oak tried to collect themselves, Bitterroot spun back to Cocoon and leaned in close. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but it won’t work on a stallion as studly as Oak here. Why don’t you fly on home, birdbrain!” So that no one else could hear, she mouthed, Sorry.

Thankfully, Cocoon seemed to get it; she gave a quick, tiny nod to Bitterroot before giving off a truly spectacular series of angry, probably-obscene splutters and storming out. And, thank the Sisters, everyone in the bar went back to their own business. Objective not yet completed, but crisis averted.

“Thanks for that,” mumbled Oak. His voice wasn’t entirely grumpy.

“I couldn’t let some half-bit hussy bother a stallion as grand as you,” said Bitterroot. Stroking Oak’s ego would help him get over Cocoon faster. “Especially when she was talking so much manure, I wasn’t sure which end of hers was which!” Such a stupid line. Which was probably why it’d work on him.

Oak grinned a most punchable grin. “That’s putting it lightly. Can you imagine? She thought she could drink as much as me. Heh. I’d drown her beer.”

“Oh, I know,” Bitterroot crooned. “Somepony as big and strong as you… She’d never match you, even if you weren’t an earth pony. Look at me. I’m big for a pegasus and I’m still blown away by you.” Which, to be fair, was true. Even among earth ponies, the guy was built like a locomotive. “You are not in her league at all.” Bitterroot barely even knew Cocoon and she knew that if Oak were in her league, her standards would’ve slipped. “In fact, you’re…” She twitched her ears, blinked twice, and let her smile slip. “You’re not even in mine,” she whispered, turning away and rustling her wings. She needed to look vulnerable and something resembling cute and-

“Hey.” Oak not-entirely-gently laid a hoof on her back and Bitterroot looked him in the eyes again. “I guess I can relax my standards for one day,” he said, and winked.

Rather than following her heart and sucker-bucking his lights out, Bitterroot managed to twitter out a little high-pitched giggle. “Oh, wow. Today’s my lucky day. I don’t suppose I can buy you a drink?”

Oak chuckled. “I suppose I can allow that.”

Score. Bitterroot’s next laugh wasn’t entirely faked.

When Amanita and Phalanx arrived back at Canterlot Castle, Code wasn’t in her office. It took a little bit of asking around to find out where she was: in the mess hall, eating an early dinner. Amanita was surprised at how late it was, but between waiting for Code to first arrive, Cobalt’s questioning, and going to and from her house in the city, maybe she shouldn’t have been.

Guardsponies were scattered around the mess, but not too many; even if dinner was being served, it technically wasn’t dinnertime just yet. Code was easy to spot, eating some soup near the door. As they approached her, Amanita noticed that her mane was about as much of a mess as a mane that short could be, making it look more like a pixie cut than a military-grade haircut. And she wasn’t just eating soup, she had her head in her soup bowl like it was a watering trough, slurping it down endlessly and without a single care for anypony who might be watching (although to be fair, everypony else was ignoring her).

“Ma’am?” Phalanx said.

Code didn’t look up. “Yes?”

“We’re back. Everything went… acceptably. Cobalt still seems stable and Pinwheel is… adjusting.”

“Good, good. You’re dismissed. Amanita, could I talk to you?”

Phalanx saluted and whispered, “Good luck,” to Amanita before he trotted away. Amanita didn’t think she needed it; Code was reasonable.

The second Amanita sat down across from her, Code raised her head, licking some soup from her muzzle. “So?” she asked. “How do you think it went?”

Words failed Amanita right then. Her brain churned for a few seconds and she eventually said, “Fine for me, emotionally for Pinwheel.”

“Cathartic or unstable?”

“…Overwhelming, then cathartic.”

“Mmhmm.” Code nodded in sympathy. “Not surprised. I can’t imagine what they must be going through. I hope they can adjust.” She gestured to her bowl. “Would you like me to get you some soup?”

“No, thanks.” Amanita was hungry, but didn’t feel much like eating at the moment.

“Good,” said Code. “It’s terrible, terrible, terrible. It’s also free and here, which is what I need for tonight. Some important work got delayed by our ritual, so I need to stay late to get it done.”

“Sorry,” mumbled Amanita.

But Code snorted. “You’re the only person I can think of who would apologize for inconveniencing someone after bringing a pony back to life. Besides, I get overtime.”

“Hrrng. So, uh, do you… need me for anything more?”

“Not today, but you said you could call up the spirits of the dead?” Code asked promptly. “Let them confer with the living?”

“Yeah.” It was obvious what Code was heading to, but Amanita let her talk.

“Does that have a limit like the resurrection ritual?”

“I, I don’t think so. If it does, it’s on the scale of centuries.”

“Then would you be willing to perform that ritual for the victims’ families?”

“Yeah. When? Tomorrow?”

“If you feel up to it. I haven’t made contact with anypony yet, so-”

“Tomorrow’s fine,” Amanita heard herself say. “If I have the ingredients.” Might as well be tomorrow, anyway. At least compared to resurrection, spiritualism was quite clean.

Code didn’t pause. “Excellent, thank you.” She ducked down beneath the table and came back up with a pen and parchment. Pushing them over to Amanita, she said, “And could you write out the method you plan to use? Simply so I can verify it.”

“Sure.” Amanita clicked the pen, hunched over the parchment, and began writing. Memories of Zinnia’s spirit flitted through her mind, but they were gone before she could push them away. This didn’t have the same… revulsive qualities as other parts of necromancy, even though it was associated with worse memories. This was easy. It didn’t even require a mantra for her to convince herself of that.

“I’ve been thinking about your resurrective ritual,” Code said suddenly. “How do you know it’s putrefaction that prevents it from working over time?”

“W-well, uh…” Amanita bit her lip and hesitated in her writing. “I… don’t, really. It’s just, when you work it out, there’s one variable that keeps getting weird values after about three days, and, and putrefaction usually takes about three days to set in, so I… figured…” She shrugged, but she couldn’t shake the feeling she was missing something.

“Because I think, after three days, the person getting resurrected won’t want to come back.”

“…Really?” Amanita asked, raising her head. “But-”

Code interrupted her like she’d been waiting for this moment. “Putrefaction sets in closer to two days rather than three. And your ritual restored some of Cobalt’s organs. The state of the body clearly doesn’t matter. However, that variable is in the same clause as Circe’s original ritual that includes the necromancer binding a thrall to their will, yet still appears in your resurrection ritual, so it’s clearly related to the mind. I think three days is roughly the amount of time it takes for somepony to want to leave this life behind. I’ll need to study it more thoroughly to be certain, though.”

Amanita tilted her head. The idea of somepony not wanting to be resurrected wasn’t that surprising, but the ritual taking something so fuzzy into account into its creation was. “Do… rituals include stuff like that?”

Code blinked, then slouched forward, groaning. “Something. Resembling. Academic. Rigor,” she mumbled. “Sweet stotting Celestia, that’s all I ask.” She straightened up again. “Yes, indeed. Rituals work in the liminal space between ideas and objects. And if your teacher had had any interest in the art of necromancy rather than the perks, she would’ve known that and told you.”

“Art. Right.” Amanita rolled her eyes and went back to her writing.

“With an attitude like that, it’s no wonder you’re scared of yourself.”

What?

Amanita slowly, stiffly looked up. Code was tucking into her soup, utterly unperturbed. “The ‘art’ of necromancy?” Amanita asked. She couldn’t quite keep her voice from sounding accusatory. “The ‘art’ of enthrallment? The ‘art’ of lichdom?”

“Yes. And the art of resurrection,” said Code. She licked a drop of chowder from her muzzle. “An art can be deplorable, but that doesn’t mean it’s not art. Once Circe got what she wanted, an enthrallment ritual, she let it stagnate. She had no interest in refining it or exploring some of its other applications. It’s disappointing, really. She didn’t even teach you ritual terminology, for Celestia’s sake! And here’s you, having served your time for necromancy, shying away from knowledge just because you don’t like someone who used it.”

“J-just because-” sputtered Amanita. “Everypony in history who’s used it has been called an enemy of the state and hunted down! I was a target of one of those hunts and I wasn’t even that successful of a necromancer! But- But I feel better doing it than I have in years, so what if that continues? I mean, power corrupts, doesn’t it?”

Code nodded. “Oh, absolutely. That’s why Celestia and Luna were despotic tyrants and we ought to kill Twilight now. Oh, wait.”

“It nearly happened with Luna,” snapped Amanita. “Then there’s Discord, Kioschad, Sombra, the Cecaneighs, Chrysalis… Not to mention every famous necromancer. How can an ordinary pony with that kind of power ever turn out good?”

Code didn’t say anything at first. From the slouch in her shoulders, she almost looked… exasperated? Then, with a sigh, she took off her glasses, folded them, and put them on the table. “Amanita,” she said. “Who am I?”

Amanita faltered a little at the sudden change in subject. “R-restricted Code.”

“Professionally.”

“The… High Ritualist.”

“Exactly. And what does that entail?”

“Knowing rituals and… how to counter them?” They hadn’t precisely gone over that, had they? But really, how bad could it all be?

“Again, exactly. I know almost every ritual that has been performed within Canterlot’s borders and plenty that haven’t. Which means, absent any interference from the princess, it would only take me a week to level the city and walk away, not just an alicorn, but a bona fide goddess. Because all those spells for enslaving spirits? All those equine sacrifices for immortality? All those horn-grindings for increased magic power? They’re all stored in here.” She tapped her temple. “And not only do I know them, I know how they synergize. Summon a demon, take its ichor for a blood sacrifice, and, well…”

Ah.

Amanita tried to swallow, but her spit had apparently congealed into a rubbery mass. Circe had scared her with knowledge of necromancy; now, Code was scaring her with her knowledge of everything but necromancy. In recent years, it was easy to forget that sometimes, somepony in a high position was in that high position not because of any personal or familial connections, but because they knew their way around a magic circle like nopony else.

Code was still talking. “There’s really only one thing keeping me from taking my chances with Princess Twilight and trying it anyway. Would you like to guess what that is?”

“…It’s… bad?”

Code smirked. “Heh. First try. You wouldn’t believe how many ponies run themselves in circles trying everything but that. Yes, that’s what it amounts to. I have principles. Do I want the power of a goddess, enough magic to flatten every single being in Equestria without thinking of it? Oh, absolutely. Be honest, who wouldn’t? Do I know how to get it? Probably. Do I think it’s worth the cost? Absolutely not. If I have to kill a single pony, it’s not worth it. No, I don’t care if you pick the most evil pony in history, I won’t do it. And something like that is hungry for a lot more than just one pony. I’m not going to hurt anyone for power.”

“Well, you know, I could… resurrect them.”

“Wouldn’t always work. Based on your ritual, the soul needs to be intact for that, and most equine sacrifices consume the soul of the dead pony. Otherwise, you could just get a thousand mice and kill them for the same amount of life force. And if that sounds oddly specific, yes, somepony once tried that.”

Code folded her front legs across the table and looked Amanita in the eye. “So, if power corrupts, how long do you think I have? Because I’ve been the High Ritualist for seventeen years and haven’t slipped up.”

“You’re stronger than me,” Amanita said bluntly, reflexively. “I- I took up necromancy and barely even thought about it just because my marefriend died. I could-” She folded her ears back. The urge to look away tugged at her like a hook in her nose, but she resisted it. “I feel good when I’m doing necromancy now. Like I’m useful. And if I keep doing it, I- I don’t- I’m scared that someday, I’ll do something terrible with necromancy on an impulse just because it’s easier than doing the right thing. I mean, I still know how to enthrall ponies.”

Why was she doing this? Why was she spilling her guts to some random government official? She’d always danced around the issue with Bitterroot. But… Bitterroot had danced with her, no matter how awkward it was. Code was reminding her that they weren’t dancing, they were working. Kindness wouldn’t do any good if what you needed was a slap in the face or some good, old-fashioned brutal honesty.

Code stared at Amanita, her ear flicking. “You really haven’t looked at yourself, have you?” she said. “You say you’re weak. But you sabotaged a lich’s rejuvenation ritual and ran across the Frozen North alone with no map to give her phylactery to the authorities and turn yourself in. If that’s weak, I’d love to hear what you think is strong.”

“It- was the right thing to do,” protested Amanita. Yet all this time, she’d been protesting that she wouldn’t do the right thing, even though the one time it’d actually mattered, she’d done the right thing. Nothing quite like your own actions to shoot your legs out from under you.

“Precisely,” said Code. “You know, I’ve always thought Lord Hockton was a bit oversimplified with that ‘power corrupts’ axiom of his and Roebuck Maro had it better. He said that power doesn’t always corrupt, but it does always reveal. Think about it: when somepony can suddenly do whatever she wants, you see what she always wanted to do. Do you think necromancy turns ponies into power-hungry maniacs, or that power-hungry maniacs sought out necromancy? Now, look at you. You were given power over life and death, and you turned it down because it was hurting people.” She took a sip of her soup. “I’ve been in this line of work long enough to look at every school of magic from all sides. Necromancy can be used for good; it’s just that it attracts bad ponies. If you want to use necromancy in this case, simply resurrecting murder victims, you have nothing to worry about. And besides…”

Code’s grin was remarkably predatory for how flat her teeth were. “If you slip up, I’ll be right here.” Then she put her glasses back on and went back to her soup.

Amanita stared at her, lost in thought. Was it really that simple? That she’d somehow miraculously proved that she was fit for necromancy? That she’d shown she could use necromancy without it going to her head, unlike everypony else?

…Well, yeah. The second she’d realized what she’d been doing to Zinnia, she’d stopped. It wasn’t like somepony was hovering over her shoulder, telling her to enthrall someone or else something terrible would happen. For all the things enthrallment could do, she didn’t want them, not if the cost was binding another pony’s will. It sounded arrogant, but, yeah, she was different from every other necromancer.

Right? That wasn’t just the beginning of everything going to her head, right?

Right?

She quickly devoted her attention to the ritual, scribbling out words and lists to divert her thoughts. Ink flowed easily from her pen as she recalled the instructions, branded onto her mind, the last spell she’d done before her world had upended itself again.

Maybe it was her focus on the ritual that made her mind suddenly take a hard left turn. The deaths had always been three days apart. And she’d seen a map of the deaths in Bitterroot’s office, a map that made them look very circular. Two patterns in what could’ve been a random series of deaths. One could’ve been a coincidence, but two…

She couldn’t help herself. She had to ask. “Code?” Amanita tentatively raised her head slightly. “Is it… possible that these deaths are… part of a ritual?”

“No,” Code said immediately. She didn’t look up from her soup, although she’d pulled her muzzle from the bowl. “We’ve already looked into it. The alignment of the deaths isn’t nearly precise enough, there’s no pattern in the victims themselves, we couldn’t detect any malign magic at the murder sites, and none of the deaths were done with any ritualistic craft. There’s no hope for this to be a ritual.”

“Really?” Amanita frowned. “But the deaths are always three days apart… You’re sure?”

“Positive. It might be a coincidence, it might be a pattern of some sort, but it’s definitely not a ritual.” A pause. “No matter what it feels like.”

“Hmm.” But it still nagged at Amanita as she wrote. Declaring it wasn’t a ritual like that just didn’t… feel right.

She crossed the last T in her instructions just as Code finished her soup. She passed it over and Code’s gaze began flitting over it. With every line, Code read more and more intently, leaning in as if magnetized, until near the end, she was holding the parchment scant inches from her face. “This,” she whispered, “is magnificent. It’s so simple in its sophistication…” She pulled away and started rereading it. “Yes, I’ll be sure to have everything you need tomorrow. Stars above, I wish I was doing this myself…”

“Um.” Amanita coughed. “How should I… go about… coming here?”

Code rolled up the parchment and stuffed it in her saddlebags. “Come here by the same entrance at 8 or 9ish. Tell the receptionist who you are and show them that badge. I’ll leave a note with her and she’ll know to come get me. How does that sound?”

“Yeah, I, I can do that.”

“Excellent. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” Code stood up. “I have a demon to summon.”

Amanita blanched. “Uh…”

“It’s an ongoing experiment,” said Code, as if she’d been waiting. “We’re trying to see if making friends with a demon will make them more open to a summoning with minimal power if the need arises. We’re on week 8 and things are looking good.”

“I… see,” said Amanita. So maybe Code being so blasé towards necromancy wasn’t so shocking. “Does… Princess Twilight know you’re doing this?”

“Are you kidding?” Code smirked. “It was her idea to begin with, well before Celestia and Luna ever brought up abdication. She was ecstatic at finally being able to test it. Farewell.” And, taking up her tray, she left without another word.

Code was summoning a demon in the middle of Canterlot with the princess’s endorsement. Sweet Celestia. But if it was week 8 and nothing had gone wrong yet… But Amanita still caught herself shaking as she got up and made her way outside. If demon-summoning could be done in Canterlot…

No, no, she didn’t need to worry about it. Code had it under control, everyone she was working with had it under control. They’d be fine. And to her surprise, Amanita believed that and her tension loosened up a little. She stepped out into the sun, heading for-

…She didn’t have anything left to do today, did she?

She actually had to think it over to realize that no, she didn’t. After years of Circe and jail, the idea of true free time, with absolutely nobody telling her what she could and couldn’t do, was genuinely alien to her.

…Books. She had nothing to do at Bitterroot’s and she needed some books.

And money to buy the books. Good thing she still had money left over from her own bounty.

Darn shame she didn’t know where anything was, though. Keeping a close eye on the street signs, Amanita set off into Canterlot.

9 - Marshalled Thoughts

Alchemists and arcanochemists had been searching for an affordable truth potion for centuries. While plants and minerals sensitive to the truth weren’t uncommon (Seeds of Truth in particular were easy to find), enforcing that truth upon a pony was significantly more difficult. Mental mages had a surprising tendency to be smug about how deeply they delved into the mind, but preventing a lie from taking shape to begin with was tricky and bordered on highly-illegal mental manipulation. And suppose that was possible. Once the pony being questioned realized they couldn’t lie, they would just stop talking. Compelling them to speak was even trickier, having them speak about what you wanted them to rather than rambling about how neato Equestria’s rail system was even moreso, and even then, a clever pony might tell the relevant truth in an incredibly roundabout way. One military urban legend said that a captured cultist had resisted questioning under a truth potion by spending the entire session speaking in Draconic (or maybe Yakan. This being an urban legend, there were different versions).

Nevertheless, Bitterroot had long ago found the almost-ideal truth potion for getting tight-lipped ponies to talk. It was legal. It was inexpensive. It was widely available. It was innocuous. It was easily camouflaged. It loosened lips swiftly. It lowered inhibitions. It was cheap beer. In vino veritas. It was hardly a perfect solution, requiring a lot of prodding on the part of the interrogator for the suspect to talk about the right things and even more post-questioning work to sift out the wheat from the chaff, but that was far preferable to her own experiences with truth potion. It also needed her to remain sober while her target got drunker and drunker, but surprisingly few ponies down here knew that “kombucha on the rocks” was just a specific type of iced tea rather than some exotic cocktail. (She wished she could order plain orange juice as a “virgin screwdriver”, but too many ponies knew what “virgin” meant in a drinking context.)

And so, although she matched Oak glass for glass for six glasses, she wasn’t matching him drink for drink. Oak, however, was far too drunk to either notice or care. And, hooboy, was a drunk Oak a talkative Oak.

“-an’ lemme tell ya,” Oak slurred, semi-wildly waving a hoof around, “ain’ noppony g’nna badmouf me down’ere! ’Spec’ly nah Sparkl’r.”

“I imagine not,” said Bitterroot, pretending that name meant something to her. She was good at pretending a lot of things, like that Oak’s braggadocious pomposity didn’t make her roll her eyes so much they were practically wheels. But listening to ponies ramble about themselves as she sat in an atmosphere of exhaled alcohol was a small price to pay in exchange for information.

“ ’E thinks ’e’s so, so, so… tha’,” spat Oak (literally), “jus’, jus’, jus’ ’cause ’e’s a unicorn.”

Unicorn. Like the pony they’d seen him confronting when they’d first arrived. So maybe- “And he owes you money, right?” If she was wrong, Oak would be too drunk to notice the flub. Hopefully.

“Yeh! That… slimeball ’f a stot owes e’ryone money!”

Excellent. Next step: while staying on the subject of money, Bitterroot had to carefully move the conversation over to guarding, bit by bit. If she got lucky (very lucky), Oak would mention his job, she could ask him about the robbery, and he’d spill. “I know, right? How badly does he owe you? Do you need it?”

“Heh. Not ’nymore.” Oak looked around them, saw nopony in spite of the ponies nearby, then leaned close enough to Bitterroot’s ear that he was practically chewing on it. “Got a win’fall few days ’go. Bribes’re great.”

Or maybe his brain would be so soaked in liquor it’d short-circuit and go straight to what she wanted. She wasn’t complaining, but it did make her wonder if there was anything behind it besides the usual alcohol-induced idiocy. She giggled; her throat was aching from keeping her voice higher-pitched than usual, but she managed. “Ooo, what sorts of bribes? I could use some money, studmuffin.”

“Guardin’,” said Oak cheerfully. “But y’gotta be so big ’n’ tough they won’t wanna tangle wi’ ya.”

“Just like you.”

“Jus’ like meeeeeeeee.”

“Sounds stimulating.” Yeesh. Stimulating? What kind of a descriptor was that? One pulled out from a brain fart that’d only work because the recipient was staggering drunk. “Care to describe any of these bribes to me?”

“Jus’ one, really.” Oak took a long drink of beer. “So i’ss two nights ’go. I’ss, i’ss, i’ss th’middle o’th’night, an’ I’m gettin’ ready t’go ’ome. Then thiss pony wearin’ a cloak, she runs up t’me ’n’ says she’ll gimme-” He spread his front legs wide. “-ten thooouuusan’ bits if’n I let ’er in, jus’ like that. Avdice fr’m Celes’ia’s brassy twin.”

It was all Bitterroot could do to not scream out, Ten THOUSAND? Because, well. Ten thousand bits. Right there. And at the end of his shift, no less. She’d met more morally-upright ponies who’d take that. The Mearhwolf was either rich or desperate. Or both. (Desperate for what, though?) “I hope you asked for cash,” she joked.

“I di’. An’ I got i’. So she goes on in…” Oak made a broad “entering” gesture. “…comes righ’ back ou’ a min’te later wiff ’er bags. Now, thiss purty myst’ry mare, she runs inta Beat Paff, too. Gives ’im tha’ Celes’ia’s brassy twin speesh an’ ten thousan’ bits, too. An’: boop!” He roughly tapped Bitterroot on the nose and giggled. “Gone. Jus’ done an’ runnoft.”

Bitterroot blinked. Having ten thousand in cash, ready to hand off wasn’t that surprising; who’d trust a check in the Roost? But having another ten thousand ready to go at the same time, just in case… That was something else. There was slinging money around, and then there was having so much money you could actually use it in slings and not miss it. And even that was assuming the twenty thousand was all this mysterious pony had; she could be lugging around even more, ready to buy off a dozen guards if the need came. Mearhwolf: definitely rich, maybe desperate. “I guess you intimidated her,” Bitterroot said.

“ ’Course I did,” Oak said, smiling like he’d beaten down a horde of attackers rather than been smacked in the face with a money bag.

“You didn’t happen to get a good look at her, did you?” Bitterroot asked, leaning in.

“Ah, c’mon, tha’ don’t matter!” Oak waved Bitterroot away. “Haff year’s pay fer a few minn’s work! I ain’t lookin’ a gif’ tree in th’root!”

Darnit. That was a lot less information than she’d hoped. The mare’s appearance had probably been too much to ask for, anyway, what with the alcohol. There was a very good chance he wouldn’t remember it. Still, it was worth a little pressing. “Oh, c’mon, please?” she cooed. “For me?” She tickled his side with a wing.

Oak laughed and roughly slapped her away. “Nooooooope. I go’ my bits fr’m ’er, I ain’t askin’ questchuns ’bout ’er.”

Road apples. Ah, well. Maybe she could turn her new information over and see if something crawled out. Time to go, then. “Shoot. I guess I won’t know who to get bribed by, then.” Bitterroot twitched her ear and glanced at the door, like she’d heard something. “I’d love to stay and chat,” she said, getting off her stool, “but this mare’s got places to be. Catch you later, maybe?” She winked at Oak and made for the door.

“ ’Ey, don’ be like tha’!” Oak half-stumbled from his own stool and managed to find his way in front of Bitterroot. “Stay wi’ me a while! Ain’t y’gonna-” He hiccupped. “-stay?”

Bitterroot pulled out the line most likely to work. “It’s complicated,” she said with a laugh, “but let’s just say you’re more stallion than I can handle at the moment.” And as Oak’s brain stalled trying to figure out whether that was a compliment or not, she scooted around him and out the door.

The second she was outside, just in case Oak was still following, Bitterroot vaulted over the railing and swooped beneath the Roost. Being a pegasus here ruled. She skimmed beneath the buildings, circled around a little, and came back up on a catwalk not too far from the Bat Bar (seriously, such a stupid name). She couldn’t see Oak, meaning he was either still in the bar or long gone by now. She was betting the former. Most likely, he’d passed out halfway to the door. She couldn’t see Cocoon, either — or, more likely, she just couldn’t recognize Cocoon. Jeesh. What must it be like to know someone very, very well and not be able to recognize them?

As if to confirm her thoughts, a chiropterus stepped out of the crowd and made her way towards Bitterroot. Still, Bitterroot stayed ready to run, just in case, right up until the chiropterus said meekly, “Cocoon here. How badly did I mess things up?”

As she let her wings unclench, Bitterroot said, “For us? Barely at all. For you? Pretty much beyond repair.”

Cocoon grimaced. “Yep. Seemed like it.” She ruffled her mane and glared at the bar. “What went wrong? I thought he would’ve liked a mare that could match him.”

“A lot of stallions would’ve,” Bitterroot replied, “but you said he liked to feel big. The closer his partner is to him, the smaller he feels. His muscles are as big as his insecurities.”

“Huh.” Cocoon flicked an ear and tilted her head. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

“…You weren’t a good infiltrator, were you?”

“Eh…” Cocoon grinned and grimaced at the same time. “So-so at best. I’m not so good at the whole ‘acting’ thing. Like, high-school-community-theater level. And I’m terrible at improv. Decent extra, though. I’m good at listening. Anyway, what’d you find?”

“Not much, unfortunately,” Bitterroot admitted. “You were right: Oak was bribed. Right at the end of his shift, too, around midnight. The pony was in and out in a minute. He didn’t get a good look at the pony, since of course that’d be too easy; she was wearing a cloak and he didn’t care enough to remember. But here’s where it gets interesting: guess the bribe amount.”

“Uh…” Staring off into the distance, Cocoon clicked her tongue. “A hundred.”

“Higher.”

“Five hundred.”

“Higher.”

Cocoon frowned. “A thousand?”

“Ten thousand.”

“Ten grand? What, in CASH?”

“Yep.”

“Sweet Queen below…” Cocoon whistled.

“Oh, and that’s not all. The pony ran into another guard on the way out… so she bribed them, too. Ten grand again.”

“Oh, wow. That’s… huh.” Cocoon rubbed her chin like she was shining shoes. “That’s one of the somethingest somethings I’ve seen. No idea what it means, but it’s definitely something.” She shook her head. “Anyhoo, I didn’t know how long you’d be, so I did some sleuthing of my own. Figured out what got stolen.”

Bitterroot’s ears turned forward. “You did? How?”

“Easy. Went to the warehouse, found the foremare, asked if I could see her inventory. She spent several minutes cursing me out. Pointed out that my good friend Princess Celestia said I could take a look, wink wink nudge nudge. Foremare said Celestia wasn’t princess anymore. I said I was giving her money to take a look. Finally managed to get a copy. I mean, wow, what’s the point in having a super secret criminal underworld if nopony’s gonna speak criminal lingo?”

“And you didn’t suggest that before… why?”

Cocoon folded her ears back. “Because I didn’t think of it. Look, I’m a listener, not a doer, I’m not used to planning. And you didn’t think of it, either.”

“…Point.”

“Besides, you talking to Oak still got us that the Mearhwolf’s rich, and-” Cocoon blinked and shook her head vigorously. “Look, never mind, I got the inventory of what was stolen. And I got it in quadruplicate.” She pulled out several sheets of scrap paper with crude mouthwriting and flashed them like they were valuable certificates. “One for each of us to keep, one for each of us to give to the Guard for our monetary info gathering.”

“Quadruplicate,” repeated Bitterroot. She snatched two of the papers from Cocoon and inspected them. The writing was awful, but legible once you put a bit of work into it. Most of the items on there meant nothing to her: manticore venom, lunar lily extract, hemlock, bleh. Maybe it’d mean something to the Guard. Or Amanita. “Princess Twilight’d love you.”

“Of course she does.” Cocoon fanned her face like a socialite and grinned bubble-headedly. “Why do you think she hired me?”

“Because it’s possible for you to hide anywhere and not be recognized?”

“Nope. Definitely the paperwork.”

“Well, thanks.” Bitterroot tucked the papers away. “I guess we don’t have anything else to do down here, do we?”

“I don’t,” said Cocoon. “Look, I’m just an informant. Technically speaking, I’m not supposed to do any detectiving like this.” She shrugged. “But the world is a much nicer place if you ignore all sentences that begin with ‘technically’, so I figured I’d help you. Go off, do whatever you want, hunting bounties and what have you, and if you ever find yourself in the Roost again, I’ll find you and ask you if you need help. It’s the least I can do.”

Bitterroot nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks again.” To think she’d ever been scared of Cocoon. “Be seeing you. Or maybe not.”

“Or maybe not. Thanks for the help and au revoir.” Cocoon threw Bitterroot a salute, turned on the spot, and set off back into the Roost.

With papers and information snuggling against her chest, Bitterroot breathed deeply, savoring the new-lead tingle. It’d been a while since she’d felt it. She glanced at the foothills below Canter Mount and was surprised at the shadows. How late was it? Late enough that turning in would be a good idea, probably. She’d see once she got topside again. Taking a step onto the railing, she spread her wings, letting the wind play across her-

“Patagium Pub!” Bitterroot said suddenly.

Cocoon, still nearby, stopped walking and glanced at Bitterroot, one ear down. “Hmm? Oh, for the…” She flared one of her wings and examined it. Specifically, the membranous patagium between the finger bones. “I guess that’s not bad.”

“Which still makes it way better than ‘Bat Bar’!”

Cocoon rolled her eyes. “You really need to let that go or start charging it rent to live in your head.”

“I can’t help it!” Bitterroot yelled as she fell over the railing. “It’s such a stupid name!”

Amanita still had the receipt and the bank account number for the five hundred grand Bitterroot had given her. A swing by the bank had proven fruitful, and Amanita walked into the first bookstore she found with two hundred bits in her pocket. A sign outside proclaimed it was frequented by Princess Twilight, but given what Amanita had heard about her, she wouldn’t be surprised if that were true for every bookstore in a hundred-mile radius of Canterlot Castle.

She’d never really gone to bookstores before… everything, and her hometown didn’t have many, anyway. But this? This place looked like it had everything. It was larger than her school. It had two stories. A bookstore! Two stories! (She probably sounded like such a country filly.) Then she was about to panic over the choice, only to see that there was a customer service desk not far from the entrance. If she was so spoiled for choice that she sat around not choosing anything and started rotting, that was worth a shot.

She craned her neck and reared to get a look at the signs hanging around the store. Genres, mostly: science fiction, adventure, thriller, horror, romance, mystery, drama… So what was she in the mood for? Just something to pass the time, really. Sadly, there wasn’t a “Train Station Novel” sign that she could spot. Those books were usually arcanothrillers, right? So maybe-

Then she spotted a section with an unusually colorful sign: Princess Twilight and Adjacents. What was that about?

“That” proved to be about a corner of the bookstore devoted entirely to books about Twilight, the other Elements of Harmony, and various ponies they’d been involved in, all with varying levels of authorization. Amanita gawked at the sheer amount of stuff written about, what, less than two dozen ponies? And this was in just two years? Three at the most. She hadn’t gotten the news much while Circe’s apprentice and had barely paid attention to it when she got it, but she’d heard about Twilight’s ascendance and Flurry Heart’s birth. But all of this… She had some catching up to do.

She began roving around the section, skimming over the books. Anything remotely related to Twilight must’ve been selling like hotcakes, because the variety in there was staggering. A lot of unauthorized biographies, some “history of Ponyville” books, a Daring Do novel guest-starring somepony who totally wasn’t Rainbow Dash (Yearling must’ve really been scraping the bottom of the barrel), a treatise on modern magic from Starswirl the Bearded, an examination of Shining Armor’s time as what the night fertilizer.

Amanita zipped back to that particular book and boggled. Sure, a few weeks into her sentence, she’d heard that Starswirl had returned somehow, but seeing his name — and his name alone — as the author of a book was something else. She looked at the back and stared at the photograph of Starswirl. How much had she missed? She reshelved the book, taking a closer look at the ones surrounding it. More books by or about the Pillars of Equestria, usually ab-

…What sort of a name was Stygian? And if he was with the rest of the Pillars, why hadn’t she heard of him before?

The title was semi-dramatic: Me and My Shadow. Novel? She read the blurb on the back. Definitely fiction, although it sounded semi-autobiographical. Back cover, About the Author: the need for conciseness made it vague, but apparently, Stygian had once let himself be overtaken by a dark force in his quest for power.

Sounded familiar. With some trepidation, Amanita cracked the book open to somewhere near the end of the beginning.

What she saw made her retch. A description of the narrator enacting a ritual that, while not entirely accurate, was still close enough to the real thing to be based on real dark magic. Dark magic she’d done. Dark magic the narrator didn’t understand the implications of.

After realizing what she’d been doing to Zinnia, Amanita spent several days in a mental haze of disbelief and self-loathing. How long had she been asking for this? A year? Two? She couldn’t really remember. Too long. Far, far too long. She had trouble sleeping. She didn’t want to eat. She CERTAINLY didn’t want to touch necromancy again. But she did those things anyway. If she didn’t, Circe would notice. And Circe would disapprove.

She risked broaching the subject at one point. She’d deluded herself that maybe she could convince Circe to give up necromancy. “Master, all this that we’re learning… Is it right?”

“Pfft. ’Oo cares ’bout that? Ain’t that what they always say? ‘Be yourself an’ don’t follow th’ crowd.’ Set yer own goals, don’t worry ’bout others. Y’got what y’wanted.”

But she hadn’t. Amanita had wanted Zinnia, not a yes-mare simulacrum.

Every tack she tried yielded the same results. Assertions that she could do as she wished. (What she wished was to run.) As Celestia’s reign showed, the strong ruled the weak. (Amanita had only found her rule in a moment of weakness; now that she was strong, she didn’t want to rule anymore.) The common folk would never understand. (They did understand; why else was necromancy so hated?) On and on. Circe was a quiet madmare, twisting everything to suit herself. Somehow, every single pony in Equestria managed to be narrow-minded in their rejection of necromancy.

When Circe started getting suspicious, Amanita had to pretend to give up, had to smile and nod at whatever Circe did, to pretend every new lesson wasn’t making her sick to her stomach as she understood what she was doing rather than merely knew. Time after time, in what had once been innocuous rituals, she saw that same cantrip that had bound Zinnia, repeated over and over and over throughout. Refusing to be ignorant again, she searched for new ways to be disgusted and found plenty. This wasn’t using bodies as puppets; this was using MINDS as puppets. And now that Amanita had broached the subject of making ponies their slaves with Zinnia’s spirit, Circe talked about it freely, openly. Or had she always done that and Amanita had ignored that?

Her lessons progressed. She learned the ins and outs of chaining wills, of pulling souls from Elysium, of locking them within their own awareness. With each new fact Circe told her, another nightmare was added to the army that stalked the corridors of her mind, hounded her thoughts during the day, ruled her dreams at night. She tried to twist what she learned in her own way — enthrallment could be turned to real resurrection if you did THIS, for example — but even a thousand positive applications of necromancy would’ve been no balm. Guilt weighed around her neck as she sat by and let atrocities happen. Perhaps she could escape by killing Circe, just like she’d killed all those other ponies, but her nerve failed her.

One snowstorm, they holed up in a cabin, the former owner folding their clothes. And suddenly, Circe said, “There’re some perks t’bein’ a necromancer I ain’t shown you yet. ’Ow old d’you think I am?”

Amanita had never been good at guessing ages. “Thirty-five?” she risked.

Circe laughed. “Well o’er five hundred. Ever ’eard of a lich?”

The blizzard outside was downright tropical next to the chill that ran down Amanita’s spine.

Shuddering at the memories and almost gagging, Amanita slammed the book shut. What a great first impression. She levitated it up to the shelf-

-then stopped.

Stygian had done something awful in his past. He’d made peace with it. And now, he was thriving — a Manehattan Times #1 best-selling author, if the cover was to be believed. She couldn’t get rid of those memories, but maybe she could accept them. For all she knew, this could help. It almost seemed like he’d written it as therapy. The in-book narrator didn’t seem to fully get what he was doing, but it was near the beginning; maybe him not getting it was the point. And if she didn’t like it? The thing was a scant ten bits and she wasn’t hurting for money.

Keeping Me and my Shadow close, Amanita went to the next set of shelves. There was a surprising amount of books that seemed dedicated to explaining why Twilight’s rule would absolutely be the best/worst thing that had ever happened. They’d be outdated in mere moons and had probably been rushed in order to strike while the iron was hot. She noticed one, The End of Equestria, idly pulled it from the shelf-

“Do not purchase that.”

Amanita twitched and nearly dropped the book. A gray-maned unicorn with a rough mustache and the tweediest of jackets was standing nearby, perusing a book about Cadance and the Crystal Empire. Without looking at Amanita, he said, “The writing within is so atrocious, the reasoning so mystifying, the grammar so incoherent, that one would do better to shred it, mix its tattered remains into your compost pile, and so allow the physical material to do some good by helping plants to grow. Even among those faddish money-grabs, it is a poor effort.”

“Allllright then,” said Amanita delicately. “How, how did it get published, then?”

“A vanity press,” the unicorn spat, as if vanity presses had murdered his entire family, gutted them, and twisted their intestines into violin strings. “Most of those… books-” He jabbed a hoof at one of the shelves. “-come from vanity presses. Observe the authors and how many of them possess titles of nobility.”

Amanita did so, and… whoof, there were a lot of baronesses and countesses and even a marchioness. The unicorn continued, “The types of nobles who get exiled to Canterlot are precisely the sort who believe the laypony hangs off of every word that dribbles from their mouth, so when anything remotely impactful occurs, naturally they go to the vanity presses and pay to have their orthographic diarrhea masquerading as intellectual opinion abuse perfectly fine paper. Hence, all these…” He gestured at the shelf. “Well, I can’t call them ‘thinkpieces’, for that would require thinking. Fortunately, no bookstore ever gets too inundated by them. Just stay away from this block and you ought to be fine.”

“Alright, thanks.” Amanita examined the titles, this time. Some of them were in support of Twilight, but most of them seemed little more than fearmongering. “I guess the nobility doesn’t like Twilight?”

“The Canterlotian nobility doesn’t. She’ll shake up the status quo they lap at.” The unicorn threw a sidelong glance at Amanita and snorted. “Where have you been for the past year?”

“Prison.”

A bit of red crept into his face. “Ah. What for?”

It was like the bottom fell out of Amanita’s stomach and her hooves were nailed to the floor.

What was she supposed to say? Just, “necromancy”? Just like that? What would he say? Would he run? Make a scene? What if he attracted others? Would she cause a riot just by existing? Would she get arrested again? Would-

But almost immediately, the unicorn had turned even redder. His next words came out like they were being shot from a repeating crossbow. “Wait, I beg your pardon, no, that’s personal, reflex, I apologize. Forgive me for making a right fool of myself, twice over.”

“You’re not the worst I’ve seen,” Amanita managed to say. “You’re forgiven.”

The unicorn nodded, then quickly turned his attention to the shelves. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to catch yourself up, then?”

Amanita hid her breathlessness with an, “Eh…” For a long moment, she considered brushing him off to keep wandering at her own pace, or maybe to stop him from noticing any reaction she’d had. But he’d quickly backed off, and she’d gone for so long without a conversation that didn’t revolve around necromancy… “Sure. I don’t really know what I’m looking for.”

A grin tugged at the unicorn’s mouth. “Excellent. Pop history or scholarly?”

“Both?”

“Both is good. We’ll start with pop, then, they’re over here…”

As Amanita followed the unicorn down the shelves, she said, “You know, you keep mentioning nobles in Canterlot like they’re different from other nobles.”

The unicorn managed to keep walking as he waved a hoof at Amanita. “Because they are! Consider: most nobles hold control over large estates, perhaps even entire towns, given to them as holdings by the Court. But all of Canterlot and much of the surrounding land is under the jurisdiction of the princesses — well, princess, singular, now. Yet Canterlot still possesses an unusually high density of the nobility, who also seem to be mere vapid socialites with alarming frequency. So-”

Amanita got it. “So Canterlot nobles are the ones who’re so insufferable their families sent them here to get rid of them?”

“That’s my own theory, at least. Here, there’s very little they can hurt. The ones situated further from Canterlot are most likely, at the very least, competent.” The unicorn came to stop at a set of shelves. “So are you looking for information on any specific pony? Actually, wait. Perhaps…” He crouched down and squinted into the bottom shelf. “Do they… a-ha!” He pulled out a thick book called Black Swans: A Chronicle of Equestria’s Most Unlikely Legends. “Don’t let its size fool you, it’s enjoyably easy to read, yet still quite thorough. I’m surprised it hasn’t caught on, really.”

“Huh. Thanks.” Amanita opened the book up to somewhere in the middle. It was about a unicorn named Starlight Glimmer, who had apparently led a cutie-mark-hating cult in the middle of nowhere-

-and went on to be Princess Twilight’s protégé. Huh. She flipped forward a few pages. Student of magic and friendship alike, confidant, now headmare of the School of Friendship… If a cult leader, fully aware of what she was doing, could turn away and be accepted by Princess Twilight herself… That opened up some options for her and her own situation.

Maybe. It wasn’t like Starlight was still ripping off cutie marks. Hard to say how her situation related to Amanita’s own.

Worth a shot, though.

“It’s good, is it not?” the unicorn asked.

“It’s already given me something to think about,” said Amanita, flipping to the next page.

“But you also said you were looking for more scholarly work as well, yes?” The unicorn moved over a few feet. “In that case, I should recommend…”

10 - Day's End

Bitterroot would’ve had a spring in her step, but she wasn’t walking, so she had a whistle across her wings instead. Today had been a goooood day.

Okay, maybe not that good. She still didn’t know who had raided the Hangnail’s stores. But it was far more than she’d had before, and that made her feel incredible. She had leads! Her tips had been catalogued! (She’d even asked the clerk about Cocoon, just in case. That particular clerk just so happened to be the same one Cocoon reported to. Good day.) Finally, she had something she could follow rather than throw away. Granted, she wasn’t sure how she’d follow it, but, you know. She’d cross that bridge when she came to it.

The only thing that came close to ruining it was the possibility of Amanita… well, just completely flubbing her impression with the Guard. Necromancer. Twilight seemed big on forgiveness, but that didn’t necessarily extend to her employees, even if Amanita had served her time. Worst-case scenario, she was in a jail cell right now. If that was the case, Bitterroot resolved, she’d drop this lead right now and get to work on getting Amanita out. Snatching a bounty wasn’t worth leaving her to rot, even if she’d get out quickly.

Fortunately, when she dropped onto the street right before her house, Amanita was sitting on her front steps, her back against the door and nose deep in a brand-new book called The Imperial Criterion. Lenore was sitting on her head, making irate croaks at her. As Bitterroot approached, Amanita spared a second to look up. “Hey, Bitterroot.”

“Hey. Didn’t I give you a key to the house?”

“You did.” Without taking her eyes from her book, Amanita levitated a key from a pocket. “I decided I just wanted to stay outside for a bit.” She closed her eyes and breathed in through her nose. “Canterlot doesn’t feel like anyplace else, does it?”

“It’s the thin air plus the weather team keeping it warm,” said Bitterroot. “Most mountains this tall are chillier than this.”

“Bread!” Lenore squawked, and pecked Amanita on the head. Amanita didn’t seem to notice.

“Speaking of bread,” said Bitterroot (she ignored Lenore eyeing her), “the Mearhwolf’s got some weird taste in crimes. She stole rye bread and grape juice from an illegal bar.”

Amanita lowered the book and one of her ears. “Did she?” she asked, frowning. “Rye…”

“She did,” said Bitterroot. “Although, technically, they were just collateral. She was really after a bunch of ritual ingredients.”

Amanita immediately scrambled to her feet as best she could on that downward slope. The book rested halfway down, forgotten. Lenore squawked irately and flew off. “She was?” Amanita asked. “But… Code said…” She shook her head. “Never mind. What was she after?”

Bitterroot blinked at the suddenness of Amanita’s reaction, but shrugged it off and dug out the paper. “Uh… Manticore venom, lunar lily extract, eitr, hemlock, black dog eyes- Wait, are those black eyes of a dog or eyes of a black dog?”

“Probably the second,” Amanita said, looking at nothing in particular. “And it’s not any black dog, it’s the aetheric creature called a black dog… Yes, it’s confusing…”

“I’ve got the full list right here if you want to see it,” Bitterroot said, passing it over to Amanita. “Mean anything to you?”

Although Amanita looked over the list, Bitterroot got the sense that she wasn’t really reading it and her mind was elsewhere. One of her ears slowly drooped downward. Eventually, she shook her head. “Not these together, no. It’s just a jumbled list of ingredients, nothing really ritualistically connecting them. It’s not even illegal to own hemlock, so I don’t know why she stole that…”

“We’ll figure it out later,” Bitterroot said, shrugging. “In the meantime, could you move aside so I can get in?”

“Oh, right! Sorry.”

It was late enough that Bitterroot soon decided dinner was in order. No frozen pizza cop-out tonight, though; baked potatoes stuffed with corn, black beans, and shredded cheese was the way to go (with Amanita’s blessing, of course), plus some extra veggies. Amanita offered to help several times, but Bitterroot always turned it down. It was easy enough.

Amanita was quiet as they ate, but Bitterroot didn’t think she was distressed. Just pensive. She was loose and almost relaxed. When Bitterroot asked her some questions about her day, her answers were more detailed than they would’ve been if she’d been overly stressed. It wasn’t long before Bitterroot just backed off entirely. Better to let Amanita figure things out on her own time.

Eventually, Amanita spoke up. “Bitterroot? I… I need to ask you something. And… You kinda have a bad habit of doing this, so don’t just laugh and wave it away. I need a full, honest answer.”

Bitterroot felt her wings begin to curl. This was going to be one of those Big Questions, she could already tell. Even if Amanita hadn’t asked for a full answer, it was in the way she said it. Her tone was… portentous. “Alright,” she said. “Promise. Cross my heart, hope to fly.” She traced an X across her chest.

Amanita smiled slightly, then took a deep breath. “I’m a necromancer. Are you scared of me?”

Huh. Not quite what Bitterroot had expected, but not far off-base either. “Scared?” she asked, just to be sure.

“Scared,” Amanita repeated. “Of me. Yes, really. Like, actually scared. Don’t just brush it off. I- I need to know.” Her expression wasn’t really pleading, more… demanding.

Bitterroot took a breath. “It’s complicated.” She ran a hoof through her mane, sorting out her emotions, trying to find the best way to phrase it all. Eventually, she said, “I’ve worked with the Guard a few times, doing mercenary grunt work when I’m short on cash. A lot of them are real nice. Sweet, funny, friendly, all combinations of them. But they’re still soldiers, trained to kill. Take a look at them when they’re fighting something that can’t curbstomp alicorns and you’ll get it. I once saw an earth guard crush a ribcage with a single buck. I’m scared of all of the Guard, to one degree or another. But it’s a very small part of what I think of them, nothing more than a respect for their skills. You’re no different. Yeah, part of me’s scared of what you could do. But most of me knows that you wouldn’t do it.” She shrugged. “It’s a strange feeling, but you’ll get used to it. It’s like… knowing Celestia could’ve melted Canterlot in a few minutes if she felt like it while also knowing she’d never feel like it.”

“But you know me,” muttered Amanita, “so…” She picked at her potato and shoveled a bunch of cheese into her mouth, chewing slowly, not really looking at anything.

Bitterroot gave her a minute to think (a minute in which she attacked her own potato), then asked, “Rough day?”

“Not really,” Amanita replied through a mouth half-full of carrots. “Just- Busy. Busy with necromancy.” She swallowed. “I- I went to therapy while in prison and I thought I’d gotten over my past, but that was when I thought I’d never have to think about it again. Now, every- every hour of these past few days, I just- see myself crawling back into that hole, and I know just how deep it goes, and I feel good doing it, and- I, I don’t know. I’m, I’ve got support — from you, from other ponies — but you’ve all got… motives to say that and I keep second-guessing myself. If all that therapy was based around me avoiding necromancy and now I’m at it again literally the day after I was released, does… Am I failing?”

“At what?”

“At recovery. I feel like I’m doing good, but what if I’m just walking the same path again, claiming that I know what I’m doing?”

Bitterroot opened her mouth, quickly closed it again. Her reaction would’ve been casual, dismissive, exactly what Amanita wouldn’t have wanted. She cut up her food as she thought and put her answer in a better way. When she had it, she set her silverware aside. “You want my opinion? It’s been one day, and a really weird day, at that. Don’t get yourself so worked up yet. Just- find out what works, get your feet under you, and don’t worry about figuring out what you’re going to do once we catch the Mearhwolf until after that actually happens. It’s not like if you flunk recovery, you never get to try again. You’ve got time. I don’t think necromancy on its own is a sign you’re quote-unquote failing, anyway. You were doing it for yourself last time, but you’re doing it for others now. And if you’re ever worried, I’ll be here to listen. Even if you buy your own place and move out.”

For a second, nothing. Then Amanita said in a small voice, “Thanks. For- For all of that. It’s… It’s nice to have somepony to rely on.”

“What’re friends for?” Bitterroot said with a shrug. “Seriously. I’ll be here.”

Silence. After a moment, Bitterroot went back to her food, only for Amanita to speak up again. “Even if I…” Amanita swallowed. “…decided to seriously apply necromancy in a moral context?”

Bitterroot’s wings twitched in surprise, but she still knew her answer. “Absolutely. You’ve been thinking of doing that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. It’s like… I’m helping in ways nopony else can, and I like the results, and I’m good at it, so… if I’m not going to slip back, why not do it? But… if I keep doing this, I’ll be… I’ll be doing things nopony’s ever done before. And… I might seriously be… creating new branches of philosophy. Like, is any resurrection ethical?” Amanita grinned weakly. “I- What’ll happen to me? If I make one mistake-”

“Amanita,” Bitterroot cut in. “If you really mean that, I promise I’ll stand by you, no matter what. Go into- private resurrection services or something, the Guard, whatever, I don’t know, I’ll still stick with you and give you whatever help I can. But until you actually start dipping into it, don’t worry about it. It’s just pointless.”

“Easy for you to say,” Amanita mumbled. “You’re not the one whose head it’s bumping around in.”

“A 4-4-0 locomotive is one with four leading wheels, usually on a bogey, four driving wheels, and no trailing wheels,” Bitterroot said. “They’re especially popular out west.”

Amanita frowned. “Um, okay, that’s, that’s neat, but where-”

“If all you can think about is necromancy, I’m going to give you something else to think about. Remember what I said before we left the Crystal Empire? I can talk about trains for hours.” It was a rich field, a lot more detailed than most ponies gave it credit for, and the development of railroads had done a lot to shape modern Equestria. “Now, the locomotive that pulled the train from the Crystal Empire was a-”

“Wait,” blurted Amanita. “Do, do you know rail history?”

“Sometimes. It depends on where.”

“Canterlot. How did the whole… railway up the mountain happen?”

Bitterroot grinned inside. Not only was she distracting Amanita, but this was a topic she knew quite well. “That’s actually the third or fourth track up here, depending on how you count it. Canterlot didn’t have a direct rail connection for a long time because, well, mountains, but after a while, it became too valuable to ignore. The first railway was a dedicated rack railway, one of the first, connecting a station in Canterlot with a terminus in the foothills. Opened a little over sixty years ago. But constantly unloading and reloading passengers and freight was a hassle, so after seven years…”

Bitterroot’s remarkably detailed account of the Canterlot Main Line distracted Amanita from thoughts of necromancy during dinner. The enjoyably absurd arcanothriller plot of The Imperial Criterion distracted her after dinner. But in the few minutes between going to bed and actually falling asleep, Amanita’s mind decided to make up for lost time.

Moral necromancer. Brand new experience. Absolute unknown. She was supposed to just ignore it until it was relevant, she knew. But her mind kept screaming that it was relevant right now. Every step that she took toward that path had consequences — if nothing else, she’d be shaping ponies’ perceptions of her. And what if she became certified or licensed or whatever, only for it to turn out that, whoops, nothing she did was moral after all?

And, no matter how much she beat the idea down, it remained: what if she returned to her old, soul-destroying ways? What if this was all a lie? What if-

But even her most active thoughts couldn’t beat down a year of scheduled routine, and soon she was out like a light, wandering the corridors of memory. Some of the worst memories of her life. Memories that told her exactly where she’d stand.

Your soul wasn’t just a part of you; it was YOU, the core of your very essence, everything that let you grow, change, live. Yet Circe spoke of removing it like one would a splinter. Just because she was scared of what lay beyond the veil.

You didn’t say that to her face, though. Amanita learned that quickly.

Perhaps Amanita might’ve understood if avoiding death was all that was part of becoming a lich. The threat of death was why she had risked running, after all. But then Circe revealed another truth behind soul jars. “Body’s only thing built t’hold a soul. Everythin’ else can’t take th’strain fore’er, not wi’out some… lessay ‘maint’nence’. Gotta fix ’em up some’ow.”

Amanita didn’t want to ask about the “how”, but she dreaded learning about it in other ways. She asked, and Circe simply smiled. “You’ll see.”

She led them and their thralls to a small mining town called Grayvale, miles from help, isolated by a thick forest. The ponies were friendly, welcoming, open. Amanita wouldn’t have minded living there. Over the course of a few meager days, Circe and her thralls systematically massacred every last pony, young and old. Some of the dead, Circe resurrected as her soldiers. Some of them, she used for experiments. None of them, she thought twice about. All of them, Amanita tried to look the other way.

The townsfolk fought back. Oh, how they fought back. They were valiant, bold, courageous, noble. The ferocity with which they fought would’ve downed any mortal pony. A few made a self-sacrificing charge to reach Circe, to attack her, to wound her, with no hope of escaping the crush of thralls. When the last pony fell, Circe had been stuck with so many weapons she was a pincushion. It didn’t even slow her down.

“I’ve been thinkin’ ’bout keepin’ trophies,” Circe said as she pulled a sword from her chest. “Ev’ry weapon that ain’t killed me. Whaddya think?”

“You’d probably have a lot of them,” Amanita said vaguely, trying to ignore the metallic stench of blood. There was a lot of it. How could she still look the other way?

“Eh. Pr’y right.” And Circe gutted the last pony like a fish.

With every last pony in Grayvale dead or kept in thrall, Circe set to work on the final steps. Nauseating sigils were etched across town. Ponies were butchered. Houses were destroyed. Amanita suspected that Circe was doing some of it just because she wanted to. She kept her mouth shut. It was the only way to stay alive.

Circe showed Amanita a crystal on a chain, an innocuous little thing that glowed like a dying flame and twitched like a beating heart. “Beauty, ain’t it?” Circe asked, staring at it with an adoring affection she’d never given to Amanita. “I’ll show you ’ow t’make your own one day. Ain’t earned it in full yet, but ’ere’s how I’ll fix it.”

The rejuvenation ritual horrified Amanita to her core, well past all delusion. Even if everything else she’d done were to be seen as acceptable, still this thing would be vile. Abhorrent. Deplorable. Primally WRONG in ways she couldn’t understand and didn’t want to. She tried to hide her reaction as best she could. It wasn’t enough. Amanita retched.

And Circe noticed. “Ah, fer Grogar’s sake, grow up! I ain’t givin’ this up fer some namby-pamby armchair ph’losopher in ’er iv’ry tower ’oo’d vomit at plumbin’!”

Amanita had a dozen different responses to that, but she knew Circe had one response shared between all of those: feed her to the phylactery as well. At best. She desperately babbled out an excuse, empty words about reflex. Circe appeared convinced.

But Amanita could no longer sit around and watch. No matter what she’d told herself before, this was EVIL. She’d stop it or die trying.

Circe prepared to enact the ritual that very night. She kept Amanita close. As they entered the mine, Amanita laid simple force spells on the supports. Circe didn’t notice. The thralls didn’t have enough sentience to care. When the time came, she could snap them like twigs.

As Circe performed the ritual, Amanita lurked in the background, desperately holding in her bile. Circe gathered the spirits of the dead, forcing their energies together. She chanted words in some black language, incantations to keep her soul from departing. She directed the unholy energies of the ritual with the sickening, enthusiastic ease of an old master. And in the seconds before her immortality was renewed, she raised her hooves, lost in the throes of ecstasy.

Then Amanita hit her on the head.

A ritual such as this required supreme control. When Circe lost focus, it spiralled away and in strange directions, souls released to beyond, foul energies birthing and aborting monstrosities in eyeblinks, winds howling in confinement, timbers groaning with weight. In the chaos, Amanita grabbed the phylactery, bolted, and triggered her spells. With their supports blown to splinters, the entrance tunnels of the mine caved in, burying Circe beneath thousands of tons of stone. She wasn’t dead, of course. Already thralls were converging on the mine to dig her out. But Amanita was unharmed. And Amanita was free.

As she stood before the wreckage, taking heaving breaths and feeling her muscles ache, those wondrous curses of life, she reflected. She had nothing but the clothes on her back, a few meager supplies, the weight of guilt, and Circe’s phylactery. But she knew where she needed to go. She knew where she belonged. She knew she couldn’t wait. And so she took off, off through the gutted corpse of Grayvale, off into the Frozen North, off across Equestria’s hinterlands.

Less than two weeks later, the phylactery was in the possession of Shining Armor and the Crystal Empire to be destroyed, Circe was in special confinement, Amanita herself was in jail, and she was pen pals with Bitterroot.

Thus began her recovery.

Amanita’s dreams swirled into a misty, unremembered haze after that, but that particular dream remained clear as day when she woke back up, as if it’d happened seconds ago. It’d been about the absolute worst week in her life, the crux of why she was so worried about what might happen if she continued practicing necromancy.

So why hadn’t it felt like a nightmare?

For the reasons Code had said to her: she’d run. She’d brought a half-millennium-old lich to justice.

Then, if only for a few moments, she couldn’t bring herself to worry. She knew the feelings would probably return in time, but as she looked at the ceiling in the darkness with nothing but her thoughts, she tried to imagine the worst and found it laughable. In fact, she had vague memories of a dream where she turned down infinite necromantic power to go bowling with Bitterroot — and she didn’t even like bowling. She might want to stay away from necromancy for a while, but that was just because of bad memories. With luck, those would fade.

So. She had a chance to sit in bed and relax again. Just like yesterday morning.

Naturally, Amanita found something else to worry about. Specifically, she couldn’t stop imagining that Code was wrong about the murders not being part of a ritual. Even though there was nothing that actually could be part of a ritual. And once that thought grabbed hold of her, it buzzed her up, got her just awake enough that couldn’t think of anything resembling sleeping in at all.

She already knew approximately what it’d say, but Amanita stole a glance at the nearest clock. 6:32. What time did Bitterroot get up? 7? There was enough time for a walk around the block before breakfast. By now, Amanita wasn’t just awake, she was restless.

The air outside was brisk, but Amanita didn’t bother with a coat. She’d been cold while running from Circe, she could be cold now. Lights were coming on in the houses lining the streets, and there were even a few ponies out already, traipsing their way to work as they cast nervous looks around, darting from streetlight to streetlight. Stupid Mearhwolf; it might be busier if not for her.

Maybe the night had done wonders for Amanita’s self-esteem, but that just meant the idea taking up residence at the front of her head was about the Mearhwolf and rituals. It just… felt right. She’d seen the map of the deaths, two vague circles. She’d seen the dates, three days apart all the time. It being a ritual was… satisfying.

Amanita turned a corner. The cloudless sky above was slinking from purple to orange, and she could get a better look at the houses around her. No wonder Canterlot felt old; all the houses were this marble-y white and had styles from centuries ago, even if you knew that there were no centuries-old townhouses around. A stylistic choice on somepony’s part, maybe?

But at the same time, the Mearhwolf trying to perform a ritual just didn’t make sense. The deaths were vague circles, not sharply-defined ones; the necessity for an accurate circle didn’t go away just because the circle was big. A lot of the ritual items stolen had been illegal, but not all of them, and they weren’t used in the same rituals. Manticore venom was for ailing your enemies, lunar lily extract was for clarity of mind, eitr was destruction on a metaphysical level, hemlock was regular old nonmagical poison… Maybe they were collecting things for many rituals, but then why steal them all? They were obviously comfortable going to the Roost, they could do business there.

Second corner. Somepony out for their morning jog was a ways up the street. The second she saw Amanita, she moved to the other side. Amanita waved as they passed; to her credit, the jogger did a semi-friendly nod back.

So then why were the deaths in circles at all? What was up with Cobalt getting moved and killed later? Was it really a coincidence that all of these materials had been stolen just as this whole thing was going down? Why had Cobalt been killed by a group? Was there just some small detail she hadn’t been told because she was a civilian? Some large detail nopony had mentioned because it was so well-known in Canterlot? It not being a ritual just didn’t fit.

Third corner. More lights were coming on. Amanita could spot some pegasi flying through the sky, high above the roofs. What sort of air traffic laws were there in cities? Bitterroot had sounded like some rules had been broken when Canterlot was flooded during the coronation.

Yet… coincidences did happen. Circe just happening to find some bounty hunters immediately after Amanita left her. Amanita just happening to be released just as there was a serial killer in Canterlot. It was possible that all of these were just that: coincidences. Code thought so, and she knew rituals inside and out. She could probably see a dozen secret things Amanita hadn’t noticed. Or maybe there was another, non-ritualistic pattern the Mearhwolf was following.

Fourth corner. The very tops of the buildings were sunlit. In the distance, Canterlot Castle’s towers were ablaze with the dawn. And it might’ve been her imagination, but Amanita thought she could see a certain purple pony in the tallest tower of them all.

The ideas played tennis with each other as Amanita returned to Bitterroot’s house and collapsed on the sofa, exercised but her mind no clearer. There were too many clean, simple facts on both sides that fit one and only one possibility while discounting the other. There were too many patterns for it to realistically be a coincidence, but all of the specifics were way off-base, but all of the stolen ingredients had ritual potency, but none of them had anything in common besides that p-

…OH.

And suddenly Amanita was racing upstairs, screaming, “BITTERROOT! Bitterroot, I got it!”

11 - The Miscalibration of the Highly Competent

Bitterroot had been having a magnificent dream. She’d tracked down the Mearhwolf, who had just so happened to be Nightmare Moon (ex-Princess Luna was quite baffled by this development). They’d had a fight under an eclipse (Princess Twilight did it on purpose to provide atmosphere), Bitterroot had somehow emerged victorious thanks to judicious application of party streamers, and the bounty had been upped to ten million bits — tax-free, just because. She was just about to buy a luxurious mansion on Canterlot’s upper slopes, where the Rich Folk lived, for the sole purpose of destroying it to see the looks on their faces.

Then the door to her bedroom banged open with the force of a small explosion and Bitterroot was jolted awake in a full-body reflexive twitch. Blinking sleep from her eyes, she raised her head enough to see Amanita standing in her doorway, chest heaving, looking like a manic street preacher ready to start proclaiming that the end was nigh. “Am’nita?” Bitterroot mumbled. “Wha’ss goin’-”

“I know what’s up with the murders,” Amanita said breathlessly.

Bitterroot couldn’t’ve woken up faster if she’d been hit by lightning while being fed pure caffeine through an IV drip straight to her aorta. She bolted out of bed, pulling on her bathrobe. “Show me.”

In less than thirty seconds, the two of them were downstairs. Amanita had ripped the map from Bitteroot’s board and laid it out on the dining room table. The murder sites were still clearly marked on there, unchanged from what Bitterroot had seen before. Amanita pulled out a red highlighter. “You ready?” she said. And she traced out two long, swooping arcs, each one right through four deaths. A circle within a circle.

And Bitterroot’s heart sank. She’d seen the pattern at the fourth death, the way they sort of made a circle. A magic circle, maybe? She didn’t know enough about rituals to say, so she’d brought it up with the Guard, only to get shut down immediately. It couldn’t be. See, these two deaths weren’t aligned, this one was too far east, the shape was lopsided. No magic circle here, just a coincidence. She’d even talked with several different ponies, just to be sure. Same responses all around.

“Look at this,” Amanita said, pointing at the map. She either didn’t notice Bitterroot’s mood or didn’t care. “Does that look like a set of ritual circles to you?”

“Well…” Bitterroot frowned at the map. Regardless of what the experts had said, it was a striking image. “Yeah, but the Guard said it wasn’t.”

“They’re right, it’s not,” said Amanita. She was grinning, of all things. She was giddy. “But you thought it was. So what if the Mearhwolf also thinks so?”

“And what, she’s botching this whole thing?”

“Exactly.”

Bitterroot opened her mouth — and froze. You always assumed ponies with Big Plans knew what they were doing. But sometimes, you saw ponies who clearly had more ambition than skill. She herself had once met a bounty hunter who fancied herself the finest tracker this side of the equator, only to not know a thing about keeping a low profile. And if the pony’s ambition outstripped their skill enough, you could miss what they were trying to do entirely, simply because there was no way somepony could be that inept (even though there always was). It was like assuming puzzle pieces were from different puzzles because they didn’t fit together, only to learn that, no, it was just a terrible puzzle. If the Guard had missed that this was a ritual simply because it was obviously too ill-thought-out to be one...

“See, that’s the problem with ponies that are too smart,” Amanita continued, waving a hoof at Bitterroot. “They forget that not everyone’s as smart as they are. It’s called the, uh, uh-” She pawed at the ground for a moment before her eyes lit up. “The Dun-Crowhop Effect! Yeah, that’s it.”

“I thought that was about how stupid ponies don’t know they’re stupid.”

Amanita shook her head vigorously. Bitterroot had seen fires less energetic than she was now. “That’s the first half of it, but everyone forgets the second half. I mean, haven’t you met any smart ponies who say they’re not smart? Wait, never mind, forget it. The point is that the Guard thinks whoever would try a ritual like this would be competent. But, I mean, look, they left the bodies out in the open! I bet they’re trying to, I don’t know, stain the land or something for this, but that’s absolute tripe, the initial death itself is enough. And then there’s the components that got stolen, yeah, they’re all potent, but they all mean different things, it’s like trying to replace black pepper with chili pepper.”

The Guard weren’t the only ones looking for competency. Bitterroot herself had bought the explanation for “not a ritual” immediately. Why hadn’t she thought about this? If she’d suggested it, the Mearhwolf might’ve been caught already. The tendency of ponies to only look for the obvious, she supposed.

“Oh, and there’s more,” Amanita continued. “I think I know what they’re trying to do. They’re trying to kill somepony from afar. I mean, it won’t work, but that’s what they’re trying.”

Bitterroot’s heart thumped. Was somepony really trying to…? In the middle of Canterlot? Well, they’d murdered eight ponies already. She really shouldn’t put it past them. “Okay. How do you know that?”

“Okay, a lot of it’s real obtuse, but- See, see, remember all the things that got stolen in the Roost?” said Amanita. “The bread and juice being in there wasn’t accidental. They’re, they have associations with- Remember Catskill? The ranger I- medically zombified? You know the only things she could eat while in that state? Stuff associated with death.” She leaned closer to Bitterroot, her grin growing manic. “Like rye bread and grape juice. Those foods bring you closer to death- On a, on a symbolic level, not literally! And necromancers eating them before casting death rituals is well-documented, so somepony trying to enact a ritual might latch onto that since it’s easy so they don’t need to worry about the sources of their ingredients.”

That was where Bitterroot had first heard of rye bread and grape juice together. Amanita had mentioned them when they were approaching the Crystal Empire, that the dead could only consume things associated with death. Apparently, it worked the other direction, too. (How had she managed to remember that?)

Amanita was still talking, her mouth running like a river. “And, wait, there’s another thing. Hold on.” She zipped out of the room, then zipped back with a sheet of parchment and a pen. She slapped the parchment on the table and scribbled out a list of dates, names, and numbers. Bitterroot recognized them as the Mearhwolf’s victims. But for some reason, when she got to the end, she added tomorrow’s date — Harvest Moon 1 — circled it, double-underlined it, then did the same for the number 9 right next to it, even though she didn’t have a name yet. “After that, this was the kicker,” she said to Bitterroot, waving the parchment in her face. “You know of the rules of three, right?”

Bitterroot grimaced and stepped away, waving a hoof in front of her face; the parchment was so close it felt like she was being smothered. “Just that three is important in magic somehow.”

“Good enough. Three tribes, right? Now, look at this. Each death, three days apart. Not necessarily ritualistic, maybe the Mearhwolf’s got some other weird pattern she’s following. Then I saw that tomorrow would be the ninth death and it all clicked into place. Nine is three times three. And tomorrow’s date? Harvest Moon 1, the autumnal equinox. Autumn is when things start dying. If you were going to kill something with a ritual, it’d be easiest tomorrow.”

“But… tomorrow’s only the equinox because we say it is.”

Amanita shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. The symbolism in rituals is what we’ve all decided it is. Like, phoenix down. Everypony knows that the phoenix symbolizes rejuvenation and rebirth, so down from a young, just-reborn phoenix has potent healing magic in rituals, right? But if you took some down back in time to before anypony had seen a phoenix, it wouldn’t do anything for them because the phoenix wasn’t a symbol yet. We associate Harvest Moon 1 with the first day of fall so strongly that if the seasons were permanently called off, it would still probably hold necrotic power for a few years.”

Bitterroot felt her feathers buzzing. Amanita had it, she was sure of it. It had that… vibe. She didn’t really know what she was hearing, but she was very sure Amanita knew every word she said.

“Oh, and the mare I resurrected yesterday? She was kidnapped at nine, but taken to another place and killed at around midnight. Why would they do that unless…” Amanita banged a hoof on the map. “…she needed to be killed at the right time and place?”

Honestly, it all fit so well together, Bitterroot was surprised Amanita hadn’t figured it all out already. Except maybe she had. “So do you know where the ninth murder will be?”

Amanita’s expression faltered. “N-no, unfortunately. I mean, each circle’s filled-”

“Remember, we need to be stupid. Not know how rituals really work.” Bitterroot looked down at the map again and immediately got it. She snatched the highlighter from where Amanita had left it and drew a line from each death to the one on the opposite side of its circle. Sure enough, the lines all crossed in the same place. In fact, Bitterroot recognized it. “That’s Viscountess High Gloss’s mansion,” she said.

“Who?”

“Viscountess High Gloss. Unicorn. Retired officer in the Guard and mostly a loudmouth, from what I hear. Outspoken opinions on everything that the papers print when they need to fill up space. Kinda unpleasant, but I didn’t think anypony’d want to kill her.”

“…Unless she’s the Mearhwolf.”

Bitterroot looked up, one ear down.

“So what if,” Amanita said, “she’s trying to… focus all this energy-” She made little crushing motions with her hooves. “-and the ninth death will release it to kill whomever. I mean, there’s no way that’ll work, she didn’t do the necessary sub-rituals at any of the murders, but it’s what somepony might try. Circe needed a lot of deaths to repair her phylactery.” She shuddered. “A lot.”

“Yeah.” Bitterroot nodded slowly. Plus, she’d be rich. Carry-around-twenty-thousand-in-cash rich. “Yeah, that might do it. And if she thinks she’s focusing that energy, forget the deaths themselves. Think about gathering the fear of an entire city. You said the Mearhwolf might be leaving the bodies to stain the land-”

“Trying to.”

“-but what if she’s getting Canterlot riled up? Everyone’s so tense after eight murders, it’s the kind of thing you could easily think would charge up some dark magic ritual.”

Amanita’s eyes lit up. “Ooo. Yeah.” Then she realized what she was doing and flattened her ears. “Um. That, that seems like something someone would try,” she said, much more quietly. “It’s, it’s theoretically possible, Cadance herself has shown how powerful pure love can be on its own, but you’d need a lot more precision than this ritual has. There’s more than just fear in Canterlot, even right now, and if it’s all mixed together…” Her voice trailed off.

“But,” continued Bitterroot, “we don’t know yet, so don’t go assuming either one. We just know that the murders are centered around her mansion.”

“Huh. That’s… awfully reasonable of you.”

“I’m a bounty hunter. Taking in an innocent, bountyless pony is a bad look on me. Hasn’t happened yet, and I don’t want this to be the first time.”

But now her path was clear. Scope out the mansion and see if she saw anything suspicious in it. “Suspicious” was an awfully vague category, but she’d know it when she saw it. It was just a shame she’d be staking out a mansion; even within Canterlot city limits, they were so big and hard to get good sightlines inside. Still, she had to start somewhere.

“Alright,” she said to Amanita. “I’m going to check this out today.” She tapped the mansion’s location on the map. “If I’m not back this evening and I haven’t left a note, assume they got me.”

Amanita almost looked like she was going to laugh, but then she saw the look in Bitterroot’s eyes. “I’m serious,” Bitterroot said. “If we’re right, somepony there — maybe Gloss, maybe somepony else — could be a serial killer. I’m not saying this because I’m trying to be a tough gal, they really could try to kill me.”

“Right, right, sorry,” Amanita said quickly. “It’s just- I dunno, I just forgot.” Pause. “I’m familiar with death.”

“Well, now you’ve been reminded,” said Bitterroot.

Silence. Bitterroot stared at the map, already coming up with a plan of action. She didn’t know that part of town well; maybe she could pass herself off as a tourist. It’d definitely be easier than in the Roost, where the average pony got eaten ali-

Amanita coughed. “S-so, uh, what’s for breakfast?”

It’d been a long time since Amanita had felt this invigorated. She’d cracked a case, figured out something nopony else had, deciphered meaning in data so disparate it was hard to tell it held any meaning at all. Yet she’d done it. The desire to tell somepony wanted to burst out of her. No wonder villains monologued; what was the point of being clever if you couldn’t tell anypony?

She blazed through her breakfast, nearly sprinted to Canterlot Castle, told the receptionist what she wanted… and then she had to wait, sun blast it. This was important. Why did she have to wait? She paced back and forth and back and forth. Ponies gave her strange looks, but she barely noticed. Her mind was consumed with thoughts of stopping the Mearhwolf.

Finally, Code arrived, carrying a set of saddlebags. “Amanita,” she said, inclining her head slightly. “How are-”

“I know what the Mearhwolf’s doing,” Amanita said quickly, jumping from hoof to hoof.

“Do you?” Code didn’t raise her eyebrow, but Amanita suspected it was a close thing. “Do tell.” Somehow, her voice didn’t sound sarcastic.

“It’s a ritual for remote death,” Amanita said. “A ritual done by ponies who don’t know rituals.”

Code raised a hoof, froze, then planted her face right in the middle of that hoof. “Son of a dog,” she muttered, “of course it is. That’s what I was missing.”

“The deaths have been three days apart,” Amanita said. “And if the pattern continues-”

“-the third third one will be on the autumnal equinox,” Code said. She was looking off into the distance and her ears were twitching like nothing Amanita had seen. “Yes, of course… That’s why they didn’t kill Cobalt immediately, it needed to be the next day… Why didn’t I…?”

“And look at this.” Amanita pulled a smaller version of the map and circles she’d shown to Bitterroot from her saddlebags and held it out to Code, who immediately snatched it up and began taking it in. “I know it’s wrong, but it looks like it could be right, right?”

“That’s not three threes, that’s two fours and a one…” muttered Code. “Their cardinal axes don’t even make arithmantic angles to each other! Celestia, that is such a gross misunderstanding of iggulim theory…” From the contempt in her voice, a bad ritual personally offended her on a spiritual level.

“But does it make sense to you?” asked Amanita. “On an absolutely amateur level, I mean?”

Code hesitated, chewing her lip. Then she said, “It might. I’ve understood ritualism for so long I’m having trouble wrapping my head around something made this poorly.” She clicked her tongue a few times. “But I’d be very surprised if you’re not onto something. I’ll see if I can get my hooves on the full reports to get better info.”

Amanita’s heart skipped a beat. “You don’t have it already?” she asked, her voice an octave higher. “But-”

“Amanita, I’m not officially involved in the investigation,” said Code, shaking her head slightly. “I was only brought in because a necromancer offered her services and I was the best-equipped to deal with necromancy. But if this pans out, I can be brought up to speed quickly. You’re still planning on offering quick-and-dirty séances, yes?”

“Yeah…”

“By the time you’re done, maybe even before noon, I’ll have those papers in hoof and will be caught up.”

“In this bureaucracy?”

“Yes. Princess Twilight’s reforms have been substantial.”

That was something, at least. Amanita swallowed. “W-well, um. Good.” Pause. “I, I can still do the whole… spirit thing.”

“Excellent. I’ve provided you…” Code slapped her saddlebags. “…with more than enough materials to perform the ritual ten times, just in case. I’ve also provided extra materials and instructions for an alternative ritual, still just in case.”

“You’ve already made an alternate ritual?” Amanita asked, gawking. “It took me a moon to learn that one!”

“I was working from an already-verified ritual,” Code replied as she fished a scroll from the bags. “Much of the structure was already known.” She passed the scroll over to Amanita. “Furthermore, I am quite good at my job.”

That’s putting it lightly, Amanita thought as she looked the secondary ritual over. It wasn’t quite as effective as hers, but it’d be easier to perform and used cheaper materials. For this, it’d be just fine. “So, um, I, I assume I’ll be working with Phalanx again?”

“Indeed. He should be along any moment…”

But, apparently, getting incredibly focused on something and not being able to stop thinking of it was part of Amanita’s thing, because even as Phalanx arrived, even as Code laid out the protocol for spirit-summoning, Amanita kept thinking of the ritual, going over and over and over the few bits of information she had. Who were they trying to kill? Assuming she was even right.

“-and if they can- Amanita?”

Amanita blinked her way back to reality. “Yeah?”

“Are you paying attention?” asked Code.

“Yes. Give the families as much free rein over the summoning as I can, allow them to turn it down if they want, give them your contact information either way.”

Code flicked an ear. “Indeed. And if they’re willing, ask the dead if they remember anything about their deaths. I can’t say what the afterlife is like for the dead, so if they don’t want to talk about it, do not force it.”

Don’t force it. Right. That she could do. “Got it.”

“Contact me when you get back. With luck, I’ll be caught up on the case by then.”

As Phalanx led Amanita into Canterlot, her head was still swimming. It was that constant stress of almost figuring something out, and if you knew that one little bit of information, you could figure out the whole thing, but you didn’t, so you couldn’t, and you kept trying to find out what-

“Are you okay?”

Amanita blinked. Phalanx was looking over his shoulder at her. “Y-yeah,” she said. “Just- thinking.”

“Are you sure?” His face held more concern than she would’ve expected from a soldier just doing his job. “You seemed pretty out of it.”

“Thinking very deeply.”

“Ah.” Rustling his wings, Phalanx slowed his pace until he and Amanita were side-by-side. “I know you’re probably worried about the ethics of-”

“No,” Amanita said quickly. “Well, yes, but not right now. I got all of that worrying done yesterday. I know that this is… Well, it’s not immoral.” As long as you do right. “I’m thinking about… something else entirely.”

“Oh.” No red came to his face, but Amanita got the impression that Phalanx was embarrassed. “About what?”

“About the possibility of the Mearhwolf trying and failing to make this all some big ritual.”

“Oh.” Definitely embarrassed. “I’m not associated with the investigation beyond this.”

“Technically, me, neither. Although I live with a bounty hunter who’s on the prowl.”

“Huh. Which one?”

“Bitterroot.”

“…Can’t say I know her. …I should probably shut up, shouldn’t I?”

Amanita chuckled. “I don’t mind. Really.”

“Alright.” It only took a little while longer before Phalanx said, “So what was that about rituals?”

Amanita laid out her theory for Phalanx as they walked. He knew practically nothing about the Mearhwolf beyond what was in the papers or rituals in general (both of which he was upfront about), but he was an attentive listener. The questions he asked were basic, but he asked them. You could do with worse bodyguards.

When they reached their destination, Amanita briefly faltered. The house seemed to loom over her and what she was about to do inside it. But she swallowed her fear and walked forward. With every step, it loomed less and less until, by the time she was on the porch, it was a regular house. She glanced at Phalanx, who nodded. Gulping, Amanita rapped on the door.

It was soon opened by an earth mare (Harpsichord, Code’s papers said she was named). Her mane hung like it was being taken care of in only the most basic of ways and her pace dragged a little. She glanced at Phalanx for a moment before turning her attention to Amanita. “Yes? Can I help you?”

Amanita stepped forward. “We’re with the Court, Ms. Harpsichord,” she said, nudging her badge forward, “and I work with experimental magic.” Code had given her some not-quite-lies to say to minimize misunderstandings. Or panic. “I understand your husband Westphal was one of the Mearhwolf’s victims.”

Harpsichord’s breath hitched. “Y-yes. He was… the first one.” She blinked and rubbed at her eyes.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” said Amanita. “While I can’t bring him back, thanks to some recently finalized spells, I can at least let you say your goodbyes. We can call his spirit from Elysium for a brief time so you and he can talk.”

Harpsichord was expressionless, her face as blank as a sheet of paper. But soon, she coughed out, “Y-you’re joking.”

It was an easy reaction for Amanita to remember. It was how she’d responded to Circe. Swallowing, she kept all the slime she could from her voice as she gave something resembling Circe’s answer. “We’re not. I promise you, I’m not trying to deceive you in any way. This won’t cost you a bit. And if you want some time to think it over…” She pulled a business card from her saddlebags and held it out. “You can contact us later.”

Harpsichord took the card with shaking hooves, stared at it. “I- Please,” she gasped. “L-let me… Please.” She stepped aside.

Amanita entered, her guts only swimming a little. No questions about necromancy. Nothing beyond the expected questions. If it came up… No, she couldn’t think of that. Bitterroot was right; she shouldn’t focus on what might be until it was. And as for now… “Do you have anything emotionally close to Westphal? Something as simple as a photograph would do. I don’t need it, but it will make the spell easier.” When Harpsichord bit her lip, Amanita added, “The spell won’t harm it at all.”

“Then there is- this.” Harpsichord darted away and returned with a lapel pin from the Equestrian Astronomical Society. “He- He always loved- the stars,” she said quietly.

The pin glinted dully on Amanita’s hoof. It wasn’t particularly expensive, but it was weathered. It’d been taken off and put back on countless times, worn in all sorts of conditions, left in places and found again. It wasn’t something that’d been left on a stand to show off, but something valued and worn often with great fondness. It’d make a perfect emotional connection.

It reminded her of Zinnia’s locket. Her throat grew small.

“Th-thank you. This is perfect,” she choked out. She blinked and forced her feelings down. She had a job to do. “Now, do you have an open space where I can work?”

Bitterroot had her ditzy tourist look down pat. The bright shirts, the stupid hats, the flank packs, the cheap cameras, everything. She’d certainly seen it enough over the years to emulate it, and she’d managed to polish it down to a shine. One of the best ways to avoid detection was to be part of a group that was so obnoxious it made ponies want to ignore you. (Of course, it also needed to be plausible for that group to be around in the first place; trying to be a tourist in the Roost would probably get her head beaten in.)

Still, before she left for High Gloss’s, she took a good look at herself in the mirror, twisting around and posing in the right ways. Yes, her disguise looked good. She gave her mane a bit of a fluff to make it look more careless; the wind would take care of the rest as she flew. It wouldn’t do to get spotted because her disguise was wrong. Unfortunately, that also meant she had to wait a few hours until the time tourists were out.

As she begrudged Twilight the usual sunrise schedule, Bitterroot examined her ceiling and thought. How close were they to tracking down the Mearhwolf? Pretty close, maybe. Nothing had fit before quite like Amanita’s brainwave.

Speaking of Amanita… her resurrection hadn’t made it into the evening paper, but it could be in today’s morning paper. Bitterroot found herself grinning. It’d be great to be next to the Mearhwolf when she learned that a necromancer had waltzed into Canterlot, seemingly out of nowhere, and resurrected one of her victims just ’cause. Of course, maybe the Guard was still trying to figure out the best way to break the news. The public at large, maybe even the Mearhwolf herself, might not know of Amanita for another day or so, even if the Guard knew.

Although, High Gloss had been a guard… If she was the Mearhwolf and still had friends in the Guard, she might’ve heard about Amanita’s arrival…

Bitterroot shook her head. Nothing to do about it now. Amanita was gone. What could Gloss do in broad daylight, anyway?

She glanced out the window and grinned. The sky was sufficiently blue. Time to get to work.

12 - Fate Up Against Your Will

For a long time, it’d been rare for Bitterroot to go to the Marble Heights neighborhood. She hadn’t needed to. The sorts of ponies with bounties for their capture weren’t the types who could hide in a neighborhood as upscale as Marble Heights. But after a job involving a noble heir, petty theft, and getting hired by a Royal Guard lieutenant, she’d decided she should at least know the area. Just in case.

So it didn’t take her long to find and approach High Gloss’s mansion. It was an old place and, even in this metropolis, still had grounds; it’d probably been built at a time when space wasn’t at such a premium. The lawn was even big enough to have features like low hedges around the walks and a small fountain. A spiked fence surrounded the grounds to keep the riffraff out, “riffraff” meaning “anypony who couldn’t afford a yacht”. A select few guards patrolled the inside of the fence while gawking tourists patrolled the outside.

Bitterroot slipped into those tourists and began snapping pictures of the house. The camera was an instant one, but its printer, rather than being integrated, was magically linked and stowed in one of her saddlebags. She could take pictures and have them printed off immediately without it being obvious that that was what she was doing. It possibly didn’t matter, but better safe than sorry. She took pictures of the doors, the gates, particularly large windows, anything that might be an exit for somepony. Then she took pictures of the guards; if Gloss was the Mearhwolf and the guards were involved, they’d need identifying. Even with the small crowd around her, it wasn’t too hard to take clear pictures.

Snap. Snap. Snap. Unfortunately, she didn’t notice much out of place. She’d doubted she would, anyway. Even somepony stupid enough to not realize they were screwing up a gigantic ritual like that would at least keep their murderous ways a secret. But on the off chance that something had been left out in the open, Bitterroot would see it.

Bitterroot managed a full circuit and a half of the mansion and plenty of photos before the crowds began tapering off. Dagnabbit. She’d only have a limited amount of time before the guards got suspicious of her hanging around.

It happened after another quarter-circuit, right near the front gate of the grounds. An earth mare noticed Bitterroot, paused, then ran up to her on the opposite side of the fence. “Hey!” she snapped, apparently emboldened by Bitterroot being alone. “No pictures!”

“Really?” Snap. Half to annoy the guard, half to get a good picture of her in case things went south. “C’mon, it’s a free country! I don’t see any ‘No Photography’ signs. I’m not on your property. And the house looks nice!” Bitterroot turned her camera on the house again and snapped another picture.

“All of that may be true,” the guard growled, “but the lady of the manor requests-”

Behind her, the front door of the mansion flew open and Viscountess High Gloss strode out. While clearly not as fit as she had been during her time in the Guard, she still looked strong and stocky rather than fat. A golden mane flowed down across her shoulders, standing out against her green coat more than Bitterroot liked to admit. She had a smooth face, either unscarred from her years in the Guard or fixed with healing magic. She also seemed rather young to have once been a guardsmare; maybe it’d been a one-term-of-service type of thing for her that she played up to sound grand. She didn’t wear much jewelry, only an earring, and her clothes were expensive but simple.

Bitterroot fake-gasped, whipped up her camera, and began snapping pictures. “Viscountess!” she very nearly squealed. “Viscountess, look over here!” She jumped up and down and waved.

But Gloss didn’t so much as glance at her. Instead, she said to the guard in a contralto voice, “Is there a problem?”

“Viscountess,” the guard said, turning around, “this tourist-”

“Don’t shout it,” snapped Gloss. She waved her hoof. “Come here.”

With a huff, the guard stomped over. Gloss gave Bitterroot a look, her horn sparked, and although Gloss and the guard began talking, Bitterroot couldn’t hear a thing. Silence spell, maybe? She pulled up her camera and zoomed in through the viewfinder to see if she could read their lips, but whatever they were saying, she couldn’t catch it. After a moment, Gloss went back into the mansion, came out with a bag, passed the bag to the guard, and went back inside again.

The guard walked up to Bitterroot with the bag and sighed. “Look. Ma’am,” she said. “We understand that everything you’re doing is, technically speaking, legal. But the Viscountess likes her privacy, and she likes ponies respecting that privacy, so it’s probably best if you leave.” The guard held out the bag and smiled falsely. “Advice from Celestia’s brassy twin.”

Celestia’s brassy twin.

It was all Bitterroot could do to not freeze right then and there. Oak said the mare he’d let into the storehouse had used those words. This was her. This was the mare. This was the place. The Mearhwolf was here.

Whatever reaction she had, Bitterroot tried to hide it by leaning forward and taking the bag. “Oh, I know twins,” she said airily. “Twins’re smart. I should get going.” She winked to disguise the fact that she was taking in every aspect of the guard’s appearance, just in case her picture hadn’t turned out right. She particularly noticed the small bags under her eyes.

The guard’s smile lingered perhaps a fraction of a second too long. Then she nodded and said, “I’m glad we could come to an understanding.”

Bitterroot laughed and waved. “Be seeing you!” she said. She sidled away, whistling an insanely catchy folk tune about Winter Wrap-Up. The second she was out of sight from the mansion, she pulled open the bit bag. It was hard to tell, but it looked like a thousand bits in there. She pulled out one of the coins and inspected it. If it was a counterfeit, it was a good one. A thousand bits. Just to get a somewhat nosy tourist away. The funny thing was, Bitterroot hadn’t seen much of anything before being passed this bag. But the second money exchanged hooves to get her to stop trying to find things out, she knew she was on to something. Sometimes, the cover-up was more revealing than any evidence left behind.

She quickly fanned through her pictures. They all looked good, sufficiently in-focus. Perfect, if not very incriminating. And the phrase and bits, though suspicious, would never hold up on their own in court. No, Bitterroot needed some proof proof. Without breaking into the house.

Fortunately, the place was surrounded by vantage points.

Circe had said that even simply calling up the spirits of the dead for as little as an hour had immense potential. They could provide guidance. They could spill the secrets they had in life. They might even know the future. It was a subtle art, of little worth by itself, but one that could open doors to skills of all sorts, across all forms of knowledge.

And here was Amanita, using it to solve probate matters.

Amanita and Phalanx had gone through several houses with no problems and lots of emotions before this one. Lilac Shade had been one of the Mearhwolf’s victims, and now her, well, shade, all spectral and smokey blue, was sitting in a magic circle in the house of her sister, Olive Garden. Once the teary-eyed semi-reunion had been completed, Olive had asked Lilac a question about inheritance. One thing led to another, and now Lilac was effectively writing her own will postmortem.

“-give the cottage to Forsythia and her husband,” Lilac said. “They helped so much with construction and they’re the ones who’ll get the most out of it.”

Olive nodded as she scribbled more and more things down. “We were planning on doing that.”

The weird part was how good it felt. Spitefully good. Like every time the living and the dead settled a small inheritance quibble, Amanita was blowing another raspberry in Circe’s direction. (Even though Circe didn’t exist anymore. That was how spiteful it was.) Circe had bleated about power, but all Amanita was doing was acting as a bridge between life and death, and it was actually satisfying. Take that, half-millennium old lich.

“Is there anything else you need?” Lilac asked.

It took a moment for Olive to look through everything she’d written down. “No, I, I don’t think so. I, I should let you get going.”

Lilac nodded. “And Amanita? Thank you for letting me put my family at peace, but… please don’t make me stay. It’s…” She went silent. “You don’t know what living is like until you’re dead. Fish don’t know they’re wet.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Amanita said. Not after Zinnia.

“Thank you. I think I’d like to go home now.”

“Wait!” Olive scrambled to her feet. “Lilac, I- I said this before, but I miss you. We all do.”

“And I miss all of you.” Then Lilac smiled. “But don’t worry. It won’t be forever. See you later.”

Olive nearly sounded like she was choking. “Yeah. Be seeing you.”

Amanita smudged the circle and Lilac’s form dissipated on an unfelt wind. Olive collapsed onto her rump, staring at where Lilac had been, heaving deep breaths. Amanita coughed. “Are you okay?” she asked.

“Yeah,” said Olive in a distant but steady voice. “It’s just… strange. Th-thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” said Amanita. “If you ever want to get the family together-”

“-contact you at the, at the card,” Olive mumbled, “I know. Will… Will she be… okay with it? She’s… in Elysium now, and-”

Tremors of guilt rippled through Amanita’s body. She clamped them down. “If it’s just once or twice to see her family, I think so, yes.” That wasn’t a lie. Surely someone could temporarily leave paradise for closure with their loved ones.

“Good, good,” said Olive. Sniff. “I… I always felt like talking about the afterlife was just… whistling past the graveyard, you know? A nice story we told ourselves so we weren’t scared of death. But now… And Lilac’s there and she’s okay…” She looked Amanita in the eye, trying to divine something. “I don’t know whether this ritual terrifies me or if it’s a relief.”

Amanita guessed that would swing to “terrified” if the ritual was called necromancy. No need for that yet, though. “I think that feeling’s awe.”

“Awe.” Olive nodded. “Yeah.” Deep breath. “You should… Thank you for this.”

When Amanita and Phalanx were outside again, she asked him, “How many more stops do we have, again?”

“Two or three, I think,” Phalanx replied. “Let me check.” He pulled a map from his armor. “Two,” he said after a moment’s examination. “We’re right here, and we’ve got stops here, and… here.”

“Good,” said Amanita. It wasn’t even 10:30 yet. They could be done with this by-

She looked at the map again. They weren’t far from High Gloss’s mansion.

“You okay?” Phalanx asked as he folded the map up. “Or just thinking again?”

“Just thinking again.”

Amanita kept thinking as she followed Phalanx. Was she just paranoid? It might explain why she was so worried about slipping back into evil when she wanted nothing to do with it. But if High Gloss was the Mearhwolf… But she didn’t know Amanita was around… did she?

She glanced down a cross road. Way at the end, she could barely make out that the houses were getting bigger, more upscale. But they didn’t go down that road. These houses, while expensive, were still compact.

She’d been fretting over nothing before. Was she fretting over nothing now? But she was with Phalanx, and she probably wouldn’t even get targeted. Why would somepony want to kill her, anyway? Because she was a necromancer. So-

“E-excuse me? Sir?”

Amanita and Phalanx both stopped. A pegasus stallion in rather nice clothes and with a bulging set of saddlebags was standing in the doorway of one of the houses, waving at them. “Good sir guard,” he said, teetering on top of the steps. “My family is rather… on edge regarding the whole Mearhwolf situation, and some reassurance — to all of us-” He jerked his head back inside. “-would be greatly appreciated.”

“Well,” Phalanx said, “I’m busy at the moment, but-” He glanced at Amanita. “-do you think we can spare a moment?”

“Sure,” Amanita said automatically. Her train of thought was getting put back on the rails and this could give her more time to think.

“We have time,” Phalanx said, trotting to the house. Amanita followed him up, still thinking. But the Mearhwolf only killed at night, and today was too early. For a ritual death, anyway. But that didn’t mean they wouldn’t try something else.

“Oh, thank you,” said the pegasus, leading them in. “It’s a very trying time for us.”

“For all of us,” said Phalanx.

The living room had that aesthetic specific to the rich, where most of everything was either white or glass. White carpet, glass coffee table, white furniture, crystal decorations on the mantelpiece, white shades. It wasn’t much of a distraction for Amanita as she took a seat near the entrance to the kitchen, only something she vaguely noti-

Why did she notice the shades?

Because they were down.

“In fact,” Phalanx continued, “we’re actually using a recently-discovered spell to let families talk with the victims of the Mearhwolf after death. It’s… an experience, but it helps them find closure.”

The pegasus smiled. “Good, good. The guard’s here, everypony!” he called out. “Him and a friend.”

Why was that second sentence necessary?

Amanita heard something rustle in the kitchen behind them, twisted to look-

-and Phalanx was forced forward as the glowing spearpoint exited his chest.

The roofs of Canterlot gave Bitterroot a better vantage point and absolutely no excuse if she was caught. She just had to not get caught. Easier said than done, but she had experience.

Gloss’s mansion was surrounded by more densely-packed houses. Houses with no access to their uneven roofs. Bitterroot settled low onto one of the more even roofs she could find and pulled out her binoculars. She began squinting into windows, one by one.

It was an unfortunate but simple truth: when looking for ponies who didn’t want to be found, you sometimes had to look into some private places. Bitterroot needed to do it far less than most ponies suspected — often, her tracking was finished when she found a place her target liked to frequent, then captured them there — but she didn’t blame anypony for disliking her on those grounds. (Hay, she sometimes disliked herself on those grounds.) She didn’t have any surveillance gear the average pony couldn’t get, but still.

And in this case, Bitterroot couldn’t even say she found something. Each window she peeped into held only an innocuous room. A library, a bedroom, a study, a living room, a ballroom… She looked more deeply into those rooms and didn’t see anypony moving around; every single one was empty. Why did the rich need so many rooms? If she were rich, Bitterroot knew, she wouldn’t want a big house with ten decent bedrooms, she’d want a small house with one absolutely phenomenal bedroom.

She glanced down at the lawn. The guards were still patrolling and none of them seemed to have noticed her.

With nothing on this side, Bitterroot sighed and restowed her binoculars. She risked a twenty-foot flap-hop upwards to get more of a view. This mansion was one of those that surrounded a small inner courtyard (well, “small” still being bigger than her own house). There might be something in there. Worth a shot. Literally.

It was common knowledge that earth ponies and unicorns rarely looked up, but still, a hovering pegasus wasn’t a hard thing to miss (and there was a pegasus or two in those guards down there). If you happened to be looking up at the right time, a pegasus flying overhead and looking down was obvious. So Bitterroot had devised a way to look down without actually looking down. And she had her tourist getup to thank for that.

How far overhead? Sixty feet sounded good. Bitterroot adjusted her camera’s focus and zoom so stuff sixty feet down would be clear and big enough to make out. Then she adjusted her harness so that the camera just so happened to be pointing straight down. It was the natural state of a camera being unused, so it would attract little attention. Bitterroot bounded across the rooftops until she was about a block away from the mansion, then took off, rising to sixty feet, and followed a flight path that took her right over the mansion. Frowned upon, by pinnaestrian laws, but not actually illegal. Just the sort of thing a ditzy, distracted tourist might do.

Bitterroot pivoted her head back and forth as she flew, oohing and aahing every which way but down. But as she passed over the mansion, she began hammering on the shutter button. With the camera pointing down, she snapped photo after photo of the courtyard and its contents, all while never looking into the courtyard. If anyone happened to see her, her attention would appear to be elsewhere. Thank goodness for magic; this trick would never work with traditional film.

She settled on the rooftop opposite the mansion without a problem. Just to be safe, she hopped a few buildings over. She looked around; nopony was following her. Excellent. With the printer buzzing out picture after picture, Bitterroot pulled them out and began leafing through them. The first bunch were the ones on the ground, nothing particularly incriminating. She flipped through them automatically, coming to the sight from above the mansion, the roof, the edge of the courtyard, the courtyard in fu-

Stars above.

The courtyard’s contents stood out in crystal clarity. It was fairly clean and surprisingly barren, as if all the plants had been uprooted and cleared away. All that remained were some benches and the dirt floor. And in that dirt were drawn three concentric circles, one inside another. Nine feet in diameter to six feet to three feet. Along the circumference of each was written rune after rune after rune, forming sentences Bitterroot couldn’t read. A different object sat at the four… Bitterroot supposed they were the cardinal axes of the outermost circle. Objects she recognized from the list of items stolen in the Roost. And it was too small to make out clearly, but it looked like a black candle burned in the center.

Yeah. That looked important.

Her breath catching, Bitterroot flipped through the other pictures she’d taken. They all showed the same thing: a series of magic circles, ready for a ritual. Based on what Amanita had said, they might not even be proper circles, but it definitely looked like some sort of magic. This was the focus, the center of all the deaths. This was evidence and this was gold. She could take this to the Guard immediately, get them out here and-

“Ahem.”

Bitterroot twitched at the sudden voice; caught in her rush, she hadn’t heard anything come up behind her. But when she turned around, a big pegasus, wearing the same uniform as the guards around the mansion, was right behind her, several yards away, glaring pointedly at her.

Well, the jig was up and the waltz was elevated. Bitterroot smiled anyway, painfully aware of the evidence surrounding her. “Hey,” she said. What would be the best route? Just bolt? He looked faster than her and could have numbers. Maybe she could pass the pictures off as accidental and-

“I saw you taking the pictures,” growled the guard.

Criminy. Bitterroot, still keeping her smile, took a step back, flaring her wings. “Alright, alright,” she said quickly, “I’m going. I just- really like the house, y’know? It’s very-”

The guard’s eyes narrowed. Then he suddenly swept his wings down, launching himself forward, and slapped a damp cloth onto Bitterroot’s face.

Bitterroot immediately raised her legs to try and push the cloth away, but with the loss of balance, the guard simply twisted, flipping her onto her back, then pushed down. With no leverage, all Bitterroot could do was beat her wings fitfully and scrabble at the guard’s legs.

The fumes seeping from the cloth were heavy, almost like a liquid, and bitter. Within seconds, blackness began encroaching on Bitterroot’s vision and she struggled to keep her eyes open. As her struggles weakened, the guard began smirking. Finally, she was too tired to move anymore; her legs fell against the roof as darkness overtook her.

He didn’t even have time to look surprised. The spear punched through Phalanx’s armor like a train through a tin can. He gave a little hlkht, blood coming out of his mouth, and slouched forward.

Amanita yelped, scrabbled to get away, and twisted to look. An earth pony had burst from the kitchen with a spear in hoof and impaled Phalanx right through the back. She quickly yanked the spear back out, letting Phalanx topple onto the coffee table, and jabbed at Amanita. Amanita managed to duck and the spear, its edges glowing with some sort of magic, went over her head. Reflexively grasping the spear in her magic, Amanita yanked hard; the earth pony tumbled forward, across the sofa, and onto the coffee table. The glass surface shattered, fragmenting into dozens of razor-sharp shards.

In the corner of her eye, the pegasus moved, and Amanita jerked around. He’d made no attempt to stop her or the earth pony and in fact was reaching into his bag. If they were trying to kill her, she didn’t want to know what he was reaching for. She awkwardly lunged forward, half-tackling him to the ground. Potions, enchanted objects, ritual ingredients, even an entire dead raven spilled from the bags. Amanita recognized some of them from Circe’s lessons: basic magic disruptors, given the right rituals. Since she was a necromancer, they wanted to be sure she was-

The pegasus kicked out, pushing Amanita’s rear legs away and setting her off-balance. She collapsed onto her stomach and quickly rolled over to get her weight off her lungs. She was confronted with the earth pony, up again and plunging the spear at her chest. Amanita kept rolling; the spear narrowly grazed her back as it stabbed into the floor.

Screwing her eyes shut, Amanita dumped all the magic she could quickly muster into her horn, then let it fly. The earth pony was bowled head over hooves and smashed into the fireplace. Something cracked.

But before Amanita could stand up again, the pegasus jumped on her. Reverse-flapping his wings to stay on her, he simply hit her, driving his hooves into her face over and over and over. She tried to raise her front legs for some protection, but the pegasus was strong enough to force them away. Blood trickled into Amanita’s eye and she bit the inside of her mouth. In desperation, Amanita grabbed the nearest object in her magic and hurled it at the pegasus. That object happened to be one of the glass shards from the destroyed coffee table.

And in its course, that shard stabbed into his throat.

The pegasus’s steady blows stuttered, giving Amanita just enough time to gather her magic. As Circe had said, the carotids were a good balance between being vulnerable and quick to kill with, so those were what she targeted. Getting a firmer magical grip on the shard, she wrenched out and blindly swung it back and forth, back and forth, ripping open his throat more deeply with each wild slash. Warm blood spurted from his arteries and onto Amanita’s face. Still she swung. She swung until the pegasus drew back, a hoof to his throat in a vain attempt to stop the flow of blood. She kicked him off and red painted the floor as he rolled away, shedding materials from his bags.

Panting, Amanita whirled to the earth pony. A red crater marked where her head had hit the wall. She was holding her head, moaning, doing her best to keep a hold on the spear. She blearily focused on Amanita and took a step forward.

Amanita telekinetically ripped the spear from her grasp and rammed it into her chest. Stiffening, the earth pony made a wet gurgling sound. When Amanita pulled the spear back out, she tumbled forward onto her belly and didn’t move. Still, she was an earth pony, and Circe had always said whatever you thought you needed to do to kill an earth pony, do it twice over. Amanita stabbed the downed pony through the heart several more times, more blood roiling out of each new wound. The spearhead moved through flesh with a strange ease, and for her last stab, Amanita pushed so hard the spear embedded itself in the floor below.

The pegasus was still alive, but only barely. A grotesque amount of blood had pooled beneath his body and the entire room reeked with its metallic stench. Blood was still trickling weakly from his neck and he was barely holding himself up. He gave a confused look at Amanita, then collapsed with a final gurgle.

Amanita sat there, panting, her entire body shaking. It couldn’t have taken more than a minute, probably less. Yet now, there were three dead bodies in what remained of the room, two of them by her hoof. It’d been easy. It was a necromancer’s response; murder was their default method of problem-solving. But if they were trying to kill her, was it so bad? Self-defense. Technically. It wasn’t like she wanted to do it until they’d killed Phalanx.

Come to think of it, why kill Phalanx at all? Just to get to her? If the Mearhwolf thought the ritual would go off tomorrow, maybe she thought she couldn’t be caught, so even a guard’s death wouldn’t-

No. No. Don’t think about it. Speculating will get away from you again. She needed to take stock of her situation and make it slightly less awful.

First order of business. Rolling him onto his back, Amanita took a closer look at Phalanx’s wound and sighed. “Dangit,” she muttered. It was bad. She’d need a potent ritual to fix it. Maybe her attackers had some ingredients and she could get it done now. She pulled open one of the pegasus’s bags and began rummaging through. Most of the stuff inside was damaged, but it’d still work. And even though a lot of the materials looked to be anti-necromancy paraphernalia (Circe had educated her on them), some ritual items were universal enough that it didn’t matter. Candles and matches, good… Wood, looked like yew, go-

It took her a moment to realize what had just happened. Her bodyguard, perhaps her best character witness, one of the only ponies who had actually seen her do good for the past few days, one of the very few ponies who would absolutely vouch for her, had just died. He couldn’t protect her. He couldn’t change others’ minds about her. He couldn’t help her. Meanwhile, his killers, the ones who were probably associated with the Mearhwolf, were dead. Dead by her hoof. They couldn’t give testimony. They couldn’t tell anypony why they were doing this, what their ultimate plan was, anyone they were working with. She was sitting alone in a destroyed room covered in blood and surrounded by dead bodies that she absolutely didn’t want dead. And what was her response?

Dangit.

Not a profuse, panicked litany of far worse obscenities. Not utter shock. Not despair. Not even much in the way of anxiety. Just a mildly irritated Dangit, like she had just left her house but realized she needed to go back for her wallet.

Because she was a necromancer. Death meant nothing to her. They might be up and kicking again in just a few minutes.

She’d learned from a monster, true. She had the same skills as that monster, true. She’d even done some of the same things as that monster, true. But if she’d learned anything recently, it was that saying she and Circe were similar was like saying that most ponies had an above-average number of legs: true only in the most technical sense, laughably wrong once you tried applying it to the real world. Their similar skill sets said nothing about intent. Phalanx was a guard; by any metric, he knew how to kill people. But did that mean he was no better than the Mearhwolf? Ha ha, no.

The very last vestiges of insecurity lingering in her head were finally destroyed, butchered and sacrificed on the altar of self-actualization. She was a necromancer. Not some limited medium who could only talk to spirits. Not some experimental, one-trick ritualist who could only resurrect. Hay, either of those alone could change the face of Equestria, and she was both and more. She was a full-blown, sunblasted necromancer, with a skillset that gave most ponies nightmares, herself included. Might as well own it, nightmares and all. And as for there being no famous benevolent necromancers? It wasn’t the worst thing to be the first of. Her powers were hers and no one else’s. Might as well get to using them for good now, no matter what she’d done with them in the past. Maybe it would bury the nightmares.

Amanita tore apart the pegasus’s bags in her search for materials and gathered up the ones that had been scattered in the fight. Not enough for a full, direct resurrection, but she could easily pull off at least one reparation, more likely two or even three. And maybe there was something else in the house? They’d felt okay killing her in it, so maybe it was theirs, so maybe- Unfortunately, a quick search didn’t yield much of anything. They might’ve hidden it, but Amanita didn’t have time to look.

She sat back down, staring at her materials, thinking fast. Which was the best course of action? She needed to bring back at least one of the ponies and get word to Code or somepony else in the Guard. But what would she do with the other bodies? Just leave them here for somepony to find? What if someone had heard their commotion and decided to investigate? And the ritual took time, so should she do that first or go for Code? Or maybe-

Her eyes fell on the dead raven and she was briefly disgusted with herself as an idea sprang to mind. She didn’t need to Code, she just needed to get a message out. Was enthrallment legal for animals?

…That was irrelevant; this was important. She’d ask for forgiveness later. Twilight seemed big on that. As she stretched out a wing and inked up a quill, certain familiar reflexes of enthrallment bubbled back to the surface of her thoughts like miasma in a swamp. She hated them.

She welcomed them, embraced them.

Her entire body was shaking, but her magic was steady as she sketched out the right runes. Ansuz… Laguz… Uruz…

13 - Mare is Wolf to Mare

Restricted Code’s title of “High Ritualist” was a bit of a misnomer. It called forth ideas of some grand priestess holding dominion over vast swathes of the devoted populace and communing with the gods daily. But while that may have been true in the past (Code didn’t know), most rituals had been standardized, parameterized, bureaucratized, and miniaturized. There was a protocol to get your ritual looked at by experts and certified for safety. It wasn’t against the law to perform uncertified rituals, but only in the sense that it wasn’t against the law for non-pegasi to swan dive off Canterlot’s platform. It would help to know that your funky new method of mass enchanting wasn’t going to call forth one of the Horses of the Apocalypse by accident (no matter how chill they were).

It didn’t help that the Royal Ritualist Commissioned Division was nigh-perpetually understaffed. Not by much, but whenever there was a cut in need of a budget, the Ritual Division usually took the hit first. After all, if ninety-five percent of what rituals did could be accomplished by unicorns, nopony would use rituals, so why bother keeping so many ponies who knew rituals? It was the same kind of rectal-cranial-insertive thinking that prevented the Guard from being ready whenever some new Big Bad Evil Guy was stomping around. (At least Twilight was making steps to change that.) Code technically qualified as a colonel, but mostly in pay grade and very rarely in authority.

And so, in spite of her “lofty” title, Code often had to get involved in certification and look over small-scale rituals, like ongoing ones to make houseplants extra colorful upon blooming when a pegasus didn’t have any earth pony friends or family to do it for them. She didn’t mind at all; it was a good contrast to when she was investigating equine sacrifices and had to wade through tables of average mana saturation density for horns and each tribe’s blood based on age. Or when she was waiting for the proper murder reports in the Mearhwolf investigation.

Shoreline was the houseplant-loving pegasus in question, sitting in front of Code as her ritual was looked over. She’d gone through all the proper, rarely-used channels and waited patiently, which elevated her a little in Code’s eyes. Most ponies weren’t patient enough for anything this small. Shoreline must really like plants; Code had double-checked to be sure she didn’t have a plant-related cutie mark (it was a wave).

After the last step had been checked, Code cleared her throat. “So you made this on your own?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Shoreline said tentatively.

“And this is just for growing plants, correct? It’s quite inefficient.”

“Um, ma’am, I only want-”

“Yes, that’s all it’ll do, but- You just looked up the basics of magic circle theory and didn’t read much further, didn’t you?”

“Well… yes.” Shoreline folded her ears back.

“This is decent, for what it is, but it’s like using a chisel to bore a hole when there’s a drill or awl right next to you. It’s- If you want to use this, it will work. But if you come back tomorrow, I’ll have a version that’s much simpler and does the same thing. If you want to read up on magic circles more, take a look at Ring Around the Rosicruce. Major Arc, 953. It’s one of the best beginner’s guides out there.”

“I thought about it, but then I saw Fundamentals of Geometric Magic, and that was by Starswirl, and-”

Of course. Biting back a groan, Code rubbed her temples. “Other wizards besides Starswirl and Twilight exist, you know. As smart as he was- as he is, the bulk of Starswirl’s magical knowledge is over a millennium out of date. The fundamentals will still work, but many of his techniques are woefully roundabout compared to modern ones.”

“Oh.” Shoreline licked her lips. “I, in my defense, it’s not like this sort of-”

The window exploded inward, glass flying everywhere. Shoreline yelped and threw her wings and legs up to shield her face, while Code instinctively ducked below her desk for protection. She didn’t think they were being attacked, not this deep in Canterlot, but her mind was already racing as to possible suspects; maybe they were trying to take advantage of Princess Twilight’s inexperi-

“What the…?”

Shoreline sounded baffled, but unhurt and relatively unpanicked. Code looked up. No arrows or bolts or other projectiles were in her office — incoming or otherwise. Instead, the twitching body of a raven was sprawled among the glass shards on her desk. There was an unnatural kink in its neck, maybe from smashing into the window. Code carefully prodded at the body; a slightly larger twitch than usual, but nothing more. What in Equestria would cause this?

Then Code saw the first alu inked on its wing, the runes glowing a pale blue. This wasn’t an ordinary bird.

The raven suddenly snapped its wings inward and jumped onto its legs, prompting another yelp from Shoreline. It cocked its head at her, blue flames now glowing in empty eye sockets, still with the kink in its neck, then hopped around to face Code. “Follow!” it croaked. “Follow!”

A lengthy history of working at Canterlot Castle, particularly in recent years, had long since dulled Code to the bizarre, so the question of “Why is a raven talking to me?” obediently shuffled down to the bottom of her list of new priorities. What she was more concerned with was: “Follow? Why?” She was already trying to make a stab at it, but she didn’t know which target to aim for. There were too many possibilities.

“Amanita!” the raven screeched. It flapped over to the door. “Follow, Code! Trouble! Follow!”

Code nearly jumped over her desk. “SorrybutIneedtoleaverightnowtalkwithmysecretary,” she said to Shoreline as she raced out.

She galloped through the halls, slid around corners. Flecks of spit trailed from her lips as she panted like a steam engine. Everybody who recognized her immediately gave her a wide berth to let her gallop on. All the while, the raven flapped after her. She knew a few things, one of them being that when you were working with a necromancer to reduce the impact of a spree killer and an enthralled raven came crashing through the window to tell you — you personally — to follow, you followed. The fact that Amanita hadn’t come herself — and neither had Phalanx — meant something bad had happened, and while it wasn’t so bad that she couldn’t enthrall a raven, there was still a good chance it was time-sensitive. If there was even the slightest chance a ritual was involved, she needed to get suited up and get it under control as soon as possible, before it could do any damage.

Code jinked through the corridors of the castle, found the door to her destination, and only with great effort managed to rip it open rather than plowing straight through it. The door was lucky it wasn’t locked. On the other side, Captain Dauntless Vanguard was standing in front of various officers at a conference table, pointing out something on a map of northern Equestria, just south of the Crystal Empire. Whatever he was talking about, it came to a halt when the door slammed against the wall and everyone jumped.

“Excuse me?” one of the brigadiers snapped, whirling on Code. “Who do you-” Then she recognized who had entered. “Apologies, ma’am,” she said quickly, leaning back in her chair and out of the spotlight.

Code ignored her. “Captain, I need Task Force Ehwaz gathered immediately,” she gasped at Vanguard.

The Captain General of the entire Equestrian Royal Guard saluted. “Right away, ma’am. Your armor will be ready in fifteen minutes.”

The High Ritualist at a dead run outranked everybody.

Bitterroot’s first thought was: I gotta get me one of those knockout potions. They’d be a lifesaver for unruly bounties.

Second thought: Ow, my head.

Third thought: OW, MY HEAD, WHAT THE STOTTING NIGHT SOIL.

Fourth thought: Screw those potions. Never mind. Cruel and unusual for bounties. My HEAD.

Bitterroot blinked her eyes open against her pounding headache. She was lying in a posh but barren room — in Gloss’s mansion, maybe. She instinctively stretched, only to be stopped by something rattling. Rattling? Like- She looked at her legs. She wasn’t just bound, she was full-on manacled, rusty old fetters and chains and everything. Yeesh. She even had a mask on her muzzle, one that would enable her to talk without using her mouth for anything dextrous. But while her front legs had been bound together and her back legs had been bound together, they weren’t bound to each other. That was something, at least. “Hey!” she yelled out, wincing at the way it made her head throb. “I’m awake!”

No response.

Bitterroot awkwardly pushed herself up to her hooves, even though it made her head spin. Her wings had been bound as well, the rough rope scratching against her feathers. She followed the chain from her fetters to an iron ring drilled into the wall. Great. She investigated the link between the chain and her fetters more thoroughly. Nope; it was the old-but-strong type.

There was a window in the room; Bitterroot hobbled over and peeped out. She was on the second floor, overlooking the courtyard; she took the opportunity to re-examine the magic circles. Up close, they had even more details she’d missed before. Hard, angular sigils were circumscribed on the circles, tracing out ever more elaborate shapes. Gems inscribed with runes lined the outermost circle, and each of the cardinal ingredients had minute runes scrawled into the dirt around them. Yesterday, Bitterroot would’ve been dumbstruck by it. Now she just wondered how badly they were messing it up.

“We told you to leave, you know.”

Bitterroot hopped around. Gloss was standing in the doorway and was giving Bitterroot a disappointed look. “You could’ve left,” Gloss sighed, “and this all would’ve been over for you already. Even if you’d hung around, we’d’ve let you go. But, no, you had to stick your muzzle into somepony’s private places. How rude.” She squinted at Bitterroot. “A bounty hunter, I presume. No other pony is quite so invasive. Even if you weren’t, we saw all those pictures. We can’t let you go.” She shook her head, tsking. “Still, I guess this means we don’t have to go out looking for somepony tonight.”

Looking for somepony. Bitterroot’s blood ran cold. Somepony to kill for the last sacrifice. Her. Probably at midnight. Maybe, if Gloss didn’t know it wasn’t working- “You’re messing it all up,” Bitterroot said quickly. “The death ritual.” Gloss twitched back in surprise and blinked; Bitterroot kept talking. “I’ve talked to several experts, and they all said-”

But once she recovered herself, Gloss snorted. “‘Experts’, you say, as if those churls in the Ritual Division knew a thing about real magic. Their lead officer is an earth pony, for Celestia’s sake! I could understand if she were a unicorn, but an earth pony? She knows less about magic than a foal.”

“You really think that?” Bitterroot unconsciously tried opening her wings, but the rope stopped them. “You’ve got all these ponies whose job it is to know rituals, and you think you know better because…?”

“Because I’m willing to try new things,” Gloss said airily. “Rituals have been performed the same way for centuries. Have you read any books on ritualism? Some of the symbology hasn’t changed since it was first used in the Three Tribes Era! Those ponies are inflexible, caught in the ways of the past, unable to jar themselves out of their ruts, taking tradition as truth. You yourself knew it was a death ritual, so it must be correct. They’re either blind to reality or have their heads in the sand.”

So much for that. Bitterroot had plenty of different responses, but knew they’d just get shot down with “logic” that assumed that because it was new, it was automatically good.

“If it’s any consolation,” Gloss said quietly, “I really am sorry it has to be this way. If I could’ve done it without any death-”

“Jumped pretty quickly to death, though, didn’t you?” snapped Bitterroot. “What was it, your second choice?”

“This is important,” Gloss snapped back. “When wood is chopped, chips fly.”

“Good thing you’re not one of the chips, then. How convenient.”

“If I needed to die for this, I would gladly offer myself up!”

“But only if you needed to die, right? You never thought about offering yourself up to minimize collateral?”

Gloss glowered at Bitterroot.

“Pfft. Coward.”

Gloss’s eyes burned with anger and her horn glowed. Bitterroot’s legs were yanked out from under her and she smashed her face into the floor. Before she could get up, Gloss was crouching down next to her, breathing heavily into her face. “I suggest,” Gloss hissed, “that you hold your tongue, or else I’ll-”

Bitterroot smirked beneath her mask. “What’re you gonna do? Kill me? You need me alive at midnight.”

“I need you alive. I don’t need you intact. The death of a jawless hextuple-amputee will work just fine. And there are over twelve hours until midnight.”

No more smirking. Bitterroot’s skin crawled.

Gloss stood up again, giving Bitterroot a good shove. “Guards!” she yelled. Immediately, three guards filed into the room: an earth mare, an earth stallion, and a unicorn stallion. “Keep watch over her,” she said. “Do whatever you want with her, as long as she stays alive.” She fired a disgusted look at Bitterroot and stalked out.

Bitterroot swallowed as the guards loomed over her. Whatever Amanita was up to, she hoped it was better than this.

Phalanx stared at the big, black hole in his chest. “Am I dead?” he asked, wiggling a hoof into it.

“Undead, actually,” said Amanita. She smeared a little more raven eye jelly beneath the dead pegasus’s eyes. She had enough, she could afford to be more than cautious. She might need to, given her thoughts were still aching from Phalanx’s revivification. “And undergoing healing. Your body’s magically repairing itself, but the only things working are your voluntary muscles.”

“Huh. Not even my brain?”

“Technically, no. It’s complicated.”

“So if you cut my head off-”

“I don’t want to test it yet,” Amanita snapped. She tied the paper with the rebirth stave around one of the pegasus’s legs and ran over the words of the ritual in her mind again.

“Yet,” muttered Phalanx.

Amanita closed her eyes, gathered her magic, and began chanting. After enthralling the raven and bringing back Phalanx, she had fewer ingredients than she’d hoped, but she could make it work. She pushed her magic into the ritual’s framework, danced across fates like she had with Cobalt, and added a timeline to restore the pegasus’s body over time. More work for her, but less material needed. When she fell back into physicality, her horn ached and throbbed with the magic she’d pushed and she tasted effort. After the mild backlash of Cobalt’s resurrection, this one hit like a hammer to the face. The fact that she was still recovering from bringing back Phalanx didn’t help at all. She lurched forward, barely catching herself with a leg as the world spun around her. Her gut heaved; a few drops of black bile coursed up her burning throat and dribbled onto the floor.

“Oh, yeesh…” Phalanx was quickly at her side, steadying her. “Do you need any-”

Amanita snatched up a ready glass of water from the floor and downed it. “Water,” she rasped, wiping her mouth down and shoving the cup at him. Her spit was slimy, downright rubbery. Why did this ritual always leave her feeling thirsty?

“Water,” repeated Phalanx. “Got it.” He darted off to the kitchen and quickly returned, the cup filled up. Amanita gulped it down in seconds; Phalanx refilled it without prompting.

After several glasses, after her thoughts had stopped spinning, Amanita watched as the pegasus’s eyelids fluttered. The hasty ritual hadn’t fully healed his neck yet and his breath came out as a wet wheeze. He groaned, pushed himself up, opened his eyes. Once he saw Amanita, he gasped and tried to shuffle away from her, only to bump into the wall.

“Um. Hey,” said Amanita. How was she supposed to do this? Demand answers? She’d never been good with demands. “Listen, I- need you to-”

The pegasus lunged; Amanita squeaked, reared, fell over. But just as she was raising her hooves to protect herself, Phalanx tackled the pegasus and wrestled him to the ground. “You know,” Phalanx said as he kept the other pegasus down with little effort, “you really should’ve tied him up or something.”

“I’m new at this, okay?” Amanita yelled as she got to her hooves. “Usually, the people I resurrect don’t want to kill me!”

Beneath Phalanx, the pegasus froze. He began, “Resur-” Then he stopped when he heard his voice, a two-toned rasp. He took several deep breaths, his eyes widening as air hissed from his neck, then cursed. “You- You can’t do this,” he sputtered in combined anger and fear. “Enthrallment is- You’re not allowed- You’ll be drawn and quartered for this, you monster!”

Amanita shrugged. “I’m a necromancer. You think that’ll stop me?”

Again, the pegasus went (literally) deathly still. Of course, without any preparation, that would stop her quite well, but he didn’t need to know that. Phalanx gave her an odd look, though.

“Now, I’m going to ask you some questions,” Amanita said, “and you’re going to answer them, or…” A pause, another shrug. “Well, I don’t know. I guess we’ll find out.”

A series of quick, jerky nods. It dimly occurred to Amanita what she was saying would sound incredibly threatening if you didn’t know she was stating plain facts and blundering through the whole thing. Well, she found no need to disabuse the pony of that notion. “What’s your name?”

“R-ragged Stratus.”

A name that meant absolutely nothing to her. “Hmm,” she said vaguely. “Do you work with the Mearhwolf?”

“Y-yes. I was p-part of a g-group sent to s-stop you,” Stratus babbled. “Y-you were- interviewing the d-dead and-”

Abruptly, something hammered at the door. “Open up!” somepony roared. “This is the Ritual Division of the Equestrian Royal Guard!”

“Excuse me a moment,” Amanita said quickly, pushing herself up. Had Code arrived already? And not only her, but with the Guard as well? Hopefully. She’d say “wings crossed”, but she didn’t have wings. She scrambled to the front door.

A cluster of guardsponies was right outside the door, all armed to the teeth (and wings or horn if they had those). The one right on the front step was wearing armor that didn’t look dissimilar to the regular armor of the Royal Guard, but it looked lighter and the gilding was veined through with some dark ore. Several large sigils, glowing softly, had been etched into the metal. A thin linkage of the same dark metal linked the main barding with the armored boots; the sigils’ glow occasionally pulsed through the veins, down this strip, across the boots, and into the earth. The enthralled raven was sitting on the railing next to her.

Before Amanita could speak, the guard was talking. “Ma’am,” she began, “we’re with the-” Then she got a good look at Amanita and pulled her head back as she flattened her ears. “That… is a lot of blood.”

“Huh?” Amanita touched her face. Still wet. Right. “Oh, don’t worry. None of it’s mine.”

For some reason, the guard didn’t look reassured. But she quickly hid her expression, going back to the expected stoicism. “We’re with the Royal Ritualist Commissioned Division-”

“Is Code with you?” Amanita asked. “Restricted Code? The High Ritualist?”

The guard looked over her shoulder. “Colonel Code, one of the ponies wants to talk to you.” She quickly stepped down.

Code stepped up to take her place, the raven leaping onto her head. Her armor was much the same as the guard’s, although her helmet also sported integrated goggles and she had pouches for… something Amanita couldn’t identify at her sides. “Amanita,” she said. “Are you hurt?”

“No, but- Did you see the message? Or did the raven drop it? It was supposed to be carrying a scroll.”

“I didn’t see anything. All I had to go on was its… speech, which was light on details.”

Amanita wasn’t sure whether or not she should be pleased that her skill with thralls was incomplete. At least her backup had worked. “Then you should know I’ve got three dead ponies in here. Well, one dead, two undead.”

Code’s pupils dilated slightly. “Show me.”

The raven now on her back, Amanita led Code and her squad to the bloody wreckage of the living room. The second Phalanx saw Code, he stood up and saluted, keeping one hoof on Stratus. The second Stratus saw Code, he screamed, in a last-ditch attempt to sow confusion, “She’s a necromancer! You need to stop her now!”

“Of course she’s a necromancer,” said Code blandly. “Why do you think I hired her?”

Stratus went limp on the floor, saying something uncouth. Code ignored him, saying to Phalanx, “At ease.” Her eyes flicked to the wound in his chest. “I assume you were killed?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Phalanx said guiltily. He stepped off Stratus and pawed almost reflexively at the wound. “Spear forced through the armor from the back by an earth pony while I was distracted. I feel fine, though.” He grinned weakly, spread his wings, and jogged in place. A few of the guards tried to avoid looking at him.

“Hmm.” Code turned to the spear, still embedded in the floor through the earth pony’s corpse, and sniffed at it. “Might be enchanted,” she muttered. “We’ll have to get it analyzed. Ponies!” She pointed at the rest of the guards. “Sweep the house! Look for any hostiles or illegal paraphernalia! You don’t need to be thorough yet, just find any immediate surprises! Split along the usual lines. Team 1, take the upstairs. Team 2, ground floor. Whichever team finishes first gets the basement.” A chorus of affirmative noises, and the ponies dispersed through the house.

“So,” Code said to Amanita, “what happened here?”

Amanita laid out what little information there was as best she could. Code remained impassive throughout, occasionally nodding. As she talked, Amanita unraveled the spells she’d placed on the raven, releasing it from enthrallment and undeath alike. When Amanita was done, Code sighed. “You did the best you could.” She looked down at Stratus. “You, on the other hoof…”

Swallowing, Stratus tried drawing himself up. But with his ears folded back and him trembling like a foal, it wasn’t the least bit imposing. “I know my rights, I don’t need to speak with you,” he said in a wavering voice.

“Of course you don’t,” said Code. “Do you know anything about the Mearhwolf?”

Stratus thrust his muzzle in the air and looked away. Amanita couldn’t comprehend what it took to be undead, at the mercy of the Royal Guard and a necromancer, and still act like a petulant foal.

Code snorted. “Stratus. Sir. You and your friend killed a guard and attempted to kill a civilian. This is a plain, obvious fact. Even if you have nothing to do with the Mearhwolf, you’re going away for a long time.”

“He already told me he does,” Amanita piped up. “Work for the Mearhwolf, I mean.”

Code nodded at Amanita and continued, “So help me help you. Tell me what I need to know and you have a shot at a plea bargain.”

Stratus didn’t move, except to twitch one of his ears. Then he took a long, shuddering breath. “Look, I- This is just a job, I was just paid-”

“That’s an excellent excuse and a terrible reason. Please get to the point.”

“Yes, I work for the Mearhwolf,” said Stratus, cringing back. “I was- We heard about the necromancer, heard that she’d brought Cobalt back to life, and… We couldn’t risk her talking to anypony else we’d killed! What if they gave a description of who’d killed them?” (Code actually nodded at that, but didn’t say anything.) “She had to die so she couldn’t do it anymore. We didn’t think she could- fight back like that!”

Code glanced over the remains of the room. “You don’t know anything about her besides ‘necromancer’, do you?”

“That’s bad enough! And we thought she needed the sergeant for protection, not- And since he was with her, he might’ve heard something, too, passed it on even if she was dead. We- We couldn’t risk it. I was- We just got lucky they passed so close, I was supposed to lure them here while they were out, the Mearhwolf owns this house, so-”

“Who’s the Mearhwolf?” cut in Code. Somehow, her voice was still level. “Who are you working for?”

“The Mearhwolf is, it’s really more like a group,” said Stratus. When Code narrowed her eyes, he hastily continued, “But it’s led by Viscountess High Gloss-”

“High Gloss!” blurted Amanita. “Bitterroot was right!” She found herself smiling, in spite of everything.

Everypony looked at her. Including, she noticed, the rest of the guards, who had apparently finished their sweeps. Silence reigned, then one of the guards rebelled by coughing. “Nothing and nopony on the ground floor, ma’am,” he said to Code, passing Amanita a towel.

“Nor on the second floor or in the basement,” added another.

Code gave them both obligatory nods, then asked Amanita, “You knew this?”

“W-well, um…” Amanita quailed beneath almost a dozen stares. She hid it by burying her face in the towel to wipe the blood off. “It was… just a guess, really. The, those circles, the ones I showed you, remember? They were centered on High Gloss’s mansion, so Bitterroot-”

The towel fell from her grasp. It was like she’d been dunked in ice water. They’d made a terrible, terrible mistake. “Oh, no,” she whispered. “Bitterroot’s investigating the Mearhwolf right now.”

As it turned out, for Bitterroot’s guards, “whatever you want” meant “put up a card table and some folding chairs in the corner and play Poncheesi”. It wasn’t like she could move much without the chains rattling, anyway.

And when the guards got into it, they got into it. They spared only the slightest of glances for Bitterroot, instead devoting all of their attention to Poncheesi. Which, okay, it was a fun game, but not that fun. Bitterroot groaned inside, settled onto her side as best she could, and waited for their focus to subside.

Fat chance. They actually finished a game and started up another one without flagging. On the off chance that they’d forgotten about her completely, Bitterroot wiggled a little closer to them, rattling the chain in the process. As one, the guards immediately snapped to look at her. When they saw she wasn’t escaping, they went back to Poncheesi. Dagnabbit.

She cleared her throat. “I told my friends I was coming here, you know. Here here. When I don’t get home tonight-”

“That’s the first thing anyone would say,” said the unicorn blandly. “If you had enough evidence for that to be realistic instead of following a flight of fancy, you would’ve brought the Guard. Gloss knows how to keep them off her back for worse, so she’s already decided she’ll take her chances.”

Stupid possibility of lying. Stupid noble influence. Stupid stupid stupid. “So what’s up? Who’re you trying to kill?”

No response except an ear-flick, and that could’ve been caused by anything.

“C’mon,” said Bitterroot. “I’m bored and completely restrained.” She rattled her chains to demonstrate. “You gonna play board games for twelve whole hours?”

“Maybe,” grunted the unicorn.

Bitterroot pressed on. Maybe she could wear them down. “I’m clueless! I don’t want to die clueless! Would you want to die clueless? I don’t think so.”

The guards ignored her.

Still Bitterroot continued. They weren’t threatening to rip her tongue out yet. “C’mon, seriously? Even in the worst-case scenario, it can’t hurt you. If I get out, it’s not like I won’t lead the Guard here if I don’t know who you’re killing.”

Two of the guards persisted in ignoring her. But the earth stallion looked over at Bitterroot, his lips pursed. “Y’know, she’s got a point,” he said.

“What, you’re just gonna tell her?” said the earth mare. “Are you nuts?”

“She already knows enough! She knew Gloss was involved and- I’m tired of keeping quiet about it! I- I want to rant to somepony who isn’t in the choir!”

“You might grow attached to her.”

“Not likely. I got over half of the kills, what makes you think I’ll stop now?”

Bitterroot immediately filed that information away: the earth stallion had killed at least five of the eight ponies. Might be useful, if she ever got out of this. Or if she escaped and had to choose one of the three to fight. (Not that she’d fare well in any fight in that last case, but still.)

“If you tell her,” the unicorn spoke up, “and something goes wrong because of it, you get all the blame. All of it.”

“Fair enough,” said the earth stallion. “And-”

“Sure, whatever,” grunted the earth mare. “If it’ll get you to shut up.”

“Fine.” The stallion swung around on his seat and looked down at Bitterroot. “Princess Twilight needs to die.”

Bitterroot blinked. She… couldn’t’ve just heard… There was no way… “What?”

“Princess Twilight needs to die,” repeated the stallion. “She’s too inexperienced. She’s going to run Equestria into the ground in a few years.”

It was like something was wrong with Bitterroot’s head. She simply couldn’t get the idea through her head that these ponies were trying to kill Princess Twilight, of all ponies. She was no Princess Celestia, true, but she was still a bright pony, having seen Equestria through some of its darkest times in recent memory — and, from what Bitterroot had seen, was doing a decent enough job ruling Equestria, even with her teething issues. This wasn’t just stupid, this was flat-out treason. “Kill Twilight,” she said flatly. Saying it out loud didn’t make it any less ridiculous. “Are you serious?”

The stallion’s lip curled. “Very. Once she’s dead, Celestia can resume her rightful place on the throne.”

“I mean-” Bitterroot tried to get to her feet, but she was still restrained by the fetters. “Twilight isn’t that bad, is she?”

“She’s not that bad. But she’s not Celestia. She barely has any experience!”

“Have you read your history? It’s about the same as Celestia and Luna had when they became princesses. They basically got pushed into it by the Founders. At least Twilight prepared for it!”

The stallion blinked, and for a moment, Bitterroot thought she’d made a point. Then he continued, “That doesn’t matter. It’s in the past and we’re here, now. Twilight is nothing compared to Celestia. Gloss and some of the other nobles, they’ve seen the writing on the wall. It’s only a matter of time before Twilight commits some diplomatic faux pas and ruins Equestria’s reputation. I mean, she’s seriously considering an alliance with the griffons and they barely even have a government to make an alliance with!”

Stars above. Imagine committing treason because you thought your leader might screw up. If Bitterroot was that risk-averse, Amanita would’ve been dead years ago. And probably Bitterroot with her, once Circe got her phylactery back. “And once she’s dead,” Bitterroot asked, “you think Celestia will just start ruling Equestria again, no questions asked?”

“Who else is there?” asked the earth mare. “She’ll have no choice. She’ll step back up to the throne, or she’ll have to let Equestria-”

“The same Princess Celestia who decided Twilight was a worthy successor?”

The mare pulled her head backward slightly, as if in surprise, but the earth stallion said, “She had a problem with nepotism and cronyism, I’ll admit, but she still had over a thousand years’ experience.”

“Experience that told her Twilight was the best option to replace her.”

The earth stallion snorted and went back to the game. The mare paused, then went back as well. The unicorn hadn’t even looked up for any of this. Bitterroot sighed and slouched back. Figured. Nutcases like this had their own special brand of reason that they paid attention to.

Reason that told them to kill Twilight, for instance.

It still seemed unreal to Bitterroot. The whole idea of just offing her like that. The country would survive — recent years in particular had shown that Equestria had a remarkable ability to bounce back from world-shattering events — but that didn’t mean it would be good. All to prevent something that might not even happen at all anyway.

Well. Amanita knew she was here and Amanita was a necromancer. Bitterroot figured, even if she didn’t get out of this alive, she’d be okay.

So, with nothing better to do, she started turning over what she knew in her head. The one fact that jumped out at her was- “So… other nobles? Is this some secret death cult now?”

The earth stallion twisted to say something to Bitterroot, only for the unicorn to clout him in the head and mime zipping his mouth shut with a glare.

“You all work for different nobles, right?” Maybe rambling could annoy them into spilling some more beans. They definitely weren’t going to have a change of heart. “My money’s on… Fat Cat and Paradise Paper.”

No response. The earth stallion didn’t even twitch this time.

Time for another tack. “You, uh… Mr. Earth Pony. You killed, what, five of the eight ponies? And you’re okay with that?”

“I had a job to do and I did what I was ordered,” he grunted.

“And I guess you were ordered to be a-okay with murder, right? ’Cause why else would you sit back and let random ponies die?”

He rolled his eyes. “Look, I’m not paid to be compassionate.”

“Funny. Most people don’t need to be paid for that. I’ve met necromancers with more compassion than you.”

Two of the guards ignored her. The earth mare, however, yelped and suddenly was staring at Bitterroot. “W-what did you say?” she asked quietly.

Bitterroot frowned and tilted her head. “I’ve met necromancers with more-”

Then the stallions were staring at Bitterroot as well.

Oooooooh… Maybe they knew about Amanita after all. “Yeah, that one,” added Bitterroot. “Her name’s Amanita.”

You could hear a pin drop.

“…Guys?” whispered the earth mare. Swallow. “I… think we kidnapped the necromancer’s best friend.”

“But… she’s not… that dangerous, right?” the earth stallion said unconvincingly. “She was… I’d heard she was… small and… wimpy. And… Stratus and Rockslide were gonna-”

“You know the last pony to cross her?” Bitterroot said cheerfully. “A half-millennium-old lich. Who’s deader than dead now.”

Silence fell over the group like a wet tarp as the guards looked at each other in horror.

“…Oh, mother-ducking Tartarus.”