Death Valley

“Where’s the blood?” Charcoal muttered. “There should be blood. Where’s the blood?”

Midwich Forest was dark around them, trees gnarled and creaking and doing their best to shield even the light of the narrow slit of the sky. The air was cold and the wind howled. Muffled sounds drifted and cracked from all directions. Yet the search party’s spirit seemed indefatigable to Bitterroot. They marched on, always alert, always ready, even as some of them chatted among themselves.

Charcoal had wound up taking the lead, if only because she was the closest thing to a person with actual tracking experience as she followed what everyone suspected was the tracks of the wolf that had taken Whippletree. The militia were the only Tratonmanians who went more than few yards into Midwich, Amanita and Code had never needed to track anypony, and Bitterroot’s skills were more pony-based and in-city-based, with a few exceptions.

Not that she would’ve been much help otherwise. Images of crossed circles were still running through her head, and they rattled her every time they passed. There was something about their ominous simplicity; distinctive and unmistakable, yet easy to make by accident. It was hard to tell whether seeing one and freaking out meant she was hallucinating or she was being paranoid. The team already figured something was going on in Midwich. So if… Pyrita’s brand had worked and she was caught up in it-

She blinked and shook her head. She was getting distracted. Don’t think about that. Do not think about that. She wasn’t even sure she could ask the others about it right now; they were still on shaky ground with Tratonmane, and the last thing they needed was some question about the grain mother shattering it all to pieces when it turned out the mother was secretly important. (If only they’d come out here alone, ha ha…) She pivoted her ears, trying to focus on what others were saying. Code and Arrastra were walking behind her.

“…come that far in?” Code asked.

“Sometimes, but it ain’t common,” Arrastra. “The ballistae make sure o’ that.”

“You have ballistae? For wild animals?”

“Ye might’ve seen the towers. We used tae have a plumb bad problem wi’ bears.”

“Bears. Of course. So…”

…But the grain mother had been meant for healing, right? So why put it on with third-degree burns, even ones that healed immediately? Why had she seen it in the first place? What- Another headshake, another ear pivot. Amanita was just ahead of her, talking with one of the militiaponies.

“…afore three days pass,” the militiamare said.

“Yeah,” said Amanita. “Otherwise it just won’t work. We still don’t know why yet. Probably because the soul doesn’t want to leave the afterlife.”

“An’… ye think that’s what happened tae Pyrita?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. She was up and talking right before-”

Right before she’d branded Bitterroot. Which… could mean something? If any of the team knew what that symbol meant. So they just had to go over the past few days and find out where Pyrita had-

“Code?” Bitterroot found herself saying. “Mind if I go for a flight?” It might clear her head. Might.

“-crafting the bolts must be- Hmm?” said Code, looking away from Arrastra. “Oh, ah… I suppose not, although I doubt it’ll be much use in this light.”

“Timberwolves’ eyes glow,” said Bitterroot. “Maybe I can spot them.” As good an excuse as any.

“Worth a shot. But…” Code dug into her pockets and held out that teleaudio earpiece. “Keep in touch. In case we need you.”

“Sure.” Bitterroot looped it around her ear. The slight bit of weight was reassuring, somehow. Maybe it focused her attention. “I’ll be back.” And she was away.

She climbed straight up, up and up and up, until the sunlight was blasting in her face. It’d destroy her night vision, but she didn’t care. She hovered there in the light, breathing deeply. No matter what you faced, it was easier to handle in the light than the dark.

She didn’t need to worry about seeing things, not yet. She needed to focus on Whippletree and Midwich Forest and the search and all of that. This wasn’t that bad. This wasn’t harmful. Just visual.

Bitterroot breathed in, breathed out. Okay. She could do this. Time for some hunting.

She folded her wings to plunge back into the valley, then flared them at the right time to soar just below the rim. The lights of the search party were clearly visible, even after filtering up through the branches. Bitterroot circled around them for a bit in a holding pattern to let her night vision come back.

Once she could make out more than outlines of the trees, she started swooping, back and forth, back and forth. Basic search pattern. Annoyingly, even as her vision sharpened, she had to go slow enough to actually see things; darkness blurred far too easily. She looped around and around, always making sure she knew where the search party was.

But she didn’t see the glow of timberwolf eyes. She saw other things — clearings, the stream, a cave on the east side, a shadowy shape on the west side that turned out to be a bear — but never what she was looking for. She started dropping lower and lower in the hopes of finding something. She never did.

Bitterroot didn’t keep track of time, but she did notice that the light on the side of the valley was creeping downwards as the sun crept up. Might as well check in. “Code?” she said for the earpiece.

“Yes?” It was genuinely impressive how clear the sound was, nothing like a gramophone.

“I’m fine, but I haven’t seen anything yet. I’ll keep looking.”

“Alright. Keep us posted.”

Bitterroot didn’t know much about forests, so between that and the dark, she was sure she was missing a lot. Maybe this wasn’t even helping at all. But it was something to do that kept her thoughts away from her visions; even the thought of going back to them gave her a headache. She swept her wings back and continued her zigzagging flight across the valley.

The wolves came when they’d been in the forest for about an hour.

They didn’t attack. Amanita had trouble even seeing them. But everyone could hear them. Prowling around just outside their range of vision, twigs snapping and snow crunching beneath their footfalls, eyes briefly flashing in the darkness. They kept pace with the team, never getting too close, never falling too far behind. Amanita got the feeling she was being sized up for a meal.

“They ain’t goin’ tae attack,” Arrastra said casually. “Our crowd’s too big.”

Amanita’s feelings weren’t always right, granted.

She took a quick look around. Some of the Tratonmanians were glancing around nervously and keeping their weapons close. Some of them were walking along as normal and just glancing around every minute or so. The unconcerned ones, to a pony, were the militia. Amanita swallowed. “But if they attack Tratonmane, where there’s more ponies, then-”

Arrastra gave a chirrup of echolocation, then said, “There’re two on that side-” She pointed. “-an’ two on that side.” And again. “That ain’t enough tae attack a group this size. They’re jes’ watchin’.”

“And you have experience with that?”

“I was in the militia fer nigh on fifty year, aye. I’ve seen this afore.”

“Oh.”

“Odd, though, bein’ this far in an’ havin’ that be all,” Arrastra mumbled. She chirruped again, then gave a dirty look to a particularly aggressive patch of darkness. “We’d usually be seein’ more an’ they’d’ve tried jumpin’ us already.”

“Did you need to come into Midwich often?”

Arrastra was silent for a while. “…Often enough.”

They kept walking. Charcoal’s route swerved and curved and took them all over. Amanita wasn’t exactly sure if the trail was going anywhere, but none of the ponies seemed to question it. Amanita kept glancing from side to side. The wolves were always there. Their number didn’t seem to drop, but it didn’t seem to grow, either. Or maybe she was just being hopeful.

At some point, Charcoal coughed and raised her head. “Um… compression- Confession time. I… think I’ve lost the trail.” She raised her head and grinned nervously.

A few sighs rippled their way up the line, but less than Amanita would’ve expected, and they sounded more frustrated than upset. Arrastra, for her part, just shrugged. “ ’Twas a reach, aryway. We’ll start headin’ back in a zigzag an’ see what we can find! A wolf carryin’ him couldnae’ve gone far.” She glared out into the darkness, at a set of glinting eyes. “An’ we’re still watchin’ you’uns, so dinnae get ary ideas!”

Charcoal blinked and her ears twitched slightly in relief. Code tapped her earpiece. “Bitterroot, you still up there? … Why don’t you come back down? We’re shifting our search pattern a bit. Watch out for the wolves. … Yes, wolves, but-”

Where Charcoal’s path was jagged, Arrastra’s was straight as an arrow, or at least as straight as you could get in the forest. She led them back and forth across the floor of Midwich Valley, between the valley wall and the river. They still didn’t find much, but it didn’t bring down any of the search party (except for Bitterroot, but that was literal, so it didn’t count). The time they spent in the forest felt like ages, but Amanita knew it couldn’t have been that long, because the sun hadn’t even started shining down into Midwich yet.

When it finally came, the light swept in like a flood. No gradual lightening; the darkness of the cliffs simply moved away and the only shadows were those of the trees. Amanita blinked and rubbed her eyes. These lighting changes were insane; how did Tratonmane handle them every day? She swore she could already feel herself warming up. At least now-

One of the wolves snarled; Arrastra barked something and someone tackled Amanita to the ground. She yelped and curled into a ball, shielding her face from flying snow. She heard yells, thuds, barks, cracks. The crowd sounded a lot larger than just four wolves. Something bumped against her and was gone before she could check. She wasn’t sure which way to move, she didn’t know what to-

And suddenly all the furor died off. Wolves were yelping and those yelps were getting further and further away. The air was still again. Ponies were panting, but none of them were groaning or making sounds of pain. Amanita tentatively sniffed; she couldn’t smell blood. She raised her head. The wolves were gone and the ponies were regaining their breath. Some were obviously raring at the bit to follow, pawing at the ground and heads down and ears folded back, but when Amanita counted, everyone was still there.

Arrastra rubbed at her face, where blood was trickling from a small cut. “E’eryone alright?” she called out. A chorus of assent called back, causing her to frown. “Hmm. They’re usually worser’n that…”

Code helped Amanita to her hooves. “Maybe they fled after seeing one of their own die,” she said. (Amanita looked around; someone had smashed a wolf hard enough against a tree to break its spine and finished it off with a quick spear jab.) “But I don’t know much about animals.”

“Hrrng.” From the way Arrastra flicked her tail, she wasn’t particularly convinced. Then she glanced up at the sun and yelled out, “Anyone else feelin’ peckish?”

Lunch was about as basic as you could get; everyone had packed some form of simple, hardy vegetables such as leeks or turnips and they were being eaten raw. The cool taste was interesting, Amanita supposed; she might try it with some seasonings back in Canterlot. The Tratonmanians drew straws to see who’d patrol around the group when, even though Amanita hadn’t heard any more wolves. Even the air seemed more still.

Amanita was about halfway through her leek when she realized Arrastra was sitting next to her, her chainsaw at her side. “Dae ye mind if’n I… ask ye some questions?” she asked.

“Sure. I, I mean, go ahead, I don’t mind.” About what didn’t really matter to Amanita, not if Arrastra had decided she was worth speaking to again.

“…So. Yer a… necromancer. A death doctor.” It wasn’t an accusation, more a request for clarification.

“I’ve… never been called that second one, but yeah.”

“Hmm.” Other ponies started looking over. Arrastra’s eye seemed to glint, even in the daylight. “Can ye enthrall the dead?” she inquisited. “Make ’em yer slaves?” She leaned forward slightly and even turned her ears towards Amanita.

Amanita squirmed. Not beneath Arrastra’s gaze, that was… easier. She squirmed at the memories of what she’d done and who she’d enthralled. “Well… technically, yes, but A, I really really don’t want to, and B, it’s incredibly illegal.”

“If she did that, there’s a fair chance she’d never see the outside of a jail cell again,” said Code calmly. “And yes, that is with her being the Guard’s only necromancer.”

Arrastra said nothing, but from the way her wings slackened a little, that was the right answer. Some of the other Tratonmanians started talking in hushed tones. None of them sounded too terrified, though.

“There’s a… bit of leeway on animals,” Amanita added, wiggling a hoof. “But that depends a lot on context.” She glanced at Code.

“I’d let you get away with it now,” Code said in answer to the unspoken question.

Arrastra looked over her shoulder, at the dead wolf. Her ear twitched and she tilted her head. But when she turned back to Amanita, she didn’t say anything about the wolf. “Can ye… talk wi’ the dead?” she asked quietly.

“Yeah. And there’s no limit on when the person died.”

Arrastra blinked and looked at her food, still resting untouched on the ground. Her ears trembled as she blinked, then took a listless bite of beet.

“I told Whippletree about this,” Amanita said. “Did he get a chance to tell you?”

“Nay.”

“That’s fine. He was probably waiting for the right moment.”

“Aye. Back then, ’tweren’t the greatest o’ times.” Then Arrastra forced a smile onto her face and joked, “I dinnae reckon ye ken ary dead wilderness rangers ye can call up?”

Amanita blinked and smacked herself on the forehead. “Sun blast it, why didn’t I think of that? Hang on a sec!” And she was digging through her bags.

“…I beg yer pardon?” Arrastra gasped.

“Dead wilderness ranger,” Amanita said. Gems, reflection, check. Carved with the proper runes, check. “She saved my life once. I tried to save hers.” Candles, welcome, check. “It… didn’t turn out the way I wanted. Long story.” Yew stick, scratching stuff in the dirt, check. “Now, let me work.”

She stepped out a little ways to find some decent ground. She paid no mind to the people following her. With a quick flourish, she swiped out a circle. Fortunately, this one wasn’t as strict as the resurrection circle. She laid out the gems in a downward equilateral triangle, the better to reflect on the memories of the underworld. She laid out the candles in an upward equilateral triangle, the better to show a welcoming light to a visitor. She lit the side two, but left the last one untouched. It would be lit only if the visitor decided to answer the welcome.

Amanita sat down and closed her eyes. She ignored the rustle of the people behind her and focused on the ritual. For a stranger, she’d need a focus item of emotional weight, but for someone she knew, her own memories were enough. “I would listen if you would speak,” she intoned. Astrality briefly engulfed her, leaving her dancing on urges and calling. She strummed her pleas toward her target, dropped back into herself, and waited.

Soon enough, she felt the thrum of magic that usually accompanied the last candle igniting itself. Then the ponies around her gasped and she heard someone new say, “Amanita.”

Amanita opened her eyes to greet the shade standing before her. “Catskill. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

Catskill shrugged. “I’ve got the time.” The words reverberated like they were echoing down a long pipe, yet they remained perfectly clear, almost like Amanita’s ears heard the echo and her brain heard the meaning.

Catskill was on the small side of big for an earth pony, more sleek than strong. She seemed younger than she’d been when Amanita had seen her last, but more weathered at the same time, somehow. She’d certainly acquired another scar. (How did that work in the afterlife?) She still had on her furs and even carried her blunderbuss. Her coat color was… the right color. Amanita wasn’t sure what that color was, but it was definitely the right one.

“We’re trying to find a pony who was taken from his town by a timberwolf,” Amanita said. “He was a son, a father, a… husband.” Catskill’s eyes seemed to flash. “Could you help us track him?”

Catskill sighed and settled onto her haunches. “I don’t want anyone to be forced to continue on prematurely,” she said, “but I have my limits. And one of them is that perimeter.” She pointed at the arc of the circle. “I’m not supposed to be here. Going further to look for tracks would be… distressing.”

The first thing that sprang to mind was, Distressing how? She’d known that the circumference would be some form of barrier to shades, but she couldn’t start guessing how. But Arrastra would probably object if her son-in-law’s rescue party was disrupted by academic discussions on necromancy, so Amanita just said, “Okay. I understand. Sorry for disturbing you.” She bowed her head. “You can go.”

But Catskill didn’t go. She flicked her tail and asked, “You’re sure it was a timberwolf? They’re more opportunistic than aggressive. I can’t imagine one entering a town to kill somepony, even if it was desperate.”

Amanita glanced at Arrastra, who looked about like you’d expect someone who’d seen a ghost to look. “Ah. It… may’ve… not been,” Arrastra said in a dumbstruck voice that was only half paying attention.

“Hnng. Maybe it was a kikimora,” mused Catskill. “They can be really nasty pieces of work if you get on their bad side. Drown travelers, kidnap foals… Luckily, they’re rare these days.” She stood up and bowed slightly to Amanita. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you more.”

“That’s okay. Thanks for coming.”

Catskill nodded again and slipped away between inches. The candles all went out and silence reigned over the area.

Gathering up the gems, Amanita sighed. “Dagnabbit,” she muttered.

“Da- Dagnabbit?” spluttered one of the militiamares. “Ye summon a spirit o’ the dead, an’ all ye can say is… ‘dagnabbit’?” Ravens and crows took flight around them at the force of her yells, cawing.

“Well… yeah,” said Amanita. “She couldn’t help us, so we’re no further along and I disturbed her for nothing. So, yeah.” She gestured towards the circle. “Dagnabbit.”

The mare blinked and shook her head, muttering, “‘Dagnabbit’, she says.”

Amanita snorted and stuffed the candles into her bag. “C’mon. Let’s-”

“She died,” Arrastra said, pointing at the circle. It was half statement, half question.

“She did.”

“…How long ago?”

“Something like two and a half years ago.”

Arrastra mouthed those words and swallowed. Her wings twitched as she thought.

“I told you time didn’t matter,” said Amanita.

“Hang on,” spoke up Charcoal. Her ears were twitching a little as ponies looked at her but her voice was strong. “Maybe we can use this.”

“How?” asked Amanita. “No one who’s died knows where Whippletree is.”

“Well, I was… just thinking,” said Charcoal. “Let’s, let’s… say Whiffletree- Whippletree, sorry, that he’s dead already. Couldn’t you try summoning his spirit so… maybe he can tell us where he died?” She grinned nervously.

Everyone turned to Amanita. She flinched at all the attention and hid it by looking up and tapping her chin. She gave it a once-over, and, “That’s not a bad idea,” she said. “It’s not perfect, but… Hmm. The deceased can only come if they want to come-” Changing the spell to work like that was one of her first major accomplishments under the Guard. “-but if he wants to contact his family-”

“He would,” Arrastra said.

“-then he’d probably come,” Amanita continued. “And if he doesn’t come, there’s a pretty good chance he’s still alive.” She tapped her hoof on the ground a few times and nodded. “Yeah, that- That could work. But I’d need a, a focus item or something, something emotionally connected to him.”

“There’s a spear o’ his back at his home,” said Arrastra. “It’s his favorite. He allays used- uses it-”

“Perfect,” said Amanita. “We can work with that when we get back to Tratonmane.”

“Actually-” Bitterroot wiggled her way through the crowd. “I can get it if you want. Be there and back in a few minutes. Just tell me where his house is.”

“It’s the one with the huge blood splotches in front of it,” Amanita said. “Can’t miss it.”

“Look for the blood, got it,” said Bitterroot, nodding. She took off and was away in seconds.

Everyone looked at Amanita and she shrugged. “Well, she should.”

Bitterroot’s head was spinning. She just needed to keep busy.

She’d been fine in the air, when she had to focus on keeping herself up, but once Code had asked her back down, her mind had started slowly spiraling away again. The wolf attack had been a brief, adrenaline-fuelled respite, but dwindled during lunch. Hence the volunteering. The rushing wind pushed those thoughts out of her head, at least for a little while. Part of her wanted to dawdle and stay airborne for a little longer, but for all she knew, this would be important to finding Whippletree.

Tratonmane was a different beast in the noonlight. Dark roofs, flickering lamps, and glowing windows were replaced with snow-swathed streets and bright buildings that were almost cheerful. Bitterroot oriented herself above the Great Ash, with the road around it and the streets intersecting it.

In a crossed circle.

Bitterroot blinked, flinched. She needed to ignore that. She needed to ignore that. That one was just chance, anyway. Absolutely. Definitely.

She drifted over Tratonmane, looking for- Yeesh. That was a lot of blood. Bitterroot folded her wings, landed, and headed in. It looked a lot like Arrastra’s house had, maybe a bit homier. Bitterroot trotted upstairs and peeked under the bed. Now that was a spear. She didn’t know her weapons very well and even she could see that it was weathered and well-used. She snatched it up and trotted back down. She took to the sky the second she was back outside, aiming for the party she’d left behind.

But she couldn’t help twisting to look over her shoulder.

At the crossed circle around the Great Ash.

Her head started throbbing. She grit her teeth and flew north.

Amanita had never tried channeling someone who’d been alive before, but there was a first time for everything. By the time Bitterroot came back with the spear, Amanita had set up the ritual so the spear was all she needed to complete it. Everyone was staring at her as she turned the spear over in her hooves. It shouldn’t have any nasty side effects if Whippletree wasn’t there. Shouldn’t.

Amanita laid the spear across the circle, then lit the first two candles. Deep breath. “I would listen if you would speak,” she intoned.

Then the magic was… jerky. She’d twisted the knob of an unlocked door, only for it to bump into something just as she started opening it. She couldn’t put out any call; liminality never opened. But she’d done everything else right, so…

“Let’s try something else,” she said, partly to the crowd, partly to herself. She moved the spear out of the circle, then blew out and relit the candles. She said the incantation again, focusing on the memory of a different pony.

Specifically, Code. Someone alive.

The magic felt exactly the same. She couldn’t put out a call because there wasn’t anyone to put out a call to.

“Whippletree’s alive,” she said. “I don’t know what state he’s in, but he’s definitely alive.”

Sighs of relief rippled throughout the party and Arrastra grinned. Then her wings twitched and her expression slipped a little. But as soon as Amanita noticed it, the smile was back. “I dinnae ken about aryone else,” she said, “but I ain’t a-stoppin’! I’ll tear-”

“Um. Actually…” Bitterroot tentatively raised a hoof. “I’ve… got a really bad headache coming on, and… I don’t think I’d be much help like that.”

“Ach, dinnae hurt yerself,” said Arrastra, waving a hoof at her. “Get on back tae town an’ improve up. Aryone else feelin’ out o’ fix?”

No one was. Bitterroot spread her wings and started hovering just above the ground. “I’m really sorry, it’s just- I’ve got a lot on my mind-”

“Head on back tae Tratonmane an’ unload it frae yer mind!” barked Arrastra. “Thankee fer comin’, but we need tae get a movin’!”

Bitterroot quickly threw a salute and took off into the sky. As the ground team set off walking again, Amanita wound her way over to a certain pony. “Hey, Code?”

“Hmm?”

“When I cast the spell the second time, did you feel anything?”

“…Not that I noticed. Why?”

“Well…”

She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t hunt in this state.

The circle around the Great Ash had tipped Bitterroot just barely over the edge. Every time she saw something remotely round, she double-checked it to be sure she wasn’t looking at a circle, triple-checked it to be sure there weren’t any lines across it. And of course, once she started looking for round objects, she started finding them. Pebbles, trees, the arc of the land… No circles or crosses, but that had to be just a matter of time.

The fact that the circles she’d seen — her plate, around the Ash — were so obviously coincidental arguably made it worse. Because what else had she walked past day after day that would suddenly jump out at her? She was afraid that if she glanced up at the sun, a flock of birds would fly in front of it in just the right way so that…

Flying fixed that. As long as she kept flying, things would blur and she couldn’t make out circles. Definitely no crosses in them. She’d be fine. And she’d be telling Code and the others about those circles the second they got back and a missing pony wasn’t the most important thing on their minds.

Tratonmane was slipping back into shadow when she reached it. The circle of the Ash was concealed by the dots of lamps. Bitterroot drifted down until she felt the snow crunch beneath her hooves. She stomped as randomly as she could. No crossed circles there.

When she walked inside, her throat was burning. The only pony in the common room was Cabin, slowly nibbling up a stalk of oats. She looked up as Bitterroot entered, flicked an ear, then went back to staring at the ceiling. When Bitterroot sat down at the bar, Cabin sighed and got to her position. “What dae ye want?” she grunted.

“Water,” said Bitterroot. She studied the whorls in the bartop. Plenty of curves, no circles or straight lines. “Just water.”

Cabin grunted and soon there was a cup of water sitting in front of Bitterroot. She quaffed a swallow. The water was cold, but it soothed her throat and helped clear her mind. Thoughts of circles blurred into something less relevant. Another drink and it happened again.

Bitterroot sat on her stool, doing her best to shift her mind. She could use a nice, straightforward hunt after this. Bum over to the west side of the country for a bit. Someplace warm. San Franpinto or Los Ambeles. Or go poking around the Badlands. They were beginning to post bounties that Equestrians could take. Hay, maybe even Griffonstone or Mt. Aris. Just not the North.

At some point, more ponies began filtering in. Bitterroot recognized some of them as lumberjacks. They gave their drink orders to Cabin and spread out into comfortable groups, talking and laughing.

Except for Crosscut. She took a seat right next to Bitterroot. She didn’t order anything, didn’t even look at her, just sat down. She took a deep breath. “I thought ye went a-searchin’ fer Whippletree.”

“I did,” Bitterroot said, ignoring her tone.The talk gave her something to focus on. “I got a bad headache and had to come back. We’re pretty sure he’s still alive, though.”

Crosscut snorted. “Well, if’n a headache-” Bitterroot could almost hear her train of thought crashing. “I… beg yer pardon, what?”

“Amanita performed a spell,” Bitterroot said, “that would’ve called up his spirit if he’d been dead. He didn’t show. So Amanita thinks he’s still alive.” She side-eyed Crosscut. “Necromancer.”

Crosscut opened her mouth. A small sound of overwhelmed bafflement came out.

Desperate to keep the conversation going, Bitterroot seized the first line of thought. “It needed an emotional connection to him and Arrastra said he had this spear, so, just FYI, I went and grabbed it.”

Crosscut froze halfway through a nod. Her brow furrowed. Slamming her hooves against the bartop, she demanded, “Ye broke intae my home?”

…Whoops. “Yeah, sorry,” admitted Bitterroot. “But I just went in, got the spear, came back out. It didn’t even take thirty seconds, honest.”

“Ye broke intae my home.”

“To try to help look for Whippletree! I promise! I didn’t even touch anything except the spear! I’m- having kind of a rough day and- You want to hit me? Seriously. If you think I deserve it, I deserve it.”

“…Nay. I’m- Nay.” Crosscut still looked miffed, but she was somewhat mollified. Somehow. She opened her mouth to say something, but then her expression shifted, like she was realizing something. She tapped her hoof on the bartop a few times, mouthing something. Then she asked, in a low voice, “Thirty seconds, ye say?”

“If that,” Bitterroot said. “I just went right upstairs to grab it from under the bed.” She took a drink of water.

“How’d ye ken where tae find it?”

Bitterroot became acutely aware of the chill of the water trickling down her throat.

No one had told her.

The door to the inn banged open; shock, dread, and drinking left Bitterroot spluttering and coughing. She hacked her way back to clear air only to find Midwinter staring at her. And not just staring, but staring, like she was the centerpiece of some grand science experiment. From the way her necklace was swinging, she’d arrived quickly. For a moment, Bitterroot thought about taking another drink to avoid conversation, but her shaking throat convinced her not to risk it.

“I heard Amanita resurrected Crosscut after a wolf attack last night,” Midwinter said. She spoke in a voice normally reserved for particularly spicy rumors or political secrets.

“Eeyup,” said Bitterroot. She already knew where conversation was going to go, and that provided some sort of comfort from predictability.

Midwinter blinked twice. “Is that all you can say?” she hissed. “‘Eeyup’?”

“Eeyup.”

“She- She is resurrecting. The dead. Why are you not surprised?”

“ ’Cause she’s a necromancer. I’ve known that for two and a half years.”

“Two and- Then pray tell me, why was Pyrita not resurrected as well?”

Bitterroot shrugged. “Dunno. I’m not a necromancer.”

Midwinter dropped back onto her stool, muttering. “A resurrection…”

“Normally, Amanita’s pretty good at them,” Bitterroot said. “She’s already resurrected me twice.”

And Midwinter was staring at her again, her tail flicking. “She has?”

“Had my throat slit. Both times.” Bitterroot raised her head to reveal the scar on her neck. “Long stories. You could probably get a book or two out of them. So, yeah. Died twice.”

An ear twitch. Midwinter’s eyes dilated enormously, catlike. “…Huh.” She gave Bitterroot one last look, then got off her seat and was out the door.

Bitterroot turned to her other side. “Sorry about-” But Crosscut was gone, probably assuming Midwinter would hijack the conversation. Which was… kind of what happened.

And Bitterroot was alone with her thoughts.

She looked down into her cup. There was still a bit of water in there. She swirled it around, watching the patterns it made. Light from the lamps dappled off the water, tracing lines in its surface. No crossed lines, though. The light wasn’t positioned right for that. No crossed circles.

Bitterroot stared into her cup and kept swirling. They weren’t crossed, right? She swirled. She tilted the cup this way and that, moved it around, looked into it from different angles. Ponies were staring at her, but she needed to be sure. Just. In. Case. And after several minutes, she was sure. No matter how she looked around, she couldn’t see any crossed circles. Not even close. She was safe.

But her mind wouldn’t shut up. She started looking at the bartop, the stools, the tables-

Bitterroot drank the rest of the water, shivered at its chill in her stomach, and turned the empty cup upside-down on the bartop. “Cabin?” she asked. “I need some whiskey.”