Do I believe it? I keep asking myself. Do I really believe it?
The Duyo-Cernian conflict had ended, and the Pegasi's last descendants, the Duyo, had retreated to their sky-halls. The province Cernia controlled the Circle, a vast realm inhabited by many races and cultures. The Earth Ponies' descendants, the Vlars, had evolved least. Stout and hardy, they constituted the majority of the world's population and, for the most part, lived outside the kingdom. The native Cernians were less Vlar and more Dayaz, descended from the Unicorns. The Gorans, on the other hoof, were more Vlar than Dayaz, which granted them toughness as well as the ability to perform magic. The Unicorns' closest descendants were the Hierophants, who still had their horns; and so did the Themans, Dayaz from the Isle of Themany, whose national pride compensated for their inferior spell-casting. Islanders, the Cernians' closest relatives, thought quickly and trod lightly. Many became prized scouts in the Circuline Legion.
While Cernia and Her Circle fought rebel Vlars in County Carr, the Count of Velvein, a Cernian called Arain Victor, was annexing Goran territories to create, in effect, a kingdom of his own. Alas, he did not live to enjoy it, because his son Uros killed him and the rest of the Victors to seize Velvein and its vassals for himself. Once he controlled them, he decided that some of the land should be returned to the Hierophants who had lived there centuries ago, the Hierophants who had helped him to slaughter his family. When he heard about Uros's proposed charity, the ruler of Cernia, King Dyravinus, was livid. The way he saw it, Velvein was rightfully his; Uros was not only insulting him; he was challenging him. Dyravinus knew that Uros, even with the Hierophants' support, could not presume to hold Velvein against an army; so he sent the King's Own Sixth Regiment to take the county back. Almost immediately, the plan worked. Velvein surrendered. Uros fled, and the Velveinian Hierophants betrayed, captured, and ransomed him. Dyravinus declined to pay. He was quite happy for Uros to stew, learning his lesson, in a cell at the edge of the kingdom.
For Uros, however, Velvein had been a warm-up. Two years later, remnants of the Hive, his guard, freed him and hid him in County Halbert. Eight years after that, he successfully staged a coup, but he must have known that, sooner or later, he'd be facing the same predicament: once news of his treachery reached the king's ears, Uros had a fight on his hooves, a fight he could not win. He needed more than sympathisers: he needed an army … or something like it. Uros's invasion began with the activation of the Bisen, the Alicorn vortex, from which he obtained immense unnatural powers. To maintain the rupture, he fed to it the Hierophants he hated; so came into being the Banished, Hierophants whom Uros had forced to emerge in a different time and to possess a different form (more on that later). The Urosian War lasted only a year, but in that time, Uros sent Cernia reeling. Counties Velvein, Halbert, and Wasken collapsed. Cernia's new king, Dyravinus III, was struggling to respond effectively to the myriad shocks and setbacks. Chaos had erupted. Marauders murdered and plundered; they even sacked Gholks, a Goran free-state. Refugees were flooding into Nimynal, Cernia's last surviving eastern county. Among them staggered, destitute, the Goran Champion, whom, if the legend is true, Ak-Sha, the last Alicorn, had selected to close the Bisen; and close it he did, albeit we don't know how. Some say he infiltrated Fort Mace, entered the rupture, and defeated Ak-Sha's aspect there. Whether you believe that or not, the result was definite: stripped of his strength, furious, and desperate, Uros launched himself upon his adversary; the Goran Champion slew him, which secured a Letter of the Stalwart, a lord-marshalcy, and a seat in King Dyravinus's First Chamber. The crisis had abated. Cernia and Her Circle flourished.
Three years later, a sacred fire called the Fiens Hinds died in Mirns, which prompted the Gorans of the Circle to journey northward. There they founded Gora, whose government included a new prince, Ahrnsk, and the Sparcelian priesthood, who worshipped the ancient goddess Sparcel. For fourteen years, Gora existed peacefully, but the Hierophants didn't like it. They believed that Gora encroached on ancestral land, so they issued her an ultimatum: shove off or prepare for war. The Hierophants were biting off more than they could chew because Gora had friends. Carr, who had seceded from Cernia, had pledged her support. What's more, Cernia feared the prospect of a union between Carr and Gora. King Dyravinus wanted to stay in both countries' good books, so he bade the Circuline Legion march into the fledgling nation and repel the Hierophantic invasion. In return, Gora promised to remain independent and to reduce her trade barriers. The Border War had ended as quickly as it had begun, and it favoured Cernia. With Gora happy, Dyravinus could turn his attention to the ever-troublesome Carron. Subverting them took six years of intrigue. First, Carr's prince, Poust, abdicated, and the country plummeted into anarchy. A mad warlord rose to power: Muryn Anree, whose absurd regime lasted only six days. Cernia used his example to argue that the Carron, leaderless and tribal, would destroy themselves; submission was for their own good. Now a viceroyalty, Carr returned to the Circle. You can imagine Dyravinus feeling pretty smug. He'd cowed the Carron, and Cernia traded freely with Gora. But in Gora, the Sparcelians were taking their first steps toward fanaticism. A mysterious, impressive personality had surfaced: Bian of Aen, who claimed to be a prophet. Few in Cernia took him seriously, yet the Sparcelians thought they'd found the real deal, and they persuaded Prince Ahrnsk to accept him. For the next sixteen years, Bian of Aen enjoyed a unique position at the peak of government, from which he refined Sparcelian praxis and, in the process, Goran culture. If Dyravinus had misgivings about his neighbours' beliefs, they didn't plague him for very long. He died, and his son, henceforth known as Fenas I, was crowned High-King of Cernia and Her Circle.
High-King Fenas was much more red-blooded than his ponderous father. Under his rule, the Circle expanded. He conquered Condrill and Missetti in a year. Three years into his reign, he discovered the Isle of Condmorin, and, wasting no time, he conquered her as well and established the Viceroyalty of the Islands. Even the Isle of Themany relinquished territory: the city-state Southport, the Circle's first protectorate. Gora, however, remained beyond Fenas's reach. Though Bian of Aen had disappeared, the Sparcelians clung to power. Disillusioned, Prince Ahrnsk denied them access to his sons, so his second wife, Princess Nsi, murdered him. The Sparcelians endorsed her rule, whereas Ahrnsk's first son, Sisa, denounced it. Thus began the Goran Civil War, two years of siege, which ended when Sisan forces breached the capital. Sisa presided over a brief and bloody reign of terror, during which Sparcelians suffered humiliation, torture, and death. The nation's heart was ripped from its chest. Gora collapsed shortly thereafter. Survivors of the havoc founded further north a tiny Gora II. Perhaps they hoped to return to their home once the dust had settled. But Fenas was too quick for them. He conquered the old Gora and rechristened it Endland. Undoubtedly satisfied with the significance of his reign, Fenas died peacefully a year later. Doomed to rule beneath his father's shadow, Dyravinus IV probably felt a little insignificant; childless, he died two years afterward, and his wife Idria was crowned high-queen. Her job was to steady the ship until the lords of the realm chose a new leader from among themselves. By summer's end ruled the first high-king of the Clair dynasty, Razival I, succeeded sixteen years later by his son Gathrick.
One hundred years had gone since the beginning of the age, and in the Circle, peace prevailed. Things were different across the sea, where Theman duchies quarrelled and formed alliances. The foremost of these were the unionists and the royalists. The unionists supported Tybise Merese, Duke of Virdee, who fancied ruling the whole of Themany; meanwhile, the royalists insisted that the island stay geopolitically divided. The Merese, who had plenty of soldiers, attacked the duchy Bitherine, which forced the Impasse Treaty. It made Tybise the Archduke of Themany, yet still he wasn't satisfied, because he resumed the war eight years later. Three years after doing so, weakened by conquest, he died, and the archdukedom went to his son, Arno. Two more years passed before the war concluded, leaving upon the island only the Archduchy of Themany and the kingdoms Suogh and Sidiron.
Thirty-five years into the century, Gathrick I, encouraged by expeditions to the cold, deserted north, established the Northmarch, his legacy. Dying twenty-six years later, his son Gathrick II had accomplished even less. Gathrick III tried harder than his namesakes: he founded the city-state Fowen twenty-two years into his reign and, eleven years afterward, County Renmot. Senile, he abdicated, the only Cernian king to do so, at the end of the century. His son Gathrick IV reluctantly accepted the crown, and the Merese, still in power, smelled weakness. At the start of the third century, they sieged Southport and landed armies in Condmorin. Regardless of whether Gathrick shrank back, the First Chamber made Cernia's position clear when the Circuline Legion landed in Themany. The war ended within two years. The Treaty of Southport gave the eponymous city back to Themany, but it also surrendered territory in Condmorin. Twenty-two years into the century, Gathrick IV died. Gathrick V signed the Second Treaty of Southport, and the city reverted to a protectorate. The next sixty-one years saw the deaths of Gathricks V and VI. Eleven years into the fourth century, Gathrick VII was crowned high-king. The Circle comprised Cernia, at its heart; the Islands, at its ankles; Southport, at its feet; Carr, on its left; Fowen, in the Vlar Country; Endland, on its head; and the Northmarch, above its ear. When Archduke Tybise III invaded Condmorin, the age had lasted for three hundred and twenty-six years; finally, the time of our banishment had arrived.
In County Wasken a new cult formed, made up of Sparcelians who believed the religion had strayed. Their envisioned solution to the perceived decadence of Cernian society was holy war, by which the faithful would find themselves and the infidels perish. The problem was no living Sparcelian met the cult's standards to serve as head of the faith. As far as they were concerned, the one and only candidate had died hundreds of years ago, their prophet, Bian of Aen. Then it hit them: they could recall Bian of Aen just as Uros Victor had purportedly, though inadvertently, recalled Ak-Sha. Controlling the Bisen was a feat only Uros had achieved, so the cultists copied his hubris to the letter. They used Hierophants to maintain the rupture, Hierophants whom they forced to emerge in a different time and to possess a different form. We are the Bianian Banished, the Hierophants of Wasken displaced. We are the timberwolves of Equestria.
Do I believe it? I keep asking myself. Do I really believe it? A low growl in my direction tells me that Ashton, elected super-pack, does. He glares at me through green eyes shining in sockets of knotted wood. I wonder how he looked when he was a Hierophant. Come to think of it, how did I? I've always visualised Hierophants as small Unicorns, fragile, yet graceful, with long, elegant horns and proud bearings. Seeing us now, with our rough snouts and jagged teeth, makes the transformation a lot harder to imagine.
My scepticism must be showing because Ashton barks at me, 'You're dust-scout tonight.'
A dust-scout is expected to risk, in the course of his duties, death by dawn. The first thing to know about the Bianian Banished is that we can exist only in the dark or the cover of trees. If a timberwolf leaves his grove once the sun has risen, his body will disintegrate. Our explanation for this bizarre feature of our biology is that the universe is preventing a paradox. Think about it. If we impact significantly the present, then the future, our past, changes. Sunlight functions as temporal germicide, neutralising the dangerous infection. Thus follows a bittersweet conclusion: because the universe remains intact, then either the sun must kill us all, or we must locate the Bisen and return to our world.
Hunting for the Bisen is a massive undertaking. Timberwolves divide into packs, each of which peruse an allocated area. The super-pack co-ordinates the effort; he decides where to comb and where to disregard and maps the locations of trees. The search is all-consuming, allowing only the quest to escape. Settling in Equestria is out of the question. The longer we stay, the more certainly we shall die. Our lives seem pre-determined, our choices so narrow. Do I believe it? Do I really believe it? A horrible thought keeps crossing my mind: that Cernia and all our history are just a sick concoction to confine us to torment. The reality is I can't be sure, because, as far as anyone actually knows, we came from nowhere; we acknowledge neither parents nor siblings nor children, which in itself strengthens the banishment theory. I look into Ashton's savage face. Has he ever doubted it?
'We'll have to search the pony settlements at some point,' he says. 'The problem is they don't let us get near enough. Two of Cloade's pack got dusted because they'd been attacked for poking around.'
'The bigger problem's under the water,' says Cregan. 'Who's to say the seas here don't dry up? We don't actually know how far back we are. Fort Mace could be built on the remnants of a lake or something, which at the moment we can't touch.'
Where are my recollections of Cernia, of Wasken? We managed to remember all of this history, so how come we've forgotten everything else? We're supposed to be the Hierophants of the Sutchwood, a birch forest so verdant that it's nicknamed the Golden Sea. Why can't I picture those trees without reference to the ones I've seen here?
'We're not going to bother with things we can't do,' says Ashton. 'Besides, there's no evidence that the Bisen stays put. Who said the Bianians used Fort Mace? They were in Wasken, not Halbert. You follow the clues we have: a strong, disorienting feeling or an inexplicable urge for closeness. Let me worry about the water.'
'We'll have to check it somehow.'
'I said let me worry about it. Do your job. Now, this business last night. Rowlin hurting Caster.'
'It was an accident,' protests Rowlin.
'No, it wasn't,' pipes up Char.
'Shut up!' Rowlin barks at him. 'Yes, it was. I didn't mean for the sun to get him.'
'I don't care what you meant,' replies Ashton. 'You bit his leg.'
'I was angry. It isn't my fault he's so greedy. Besides, what's the loss? It's one less mouth to feed. Lazy, he was. Never pulled his weight.'
'One less mouth to feed?' growls Ashton. 'We're losing a dust-scout a month. If the pattern holds, it's eighteen short years before we're all dead, all of us, extinct. Back home, you'd suffer for this.' (For Ashton, home means Cernia.) 'Here we need every Hierophant we can get. You'll start dust-scouting for Cloade's pack tomorrow. If the sun gets you, consider the debt paid.'
Who was I in Cernia? Where did I come from? Suddenly, the whole thing seems painfully shallow; we recite the dusty, momentous details of myth or legend; they deal with the grand, never the personal. For instance, how did a typical Waskener look and sound? How did he live? Whom did he dislike? How did he express love? I've asked others these questions before, passed off, of course, as mere curiosity. The answers blend into one, an impatient, irritable refrain: You'll find out when we get there. Only the future matters.
'Does the south-turf still have enough Hierophants for a food-pack? We might need to send one of our lot to help them hunt.'
'They've got plenty. Their problem is they aren't sending out enough dust-scouts, I think. Focusing more on searching for food than searching for the Bisen.'
'Cregan, be ready to go down there and lead.'
'Right.'
The fact is I've grown used to living in the woods, used to stalking small prey, to nibbling at roots and shrubs. I smile when my pack disperses and take pleasure in solitude, time in which the frantic pursuit won't impinge upon the present. When left alone, I don't want to be a Hierophant at the end of time. When left alone, I'm happy to be a timberwolf.
'Swap me out with Penny, Ashton. I'm not feeling sturdy enough for the food-pack today.'
'If you're feeling weak for the food-pack, you're not strong enough to dust-scout. You'll go with Crag. No complaints. Marsh, I want you to do a long-stay from the grove you found last week. Eat with us tonight, then set out. No big risks. Keep out of trouble, and get a good look at the ruins you told me about.'
'Got it.'
Ashton turns to me and says: 'You're on the moor. Make it thorough. You'll eat when you're back.'
As a rule, timberwolves fear a moor, a living desert of treeless, endless hills. What makes it even scarier is that, for all we're dubbed wolves, we see poorly in the dark. I blink at the tall, black shapes around me. Becoming lost would be unnervingly easy. To make matters worse, I doubt that Ashton will swallow another of my stories; he already suspects I've been shirking. My nose tries to compensate for my struggling eyes, but the scents blend into one subtle perfume. I hear the wind sweeping my ears and the babble of birds. If only I could understand them, listen to some perspective. I step on damp earth; the grass on top has dried. The sensation is wholesome, healthy, as though the ground is stating how assiduously it intends to keep lush the area. Delicate stems tickle my body. The spikes of the thistles hurt more than you'd think considering I'm made of wood. Though I'm meant to fear here, I feel strangely at home. Should I tell the others, or should I continue pretending to be passionate about Hierophants and Vlars and Waskens and Halberts and Renmots and Condmorins and Themanys? What are these words? Where do they come from? Why don't any of us know?
Tiny stones poke my paws. I've found a path. Ponies lay paths. Perhaps it leads to a settlement. When I consider their pleasant, peaceful lives, I feel jealous. They have homes, jobs, and families, whereas we get by on mere ghosts and hopes of such things. We have so little; it's small wonder we cling to it so desperately. The hills part to reveal a distant body of water, pale, ragged, like a crack in the bark of a tree. We're supposed to have lakes back in Cernia. I speed up, anxious to take a closer look. Who knows? Maybe it's the entrance to the Bisen. Wouldn't that be something to tell the others. Of course, they might expect me to enter it without a backward glance. We've often wondered whether Banished have located the Bisen already and, instead of letting anyone know, jumped in greedily. If so, it's understandable. They would have been afraid to leave in case they couldn't find it again. As I walk toward the water's edge, I ponder what the others would think if I failed to report. Surely, they'd think I'd died, obliterated by the rising sun. But what if I hadn't died? What if I had left? What's the worst that can happen if I keep going forward? I think about dying; it doesn't frighten me much. If my situation feels so meaningless that death seems its equal, then why don't I try something else?
Close up, the lake is smaller than I thought and much smaller than the seas we've heard about. Supposedly, travelling to Missetti takes days. They say that a sunset in Missetti is the closest thing to a giant diamond. I don't believe it. I'm not sure I believe any of it. I jolt as invisible birds burst fiercely into voice overhead, breaking my long, gloomy self-absorption. They want me away from their nests, right at the shallow banks. I can hear the babble of their young, demanding the early worms. A surge of excitement travels from my head to my claws.
I'll go; I'll leave; I'll start a new life. Perhaps I'll visit the ponies and attempt to communicate to them my needs. They'll probably laugh at me, a tame timberwolf. One thing's for certain: Cernia, Missetti, the far future, they aren't my problem; they don't interest me. I'm free now, free to make my own choices, free to decide my own destiny. I grin as I turn to see whether I could find the path back even if I wanted to. My smile slips. The sun is already rising.
