//------------------------------// // 8 - Mountain Mares // Story: Death Valley // by Rambling Writer //------------------------------// When they reached the forest line, sunlight was about four-fifths of the way down Midwich’s western wall, which put the time at… 10ish, Amanita guessed. Maybe 11. Why hadn’t she thought to bring a watch? Varnish stalked away about halfway between Tratonmane and Midwich, vanishing as if he’d become part of the darkness. Whippletree shook his head, muttering nothings under his breath. When they actually reached the limits of Tratonmane, Whippletree dismissed the rest of the militia, although he himself stayed behind. “I’d like tae beg yer pardon o’er Resin Varnish,” he said. “He can be… hard.” He glanced back up the road Varnish had disappeared down. “Might could jes’ be the forest. It sets the best o’ ponies on edge an’ he’s liked us goin’ in less’n most. But that ain’t no excuse. I’ll have a word with ’im later.” “Thank you,” said Code. “A proper amount of discipline is important.” (Amanita knew from experience that Code meant proper. No more than a stern talking-to would probably be proper at this stage.) “’Tis,” Whippletree replied. He shuffled his hooves and flexed his wing. “So, ah, if’n ye… dinnae mind me askin’, what’d ye find?” Code sucked in a breath through her nose and looked up. The blue of the sky seemed to be straining to reach the valley floor. “Not much,” she said. “Which at least means we won’t need to go out there again. Not unless the situation changes dramatically.” “Good,” said Whippletree. Indeed, just the thought of not going into Midwich again seemed to be making him perk up a little. “It’s weird,” said Charcoal, pacing a ring into the snow. “The wolves are acting funny, but it’s not because of the ley line, because otherwise the timberwolves would be acting even worse, but they stay back in the furriest- forest and don’t bother you. Except the timberwolves are acting worse, because they don’t just leave their prey to rot like that. And it was an aspen wolf, but only one aspen wolf, and not a big one at that. And then there’s the river…” Code coughed and Charcoal yanked herself back to the present. “There’s a lot of weird stuff in the forest,” Charcoal said, “but done- none of that’s got to do with the ley line. All of our study can be done here in Tratonmane. We are not going back in. …I hope. There better not be a spriggan out there…” “Have you seen anything else strange happening around here?” Code asked. “In the past…” She pawed at the ground for a moment. “…seven days? That was when the ley line first turned. Maybe among the miners.” And Whippletree immediately folded his ears back. “It… ain’t really my place tae say, but… Pyrita’s been havin’… problems. Fer some reason, she went intae the mine in the middle o’ the night seven night back, came back out in the morn, and jes’… collapsed. Her sister took ’er home and she ain’t hardly moved since.” Ah. Finally, something tangible. They could dig into that. But Amanita tried not to get too excited; it sounded like this Pyrita was comatose and, well, it was cruel to get excited about that. Still, something to study was something to study. Maybe they could help her along the way. “You sound nervous,” Code said casually. “It’s her sister,” Whippletree said. “Arrastra’s… touchy ’bout ’er family. She dinnae want us gosspin' like hens about ’em. I dinnae blame ’er, but gabbin’ about this doesnae feel proper.” “Can you point us in her direction?” Code said. “Then we can discuss it face-to-face and she can buck me in the head if she so desires.” Whippletree snorted and his wings relaxed. “Aye, I can show ye.” “I think I’ll stay here.” Charcoal was looking out over the river. “I’ll just run a few cans- scans of the river. I wonder if there’s anything in the water to make it twist like that. Probably not.” “I heard there’s an inventor in town,” piped up Bitterroot. “They helped with the plumbing. You could ask them if they’re doing anything with the water.” “Oh, aye, Midwinter.” Whippletree nodded. “Sure, she an’ her family worked on that. I can take ye tae her.” “Sure. Might as well,” Charcoal said, shrugging. “Arrastra’s house is along the way,” Whippletree said to Code. “I’ll show ye. Come on.” They were a ways into Tratonmane, not far from the Great Ash, before Whippletree pointed out a house. “Arrastra’s,” he said. “She’s mindin’ out fer Pyrita there. She’s a mite prickly, so be ready.” Which wasn’t the worst recommendation of someone, but hardly the best, either. After a quick swing by the inn to wash her head and change out of the clothes she’d worn while inside the bear, Amanita did her best to keep her head up as Code knocked on the door. She could do this. She was just going to look at a comatose pony with her possibly-overprotective sister still around. Nothing wrong with that, right? It took a little longer than Amanita had expected for the knock to be answered. The elderly, eyepatched chiropterus who opened the door looked like someone who was physically strong but whose fights hadn’t been physical for a long time. The second she saw who was at the door, she jerked her back so suddenly Amanita half-expected to hear a hiss. “Canterlot ritualists?” she asked. Code nodded. “I’m Restricted Code and this is Amanita. We-” “Cannae talk wi’ ye,” said Arrastra. “I’m busy.” She stepped back, ready to slam the door. “About Pyrita!” Amanita said hastily. Sibling overprotectiveness be torn, they needed this. It worked. Arrastra halted, her jaw set. “Ye’re a-goin’ tae help ’er?” she asked. “Any way we can,” Code said, nodding. There was a lengthy moment of silence before Arrastra wordlessly waved them in. Chiropteri being chiropteri, the inside wasn’t lit. Arrastra simply walked forward, chirping; Amanita lit her horn after scraping past a table in the cramped space. They were led upstairs. Upstairs was lit; in the main room, a flickering light gem hung above an easel with a not-bad landscape painting in one corner and a lantern dangled from the ceiling above one of the two beds. On that bed, beneath the sheets, lay another chiropterus, eyes slightly open but too still to be awake. She looked even older than Arrastra, maybe 70-ish. She didn’t look hurt, but for some comas, that didn’t mean much. “Here,” said Arrastra. “She- She’s my sister.” Her voice tried to stay strong, but Amanita could tell its foundation was brittle. “Could you tell us what happened?” Code asked. “Aye. We live togethern, here.” Arrastra lightly stomped the floor with a rear hoof. “An’- Six day ago, she went out tae speak wi’ Midwinter abouten the water pressure — ’tis always been high here — an’ she werenae back when I bedded. Alright, mebbe they’re a-talkin’. She dinnae like it when ponies get nex’ tae her that late, but Pyrita’s got a way o’ speakin’. But she still werenae here yet when I woke up an’ Midwinter said she ne’er saw her. I went a-lookin’ fer her an’- fer s-some tarnal reason, she c-comes a-stumblin’ out o’ the drift o’ the mine up south. She dinnae look ’urt, but she’s a-ramblin’ somethin’ fierce, r-right up ’til the moment she d-drops. I got ’er b-back home, an’… An’ she ain’t hardly done nothin’ since.” “I’m sorry,” Amanita said. “I’ve been up here fer most o’ the past week,” Arrastra said. She pawed at the floorboards, seemingly unconsciously. “Fer everwhen she needs… arythin’. Took up paintin’ tae pass the time.” She gestured at the easel with a wing. “As I say. Busy.” “And what do you take care of for her?” asked Code. “Everythin’,” snapped Arrastra. “She’s family. Movin’ ’er so she dinnae get sore, feedin’ ’er mush, cleanin’ ’er when-” “Yes, everything,” Code said tensely. “You said she was speaking before she collapsed?” “Aye, she w-were handlin’. Cannae recall much. …S-somethin’ ’bout… severed b-beasts, a walker, an’ a t-trisect.” Arrastra took a shaky breath and raised a leg to wipe at her eye and patch. Code opened her mouth, but Amanita quickly elbowed her. When Code looked at her, Amanita simply shot her a glare and shook her head. Code pursed her lips slightly, but nodded. “Sorry,” Arrastra muttered. She raised her eyepatch to wipe at the fur beneath; her eye was gone but her tear ducts weren’t. “I… I jes’-” “Remembering seeing a family member like that is hard,” Amanita said simply. She still hated some of her last moments with Zinnia, simply because of how small and weak Zinnia had looked. “Aye.” Arrastra drew herself up and continued, “She spoke tae me, an’ jes’ me. I cannae remember much. I’ve been a-takin’ care o’ her e’er since.” She said these words to Amanita, not to Code. “It’s possible she was affected when the ley line turned,” said Code. “The timeline is right and the mine might be close to the line’s source. Is there anything strange or unusual down there?” “…Nay,” Arrastra said. “Jes’ coal an’ rocks.” “At least you’re safe,” Amanita said. She gazed at Pyrita and her hooves twitched sympathetically. “Mind if I take a closer look at her physicals? It won’t be anything major.” When she’d first gotten her cutie mark, she’d gone digging through all sorts of medical texts looking for ways to apply it. A lot of the tests she’d read had stuck with her. “…Ye’re Amanita, right? The blood doctor?” Arrastra said. “I am, and it’s more healing magic in general. But,” Amanita added quickly, “but I wouldn’t be able to fix her. I just want to get a general idea of her health.” A long pause before Arrastra said, “If’n it can help ’er, go ahead.” “Great. Thanks.” Amanita moved in close to Pyrita, peered at one of her pupils. In the dim light of Tratonmane, it was fairly dilated. Amanita brightened her horn a little and the pupil smoothly contracted. Good start. “Let’s get you up,” Amanita muttered. She pulled off the sheets and delicately raised Pyrita into a sitting position, making sure to keep her head from flopping around. She heard some rustling behind her, like Code and Arrastra were surprised, but when they didn’t say anything, she ignored them. She looked Pyrita in the eyes. They quite didn’t have the brightness of life in them, but they didn’t have the flatness of death, either. She knew both of those quite well. Placing a hoof on both sides of Pyrita’s head, Amanita turned it carefully to one side. Pyrita’s eyes at first kept looking in her direction, then slowly moved back to the head’s midline. As expected. She repeated the action in the other direction and got similar results. Very good. Head up, same results. Head down, same results. “Very good,” Amanita not-quite-whispered to herself as she laid Pyrita back down. “Just one more test.” She pulled Pyrita’s blankets back over her and turned to Arrastra. “Where’s your bathroom?” Arrastra blinked and simply pointed. Amanita retrieved a cup of cold water from there (the sink sprayed like mad, though), sat down next to Pyrita, looked her in the eyes again, and poured a trickle of water into her ear. “What in the nation d’ye think ye’re doin’?” Arrastra growled, her wings rustling threateningly. Amanita didn’t look at her. “Testing the caloric reflex,” she said. “If you pour cold water into an unconscious pony’s ear, their eyes ought to look towards that ear.” Which happened even as she explained it. She stopped pouring and used a tiny bit of magic to carefully levitate the water back out. Setting the cup on a side table, Amanita said, “The good news is she’s probably not brain-damaged. Her reflexes are still there. Now…” She placed a hoof on Pyrita’s neck. Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub… “Heartbeat’s good…” Another hoof on her chest. As Pyrita breathed, it rose and fell smoothly. Very smoothly. Amanita waited for several moments longer than was necessary just to be sure. “Huh. Her breathing’s pretty clear.” “An’… that’s bad?” asked Arrastra. “Oh, no, not at all. It’s just, you said she’d been a miner, I thought she might’ve developed black lung.” “What?” “You know, black lung. Uh, miner’s asthma? Coughing, shortness of breath, chest pains…” “That’s a thing?” Amanita looked behind her. Arrastra was staring at her like she’d said something bizarre. “Yeah,” Amanita said slowly. “You’re… breathing in coal dust for most of your life… Don’t you have any old miners who have trouble breathing?” “Nay.” “…None. None at all?” Arrastra shook her head. “It’s jes’ dust, ain’t it?” “It’s coal dust, and it’s collecting in your body. It scars your lungs and just… builds up. It turns them black.” Amanita stood up. “And you’re telling me nopony in Tratonmane has it?” “Ye need tae be tough out ’ere,” snorted Arrastra. “Seems tae me we jes’ ignore it.” Which was a load of absolute night fertilizer. Ignoring black lung was like ignoring starvation: you didn’t. Nature didn’t care how tough you were. If coal dust was collecting in your lungs, you felt it, one way or another. Maybe your chest would ache. Maybe you wheezed. Maybe you never seemed to get enough air, no matter how deeply you breathed. Maybe you couldn’t stop coughing. You knew. Except here they were, in a town based around coal mining, and by some act of divine providence, black lung was completely absent. Only one explanation came to Amanita right then. “Or maybe it’s the ley line.” But it didn’t seem right. It was too vague, too hoof-wavey. Rituals could be nebulous, but there was still a clear line of reasoning, if abstract reasoning, in how they worked. Not the anti-explanation of “it’s magic” that she’d heard griffons and zebras hated. Saying it’s the ley line explained nothing and satisfied no one. At least Charcoal would be happy for the work. Arrastra just shrugged. “Beg pardon,” Code spoke up, “but do you usually have those near beds?” Amanita followed her hoof. All this time, she’d been looking at Pyrita, not above her. But on the wall above Pyrita, a little grain wreath was hanging on a nail. A tiny bit smaller across than a hoof, it was just a circle with two perpendicular lines across it, but it was impeccably crafted. And now that she had noticed it, Amanita had a hard time looking away. There was something special about that, she knew, something she couldn’t quite put her hoof on. Arrastra blinked her attention back to Code and shook her head. “I… Nay. Not lessun they take sick.” “I see,” Code said. “Interesting.” “Um. Code?” Amanita coughed. “We haven’t discussed those yet, have we?” “Not in our work, no. This-” Code stabbed a hoof at the ring. “-is called a grain mother. It’s a primitive but fairly straightforward ritual item. They’re not used much anymore, but only because of advancements in medicine outclassing them; in the right circumstances, they’re still quite useful. And one of those circumstances is preserving resources in long-populated settlements.” She made a sweeping gesture around them, grinning and nodding. “See, grain mothers only work because of the connection the weaver has to the land. Not magical, like earth ponies-” Amanita felt the wooden boards purr beneath Code’s hooves. “-but emotional. The land needs to be a home, an old home, a constant home. You need to have worked it — magic or plow or your own four hooves, it doesn’t matter, as long as it was you. Because if you give to the land, the land can give something back.” Code started pacing back and forth as best she could, making quick, slashing motions with one of her hooves. “Grain is… It has an idea behind it. You see fields of grain, and you think whoever’s growing it has plenty of food, yes? It’s vitality, it’s health, it’s prosperity. So when you weave something like this, you’re calling back that idea. But that idea only truly works if you’ve been taking care of grain for a while, or else you’re just taking. If you have been working with grain, it’s more like you’re calling in a favor for the work you put in. You scratched its back, so now it’s scratching yours. Simply put, that-” Code pointed at the wreath again. “-could not have been made by anyone other than a Tratonmanian and still work.” Switches flicked back and forth in Amanita’s mind. Code was speaking fast again, and it was sometimes hard to follow her when she fell into that pattern. “So it’s… essentially working along the sympathetic emotional connection, but with no one on the other side?” “More or less. You create it yourself, by putting so much of yourself into it. And because it’s made from grain from the last harvest, it can still-” “-still invoke the gestalt ideal, which heals them.” That Amanita knew. When you healed someone, you had to work towards what the body wanted; the grain mother must’ve been working the same way, but much slower. Yet even slow, that was quite impressive for something that could be made by somepony who was technically an unskilled laborer. “It’s a charm that ’eals ponies,” Arrastra grumbled. “Ye dinnae need tae get all a-technical, fer land’s sakes.” “In our line of work, it helps,” said Code. “We need to know how the charm works. …May I have it?” Arrastra narrowed her eyes and half-opened her wings, but Code quickly said, “Let me rephrase. I would like to replace the charm with one of my own, just as effective, so I can study this one.” “Why?” asked Arrastra, surprisingly aggressively. “Because the mother was made with grain grown here, it’ll be imbued with magic from the ley line. That will give us more data to study and figure out what’s wrong with the line.” Arrastra looked at Charcoal, at the mother, at Pyrita. With a heavy sigh, she said, “She’s my sister, an’ I ken this works. If- ye take it away an’ she gets worser-” “If my circle doesn’t work,” said Code, “we’ll give you the mother back, no questions asked. Your safety is more important than our study.” Amanita could tell Arrastra was thinking hard from the way her ears flicked back and forth. “Alright. Jes’… make it quick.” “Thank you. First of all, can I borrow a few drops of black paint?” Arrastra looked at her easel, looked back at Code. Amanita could tell the exact moment she gave up on trying to make sense of it all. “Sure. Help yerself.” “Excellent.” Without further ado, Code grabbed the cup from where Amanita had left it and trotted downstairs and out the door. The Look Arrastra gave Amanita was even harsher in the dim light. “She needs paint and water to make ink,” explained Amanita. “River water’s better than tap water because it’s closer to nature and Midwich. She’s just trying to make the replacement as good as possible.” “Ain’t much fer reasons, is she?” Arrastra said with a snort. Amanita grinned weakly. “Not really, no. She has a bad habit of not explaining herself if she doesn’t need to explain herself.” Her eyes fell on Pyrita. Seven days comatose. At this age. And Arrastra had been taking care of her, here, for all that time. Maybe alone. Family was important to her. More important than Amanita’s had ever been to- Wait. Seven days… Amanita ran the numbers in her head. “Pyrita was in the mine when the ley line turned,” she said. Not just close to the date, on the date. “Maybe there’s something in the mine connected to the line.” “There ain’t,” Arrastra said quickly. “It’s a happen-so. Coincidence. I dinnae ken why she went in tae begin with, but it weren’t the line. Elseways, others’d follow ’er.” “But once she was in-” Amanita cut herself off. Pyrita going into the mine for whatever reason was important, but too external to the mine to have happened because of the ley line without others doing the same. Probably. Yet she’d been in the mine… “Can I feel some of the magic inside her, then? Maybe there’s something left over from the ley-” “There ain’t,” Arrastra said. Again, quickly. “I’ve done had a charm doctor give ’er a look-see. There ain’t ary magic o’ that sort in her. Ye willnae find nothin’.” “Right,” Amanita said, nodding. All of this had probably been done before, if she was being honest. Right down to her own tests. It wasn’t like Arrastra was on her own, not in this sort of community. They’d give her what help they could. And even if they didn’t know what the specific sort of magic was in somepony, a unicorn could still sense it and know something was wrong. Still, Amanita couldn’t throw that thought away. Below them, the front door creaked open and Code came trotting back up the stairs, holding a cupful of water in her mouth. She set it on the floor and pulled out a few items: a tiny bowl, a slim brush, a sheet of paper. She mixed the water and some of Arrastra’s black paint together in the bowl until it was closer to ink. Taking the brush in her mouth, she murmured, “This won’t take long.” She closed her eyes, tightened the muscles in her neck, and started jerking the brush semi-randomly across the paper, occasionally leaving behind a thin line. “She’s feeling the rhythm of the magic around here,” Amanita preemptively whispered to Arrastra. “Those sorts of motions let the world pull the brush in a… way that’s good for magic. Like letting a compass show you north.” Arrastra flicked her tail. “I ken north.” “Outside of Midwich. It’ll make a good shape for the charm.” Code’s jerks stopped and she opened her eyes to see what she’d drawn. “Hmm. Interesting.” Amanita craned her neck to look. Acting completely on random instinct, Code had redrawn the crossed circle from the mother. Surprisingly sharply, too. “I need a rhyme,” Code muttered, tapping her hoof on the floor. “I need a rhyme to give me time to let this art enact its part… A-ha, perfect.” She crumpled the paper up, stuffed it in a pocket, and walked over to Pyrita. With one hoof on the bedframe for balance, she extended her neck until she could almost touch the wall on Pyrita’s other side. “We start at the top, with the head and the mind,” incanted Code. She set the brush to the wall. “The circle goes clockwise, for healing takes time.” She drew the circle in one impossibly smooth swoop. “The top to the bottom, the ears to the nails.” A line straight down through the middle. “The front to the back, from the nose to the tail.” A line straight across, perpendicular to the first. Code set the brush back in the bucket, placed a hoof on the wall right next to the circle, and closed her eyes. “It is by these actions we may hold her all and drive out the fugue that doth hold her in thrall. This pony’s mind healed; this I humbly implore. May she speak to us as she did once before.” The roots of Amanita’s teeth twitched once. In her sleep, Pyrita made some vague murmur. Arrastra had slowly backpedaled and was standing against the far wall. Swallowing, she asked, “Who, who’re youn a-talkin’ tae?” Code stepped away from the bed. “Whoever’s listening, even if that’s just the magic. Sometimes, ritualists need to be theologically flexible.” “Ah.” Arrastra’s ears stopped being plastered against the top of her head. “I… see.” “I don’t think I have any further questions,” Code said. “Amanita, do you-” Pyrita coughed. Everyone froze for an instant. Then Arrastra was crouched at the bedside. “Pyrita?” She lightly batted at Pyrita’s cheeks as her eyes fluttered. “Are ye there?” Another cough. Pyrita’s legs twitched; so did Arrastra’s wings. She grinned as she said, “C’mon, I’m here fer ye, I-” “Arrastra?” Pyrita wheezed. Arrastra collapsed onto her haunches, laughing quietly. “I’m here fer ye.” Code opened her mouth, only for Amanita to get her attention with a shoulder nudge and jerk her head back towards the stairs. Code paused, nodded, and took a step forward to whisper in Arrastra’s ear. “Make sure she sleeps there,” she said quickly. “If there’s any more work to be done, the circle will help. If you need to talk to us, we’ll be at the inn.” Arrastra nodded, waving them vaguely away. “Pyrita, d’ye need arythin’? Ye’re home, ye got…” Amanita tread lightly down the stairs, Code close behind. Without much of any other place to go, she went back outside. Glancing up at the second-floor window, she said, “The Rite of Brave Spear doesn’t usually work that fast, does it?” “No,” Code said. She raised the grain mother to her eye level; the wreath twisted subtly in the wind. “Perhaps this helped. It’s a very well-made mother… Hmm. Let’s take it back to our room. I’d rather not lose it.” She squinted up; the sun had crawled its way over the valley rim. “It’s getting close to noon. Should we find Charcoal and Bitterroot first so we can have lunch?” “Nah. Bitterroot’ll head there, anyway, and drag Charcoal with her. Let’s get something to eat.” Bitterroot had come here in case Amanita had needed moral support. She’d done a lot of lackey work for free and had spent very little time with Amanita. Funny how that turned out. (Why was she even sticking with Charcoal at the moment? Curiosity, apparently.) Whippletree was leading them south. Very south. South past the train station and coal breaker and one of Tratonmane’s towers. So south that the sides of Midwich Valley were narrowing. When she looked up, Bitterroot began feeling claustrophobic. And with the end of the valley approaching, they were in the coldest part of the valley, a place where no sunlight ever reached. Yet plants still grew. Charcoal picked a few flowers from near the stream and held them up for Bitterroot to see. “Grass-of-Parneighssus!” she chirped. “It’s pretty common in these sorts of climes, but take a look at the hem! Stem! It’s not green at all! In fact, it looks sick, which you’d expect from living without sunlight. Buuuuuut…” She flexed the stem; when she let go, it straightened out again. “…it’s perfectly healthy! Because it’s close enough to the ley line that it doesn’t need sunlight for photosynf- photosynthesis and produces less chlorophyll. Other than that, it’s just like any other grass-of-Parneighssus.” She popped one of the flowers into her mouth. “Right down to tasting good. A lot of the time, it doesn’t matter where you get your energy as long as you get it.” It did taste good, Bitterroot decided as she chewed. Once she swallowed, she asked Whippletree, “So what’s the deal with Midwinter and her family?” “Ach, they work on… I dinnae ken,” said Whippletree. “Inventions. Ne’er seen ’em aside frae the plumbin’.” Shrug. “But they’ve kept the water a-runnin’ ’round ’ere fer years, an’ that’s good enough fer me. They’re nice enough.” “Hmm.” Although deep in the dark, Midwinter’s house was still some ways from the very end of the valley; miners occasionally passed it on their way to and from work. It was larger than most Tratonmane houses, sprawling across its open land like a tired dog. Bitterroot was reminded of some of the smaller manor houses she’d seen. Shortly after Whippletree knocked on the door, it was opened by a glum-looking, middle-aged earth pony who would’ve looked like he’d been standing in a downpour for the last twenty-four hours if he hadn’t been dry. “Mornin’,” he said. (Bitterroot glanced up; it was still morning, technically.) “Mornin’, Fuligin,” Whippletree said, giving him a nod. “Is Midwinter around? The Guard wants tae talk to ’er.” Fuligin’s eyes flicked back and forth between Bitterroot and Charcoal. “Aye, she’s ’ere. Come in.” “Or, wait, this won’t take long,” Charcoal said, raising a hoof. “It’s just about the plumbing-” But Fuligin shook his head. “I dinnae work with ’er,” he said, “jes’ for her. I cannae answer yer questions.” He waved Bitterroot and Charcoal in, leaving Whippletree to fly back to Tratonmane. The interior would’ve been grand if it hadn’t been dark. Fuligin lit a match and soon had an array of oil lamps blazing away. He led them to a sitting room — the house was large enough to have a sitting room, with sofas and chairs and something that probably qualified as a coffee table — and said, “Wait here.” He quickly vanished through a door that looked like a stairway to a basement. Bitterroot squinted at one of the sofas. A bit dusty and the style was old, but perfectly fine. She and Charcoal settled down onto it; comfy enough. When she took another look around the sitting room, she wondered how long it’d been since it’d really been used; everything could use at least a brushdown to get rid of the dust. It wasn’t long before Fuligin returned from the basement. Coming up right behind him was Midwinter, wiping what looked like grease off her necklace with a cloth. Close behind her was Carnelian. The second she was out of the stairs, Carnelian was staring intensely at Charcoal. “You… were not kidding in the slightest,” she said softly. Charcoal flinched and wiggled back on the sofa as she struggled to smile and Carnelian looked her up and down. “It’s impolite to stare at guests,” Midwinter said, giving Carnelian a light nudge. “Even if those guests are of a people we’ve never seen before. I believe you said you were a kirin?” she said to Charcoal. “Right, kirin, yeah,” Charcoal said. Shifting her attention from Carnelian to Midwinter made her less likely to wrap into herself. “We recently made context- contact with Equestria. It’s complicated.” “Maybe you can tell us about it later.” As Midwinter sat down across from Bitterroot, he said, “Fuligin, could you get a light snack for our guests?” Fuligin gave a shallow bow and trotted off to the kitchen. “Anyway, um.” Charcoal swallowed and managed a grin at Carnelian. “I’m- Charcoal and I’m- the- environmental magic specialist.” “Carnelian Orchard,” came the reply. “And I apologize for my behavior. You are certainly… striking.” “I’m actually pretty normal for a kirin. Except for my name- mane, that’s pretty thick, and people keep asking how I-” “Are you two family?” Bitterroot couldn’t help asking. “I always heard it as ‘Midwinter’s family’, but you’re older, so…” “Indeed. We’re mother and daughter.” Smiling, Midwinter gestured between herself and Carnelian. “See the resemblance?” They did look quite similar in build and facial structure; it helped that they were both chiropteri. “It’s her family because she’s responsible for most of what we do,” said Carnelian. “I don’t mind.” Fuligin returned, dropping a bowl of various vegetables on the coffee table. It wasn’t much — cabbage, carrots, some nuts — but it was fine for a snack. “So,” Midwinter said, “to what do we owe the pleasure of your company?” She leaned forward, plucked away a leaf of cabbage with her teeth, and started chewing. “It’s, it’s about the ley line and the river,” Charcoal said. She levitated a carrot out, but didn’t seem interested in eating it just yet. (Bitterroot got her own cabbage leaf and began eating. Good cabbage.) “You might’ve heard, but we vent- went into Midwich Forest with some of your militiaponies and the river, it behaved weirdly in there. Like…” She wiggled the carrot. “At one point, it just- curves off to the east when it really shouldn’t, and I kinda wanted to follow it-” Midwinter swallowed her cabbage and coughed. “I, I beg your pardon,” she said, her ears quivering, “but are you… going anywhere with this?” “Right, sorry,” said Charcoal. She took a bite of carrot, swallowed it without chewing, continued. “Anyway, you all do plumbing work, right? And I don’t think it’s the case, but I just want to be sure you’re not- polluting the writer- river or anything and affecting the ley line. So, uh… what do you do, exactly?” “It’s quite simple, really,” Midwinter said with a shrug. “Besides the actual laying of pipes, we make sure what’s in the water is only what we want in there. We collect it from the river, groundwater, precipitation, we maintain purifying spells to filter out pathogens, we fortify it with-” “I mean exactly exactly,” said Charcoal. “The, the actual procedure. And what do you do with the vase water? Waste water. Do you just dump it back in the river? I don’t want to… be offensive or anything, but maybe you… missed something and-” She evidently decided she was being offensive, because she quickly stuffed the rest of the carrot in her mouth to stop talking. Midwinter and Carnelian looked at each other. Behind them, Fuligin, still silent, was shifting his weight around and not-quite looking at, not-quite ignoring the group; one of his ears twitched. “I’m not sure we can show you,” Carnelian said eventually. “We’ve worked on it for years and it… has its foibles. You probably wouldn’t understand it.” Charcoal actually seemed to take offense to that; she swallowed her carrot and leaned forward. “And I sill need to look at it. This is important, and we can’t just assume that-” “It’s complicated,” said Carnelian, standing up slightly. “It has been built upon for over a decade and it hasn’t affected the line yet.” “And I’d need to see the numbers to be sure.” “There’s nothing to worry about! This is our work, something we know, and I won’t have a jumped-up Canterlotian proclaiming she knows better after a minute of examination! You can’t even say words right!” “I need to look at it.” Charcoal cut in, leaning forward. Her voice was growing a bit tight, and Bitterroot swore she could feel some mild heat radiating off her. “Maybe you made some change recently, forgot about it, and it is affecting the ley line. Maybe it didn’t matter before but now that the ley line’s shifted, it does. You’ve know it for so long, you could be overlooking-” “We can show you the setup of the Watering Cave tomorrow morning,” said Midwinter quickly. “It’s the same as for every other building in the valley. But trust us, you won’t find anything.” “That’s all I’m asking,” Charcoal said. “Just a little bit of openness.” Then she blinked and nearly shrank into herself. “I nearly lost my temper that was bad I’m sorry,” she muttered. Carnelian opened her mouth, only for Midwinter to shoot her a look. When Midwinter didn’t say anything, an awkward silence swooped in to fill the void. “Cabbage’s good,” Bitterroot said, destroying the silence and accentuating the awkwardness. “It really is,” said Charcoal. She raised her head back up and cleared her throat. “That was- um- That was all I wanted to ask about, so, uh-” She turned for the door, happening to glance out the window. As a miner passed by, heading upriver, Charcoal immediately turned back to Midwinter. “Actually, quick question.” (Carnelian rolled her eyes.) “If we wanted to bet- get into the mine, what would be the best way to do that? It’s, y’know, ley line and all, it probably starts in the mine, and, yeah.” Swallow. “How could we get into the mine if we needed to? Just in case.” “You’d have to talk to Duke Tallbush,” said Midwinter. “He-” “Wait. Duke Tallbush?” Bitterroot repeated, sitting up straight. “He’s a noble?” “Duke of Midwich,” said Midwinter. “And more than a noble, he owns Midwich Mine and the associated buildings.” Right. Tratonmane had started because of the Fuel Vassalage Commission, hadn’t it? But that would require somepony to run the place, and Celestia might’ve been able to entice ponies with a noble title, even if one in a distant corner of Equestria. But that meant almost the entire town was dependent on Tallbush, so- “I guess it’s good he seems a decent stallion.” “If he ever tried to exert too much control over the ponies here?” snorted Carnelian. “He may be powerful, but that means little if large enough of an angry mob is beating down the door, ready and willing to eat him raw.” “And I hear horror stories, from time to time, of some of your covetous corporate heads down south,” said Midwinter. “None of those apply to him. Believe me, Tallbush is not a bloodsucking parasite in the slightest.” “But we’ll need to talk to him to let us into the mine, since he owns it,” Charcoal said. Her tone was more completing Midwinter’s interrupted statement than a question of confirmation. “Got it. …Erm… That’s- all I have for today, and…” She gave a small bow to Midwinter and Carnelian. “Thank you for- your- meeting. Tomorrow. I’m sorry I nearly lost my temper.” “Think nothing of it,” Midwinter said, waving a hoof. “It happens.” Farewells were bade, and Bitterroot and Charcoal were soon walking back to Tratonmane. Charcoal’s pace was a bit fast, leaving Bitterroot to flap every few steps to keep up. “You alright?” she asked. “…Sorta,” said Charcoal in a voice that indicated it was a very sorta sort of “sorta”. “Do you want to talk about it?” “No. Look, I was getting angry, and that, that would’ve been-” Charcoal sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. “-baaaaaaaaad.” “Really?” asked Bitterroot. “C’mon, people lose their temper. There would’ve been bad blood between you and Carnelian for like a day, and then you’d both move on like adults. It wouldn’t be that bad.” “I’m a kirin, remember?” Charcoal said flatly. “I burst into flame when I get angry.” Right. Bitterroot’s memory was jogged hard enough to give her a headache. “…I take that back, it would be that bad.” “Thanks,” Charcoal mumbled, hanging her head. Bitterroot recognized that sort of expression. Time to shift Charcoal’s thoughts. “Well, they’re unburnt,” she said, “and you even set up a meeting. And it’s not even noon! The day could be going a lot worse.” “Yeah. It could.” Charcoal didn’t sound enthusiastic, but she didn’t sound quite so morose, either. “So do you know… that sort of magic? Water purification?” Immediately, Charcoal raised her head again. “Oh, of course! Water purification’s one of the mean- main parts of my job. Every environmental mage needs to know at least the basics and I’m just a few potions short of being an alchemist. I’ll at least get the jib. Gist.” “You’re sure?” “Definitely. I wouldn’t be surprised if-” She glanced back at Midwinter’s house. “-if it’s just- kludgework they’ve all slapped on over the years. Or maybe it really is something new and I’ll need to stay up at night to study it! That’d be neat, too.” “I think you and I have different definitions of ‘neat’.” Charcoal quickly looked around, saw no one, and lowered her voice. “Yours is so dangerous you’ve already died twice.” “Heh. Yeah.” “It’s almost noon and I’m hungry. Think we should vined- find Amanita and Code for lunch?” “Nah. Amanita knows I’ll be headed back for the inn, anyway. C’mon. Let’s get something to eat.”