Guto kept a close eye on Ashmane for the rest of the walk, and his sword remained loose in its scabbard. Intellectually, he knew he was in no danger from the strange hermit. Ponies regarded the Law of Hospitality as an absolute, to the point that there were stories of them dying to defend complete strangers to whom they’d offered Hospitality. Guto found such practices naïve, but he could not help being impressed by them.
Still, the stallion was… unsettling. The griffon tried to assure himself that perhaps he was misremembering events, but knew in his heart that he wasn’t. Blasted ponies and their intolerable magic! he snarled mentally. What is this old relic up to?
After a short walk, they reached Ashmane’s home, which proved to be nothing more than a hovel of clay built into the wall of a cave. The hovel was barely large enough for one griffon, much less a score of them. So, the pony directed them to sit around a firepit outside, nestled in a clearing amidst thick bushes. There, much to the griffons’ surprise, waited smoked fish and fresh fruit – enough for everygrif to have plenty.
The soldiers sprang forward, but Guto barked “Halt!” before they could touch the food. While they stared at him in confusion, he glared at their host with suspicion. “What are you playing at, pony?”
Ashmane smiled in bemusement. “I play at nothing. I caught many fish today. Oh, ponies do not eat so much meat as you, but we do eat a little, and I rather enjoy fishing from the little stream near—"
“Not the fish,” growled Guto, gesturing to the food, “the feast. Why cook so much if you were not expecting us?”
Silence fell upon the clearing as the king glared at the hermit, who stared back with bland unconcern.
“Well?” demanded Guto. “Did you know of our coming?”
Ashmane’s bemusement returned. “Of course,” he replied as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.
Cries of dismay and outrage greeted the statement, but the king silenced them with a roar. When they’d bowed to his ire, he snarled, “Who are you really, Ashmane?”
The pony nodded his head thoughtfully as he considered the question. He sat, his gaze not on Guto, but on some point in the sky beyond. “As I told you, I am Ashmane. That was not always my name. My parents bestowed another upon me, but that life of mine has long since ended. I bore another name in my prime, when my magic was enough to make kingdoms tremble, but that life, too, is ended. Gone, and unlamented.” A strange smile, both joyful and sad, crinkled his features. “Now I am but Ashmane, an old fool who was blessed to find truth and purpose in his twilight years. Ponies seek me out for the wisdom I’ve been given, and I help them as best as I can.”
You know hidden things no wilderness hermit should know, and you call it mere ‘wisdom’? thought the king, incredulous. “From whence does this ‘wisdom’ of yours come?”
Ashmane’s smile broadened. “Why, the Source of Harmony, of course.”
Guillemin, who had silently endured the stallion’s explanation, now spat dismissively on the ground. “You ponies and your precious ‘Harmony!’” he mocked. “It’s no wonder most of your pathetic race is still pawing at the dirt!”
“At least they eat,” muttered Gillian so quietly that only Guto heard. Guto, and perhaps Ashmane, if the twinkle in the pony’s eye was any indication.
“They earn an honest living,” said the pony mildly, “and create much wealth doing so.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Why else would greedy princes seek to plunder their lands?”
Guillemin spat an oath and stepped forward, but the king blocked his path with an outstretched forelimb. “Peace, my son,” he ordered.
“The dirt eater impugns my honor!” snarled the prince.
His father raised an eyebrow. “Would you not rather learn how an Equestrian hermit knows of things spoken only in secret meetings in a court across the sea?”
“I would rather have his slanderous tongue!”
The king frowned. “Your small-mindedness does you greater insult than this pony does. I weep for the day armies depend upon your strategy.” Guillemin gaped in offense, but Guto ignored him and turned to Ashmane. “Tell me, pony, how do you know things which ought to be secret to you?”
Ashmane, who appeared quite unbothered by Guillemin’s violent intent, replied, “I am given to know certain things in the proper time.”
Guto’s brow furrowed. “You are a prophet then?”
“I am called that,” said Ashmane blandly.
Gilbear chuckled derisively. “A prophet, you say? Bah! What sort of seer would be out here in the middle of nowhere rather than in the court profiting as the princesses’ pet prophet?”
Ashmane likewise chuckled, though his amusement was merry and unoffended. “Oh, their royal highnesses are blessed with visions of their own. They have little need of my meager self. No, my calling is and always has been to light the path for those in darkness, to set a flame in their hearts.” His tone dipped, and Guto thought he saw moisture in the stallion’s gaze. “It is to my shame that I took so long to follow my true purpose, but I am forever grateful of the mercy that has granted me such happiness now.”
“Happiness?” blurted Gillian, earning him reproving glances from the griffons of higher standing for his presumption to speak. “In this squalor?”
The pony gave him a knowing smile. “More than you could ever imagine, Gillian, son of Gideon.” Before Guto could parse out what the stallion meant, Ashmane gestured to the food. “Ah, but see? The food grows cold as we talk. Please, noble guests, eat. You shall need your strength for the trials ahead.”
Guto’s eyes narrowed. “What mean you by ‘trials?’”
“Eat, and I will tell you.”
The griffons looked to their king for direction, and Guto found himself wishing they hadn’t. This strange pony was unsettling in the extreme. He longed to take to the sky and leave this wrinkled hermit and all his disturbing portents behind. But if he truly is a prophet, I would know what knowledge he may offer. After a moment’s deliberation, the king reluctantly bade his subjects eat.
At first, they ate in silence, enjoying food much fresher even than what they’d had at the palace, but it was not long before Guto’s unwanted curiosity got the better of him. “You ponies are an odd bunch,” he remarked around a mouthful of fish. “I cannot fathom why you would not profit from such a gift as prophecy.”
“Oh, but I do profit,” countered Ashmane. “Just not in the way you define it. I gain the most by giving myself away for something greater than silver or gold.”
Ashmane’s statement was greeted with laughter by the griffons, even Gillian. “Now I learn you have a sense of humor!” exclaimed Guto with a surprised grin. “What could possibly be of greater value than gold?”
To his amazement, Ashmane pressed on, mild as ever, but utterly serious. “It is no jest, I assure you. Consider your own lives before you came here. Each of you held great wealth in some measure. Gold and gems and jewels, the envy of your neighbors. Your hoards were like those of dragons, and even the commoners among you had hoards of your own.”
The griffons clamored in proud agreement as they tore hungrily into the fresh food.
“But at what price did you keep that wealth?” continued Ashmane, his tone somber. “Each day, it possessed your mind. You clawed and scraped and scrambled to hold onto it, to increase it by any measure, to hide it and guard it from the greed of your fellows. Only the threat of spears in the day and daggers in the night dissuaded pillaging. Oh, you had your vaunted Griffonstone pride, enough to bond you together against the common threats of dragon raids and other warring kingdoms, but, at the end of the day,” he fixed first the princes and then the soldiery with his chilling gaze, “each of you, from prince to pauper, scrapped and scraped for every meager coin like desperate beggars, knowing that your whole world could be destroyed in an instant.”
Now, the griffons were less amused. More than one murmured angrily against the pony, and both the princes looked primed for violence. Guto himself frowned at Ashmane, offended by the hermit’s declaration. Yet Ashmane continued:
“A fragile edifice you built. Mighty and bright, yes, but fragile.” He turned his terrible gaze upon Guto. “I know well what it is to serve an idol, oh King of Griffonstone.” His tone would have been mocking were it not so sympathetic. “It seems to fill our hearts for a time, but what happens when the idol is lost? Then we are alone, as you have learned. Alone with nothing but our own meager selves.”
An image flashed in Guto’s mind – a dire portrait of Griffonstone laid to ruin, with all its griffons turned against each other, squabbling over trinkets and baubles like magpies. He blinked his eyes to clear the vision, and found Ashmane’s gaze boring into him.
“And so, he begins to see,” said the pony quietly.
“You’re quick to mock, mud pony,” snarled Guillemin, flinging the bones of his fish into the firepit, “but I think it to be jealousy, not wisdom, that leads you to jeer at our wealth!”
Ashmane sat up, sweeping his forelegs wide. “What need have I of silver or gold? I have all I need right here.”
“You live in a hole in the ground!”
“Yes. I do. And do I strike you as unhappy?”
Guillemin recoiled, blinking. “What?”
“Do I strike you as unhappy?” repeated Ashmane. “That is what all thinking creatures seek, is it not? Happiness? Tell me, Guillemin of Griffonstone, how happy are you, scrambling around in the dirt seeking gold that will never be enough to fill your hunger?” He glanced at the other prince, “Or you, Gilbear of Griffonstone, always looking over your wing for thieves and murderers. How happy are you? Or you, bold soldiers,” he addressed the lordly griffons of the retinue, “a collection of noble sons sent off by your families as a token investment in the king’s wealth should this venture succeed,” his gaze drifted to the lowborn soldiers, “all the while desperate commoners hoping to reap of the nobility’s largesse or, failing that, to plunder from the corpses of any who fall. How happy are you?” Ashmane’s eyes flicked to Gillian and a few older soldiers who’d served Guto faithfully in years past. “I tell you, the happiest amongst you are those who came with some measure of true loyalty or hope in your hearts. Yet even you stand in teetering towers of your own fragile selves.”
All pretense of good humor deserted the princes and the retinue. They hissed and spit at the stallion, calling him the ‘mad monk’, ‘mud sucker’, and worse. Even Gillian glared at the hermit with fury.
The king, for his part, sat in grim silence, mulling over Ashmane’s words. Is that truly all we are? he wondered. Is that all it is to be a griffon?
Ashmane addressed his attackers, his gentle voice somehow cutting through the noise, “You mock me, but can any of you tell me that I am unhappy? Can any of you make that claim? You?” he addressed one griffon, fixing him with that hypnotic stare until the bird fell silent. “You?” he asked another, and another, and another until the whole retinue had fallen silent. Ashmane shook his head pityingly. “Rich in gold you may be, but your happiness rides a knife’s edge. One step to the side, and you plunge into the Abyss with your idol.”
Guto flinched. We have already fallen. He caught the hermit’s compassionate eye. But you already know that, don’t you.
“And what would you have us do instead?” demanded Guillemin, unaware of the king’s contemplation. “Embrace your pitiful Equestrian values? Your precious ‘Harmony?’”
“It is not ‘our’ Harmony,” corrected Ashmane. “We are all children of the same Source. Harmony is the birthright of all thinking creatures.”
“It’s nonsense!”
“Is it?” demanded Ashmane, an edge of steel flashing in his voice. “A farmer lives his life serving his community, serving Harmony. He works hard, sells his crops as best as he is able. He makes his profit and stores the excess against times of hardship. When war strikes the land and ravages the new harvests, the farmer throws open his storehouses to feed his village. He expects no payment in return. The village survives. Then, a year later, the farmer falls ill. Because he made no money during the famine, he cannot pay a doctor. What do you think happens to him?”
Guillemin snorted. “The fool dies. What else?”
Ashmane regarded the prince with a sad smile. “No, he does not. For the village remembers the farmer’s generosity, and they care for him.”
“An amusing story,” Gilbear said with an affected yawn, “but it is just that: a story.”
“Nay, young prince, it is no mere story. I bore witness to his tale, his and many others, as I traveled the lands burned to ash by the madness of ambition.” Ashmane tilted his muzzle up to face the sun and closed his eyes, awe in his voice. “I saw ponies who had lost every worldly comfort rise from the cinders, and when they reached, they did not reach for wealth, but for each other. For each other, and for those higher truths which outlast death and transcend time. Charity, devotion, integrity, hope, compassion…” he opened his eyes and beamed at them with rapturous joy, “love, my friends. The love of friends. The love of friends and of Harmony. In their sacrifices they gained riches which they carried in wealth and in poverty. Can your golden idol give that?” His eyes narrowed. “Can this Fan?”
Gillian and Guto sprang to their claws. “The Fan!” exclaimed the lowborn griffon. “You know what we seek?”
Ashmane smirked. “I do not need visions to know why you came, young scholar. Creatures only ever come here for two reasons: wisdom and folly.” He chuckled. “Plainly, you are the latter.”
Guto felt a growl rumble in his throat at the insult, but Ashmane was not done speaking.
“You are not the only ones here who came for the Fan.”
At that ominous pronouncement, Guto grasped for the hilt of his sword, and he scanned the surrounding brush for threats. “There are others here?” he demanded.
“Many scores of them,” replied the pony calmly. “But you needn’t fear them. Come, I will show you.” He rose and creakily strode towards a thick patch of shrubbery. “They are just over here.”
Horrified that such a massive host could rest so nearby without making any noise, Guto followed, his nervous retinue close behind. They reached the foliage, and Ashmane raised a hoof to the greenery. “Behold, your majesty,” he pulled the branches aside, “your fellow questors.”
Guto looked and saw the great host.
Row upon row of graves.