Why, then, you ask, do I commit these words to time at all? Perhaps I would have more faith in our memory, had it not faded before. It was in an old and dusty legend that we found hope—a volume discarded by the learned, the wise, as folly—a foal’s tale, or the imaginings of a madmare.
I will not allow such an oversight to occur again.
Twenty-Nine
PINKIE WOKE CLOSER TO NOON than dawn. It was unusual, to say the least, for her to spend most of the morning in bed. But then, it was also unusual for her to hear about a death.
Daerev had left quickly, after he broke the news, hurrying to his library, new wings shuffling on his shoulders. Pinkie had heard his words still in shock—hearing, without really listening—and she’d agreed to his demands simply because they were there. She’d sat blankly after he left, a small puddle growing around her. Somewhere, as night lengthened over Ponyville, she’d fallen asleep. Needless to say, what rest she did get proved to be hardly restful at all, and waking damp and sore was a remarkably terrible way to begin a day.
She was still conflicted. There was nothing—nothing—she wanted more than to head towards Canterlot with all possible speed. The thought of Twilight struggling through her grief without Aunt Pinkie there was enough to rend at her heart, and leave a pit in her stomach that no amount of cake could fill. Add Rainbow and Rarity to that picture to complete the tragedy: a friend and a lover, trying to comfort Twilight in the midst of their own horror. Pinkie simply couldn’t stand the thought.
So when she did wake, she sprinted from Sugarcube Corner without bothering to wash herself. Her limbs and back ached from the rough night, but she was close to welcoming that stress as another distraction. For now, she preoccupied herself with things to do about town.
Her first stop was the Ponyville train station. Surprisingly, there was a small crowd gathered about the ticket office. Pinkie shouldered her way to the front, eyes scanning the boards, hopeful little smile dimming as she read.
The crowd itself was quiet, listening to the manager, whose head was sticking out of the ticket window. Pinkie stared at him for several seconds before she began to catch his words.
“-cancelled. We haven’t had any official word, but it appears to have something to do with the explosions a few days back.”
Explosions? Pinkie remembered seeing the purple bursts over the mountain two nights ago. She’d thought they were fireworks, or some magic, celebrating . . . something. That kind of optimism suddenly seemed a lot less appealing, and the fiery flashes of light took on a darker meaning.
“Yes, I’m sure Twilight knows all about it,” the manager said.
Pinkie started trembling. Turning, she sprinted back the way she’d come, barging her way through the crowd—though most ponies stepped back when they recognised her—and back into town. It was only natural for the conversation to turn to Twilight. The word ‘explosion’ invariable carried her name with it.
Who could she go to? Applejack and Fluttershy were still south, in Appleloosa. Everypony else was in Canterlot. Daerev was in the library. Pinkie had no desire to go to him, but she was so afraid . . . Wasn’t there anypony else? She had made a habit of meeting everypony in Ponyville over the years. She was on a first-name basis with every resident, had thrown parties, given gifts, pranked and made neighbourly visits with all of them. How could she feel so alone?
She stopped in the centre of town, under a fountain of a rearing earth pony. Water splashed down, tinkling in the air and sprinkling her face with moisture. Pinkie had never stopped here for long enough to consider the identity of that pony. It was written on a plaque before her, burnished bronze shining in the noon sun. Pinkie climbed onto the fountain’s edge, stretching out lengthwise, so that her hind legs dangled before it.
She knew everypony, but she didn’t feel like going to them. She didn’t feel like she could go to them, and have them understand her. Had any of her friends—her close friends, that had been with her through every trial and tribulation—been here, she would already be with them. Instead, she found herself drawn towards a solace she resented.
Pinkie shook her head. She did not want to see Daerev, see the bearer of last night’s tragedy. She feared he would tear her apart, a contradiction in spirit: a horrid creature of spite and misery, keeping her from her friends in their moment of need, and the last of her refuges, a companion in the night. But she feared herself more.
Hopping down, Pinkie trotted towards the edge of the square, where Roseluck was still pedalling her wares.
“Pinkie Pie?” Roseluck asked. The pony took a half-step forwards, hoof lifted in greeting. Pinkie turned her face to her, gave her her best effort to smile.
But far from responding with a smile of her own, Roseluck looked nervous, confused. As if Pinkie herself frightened her, somehow.
“Are you . . . okay, Pinkie?”
“Just peachy,” Pinkie said, forcing the corners of her mouth even further apart. “What’s up?”
“You seem distressed.”
“Nope,” Pinkie said. Reaching forward, she grabbed a flower, stuffing it in her mouth. “How mufch?” she asked, speaking around her mouthful.
“On the house,” Roseluck said. She even gave Pinkie a nervous smile. It was a small smile, just barely warming Pinkie’s heart. It wasn’t enough. She knew Roseluck—had known her for years—and she liked her, of course, Pinkie Pie liked just about everypony. But she lacked . . . something. Pinkie started walking towards Golden Oaks library.
Two streets into her journey, she caught sight of herself in a window. Her smile slipped entirely, a fearful grin that had just barely touched the corners of her mouth was now just a thin line. Pinkie tore herself from the window, fixing her eyes on the street before her. So long as she was moving, she didn’t have to think. She didn’t have to feel. All too soon, she would be there, and would have to run again, towards Daerev. For now, the decision eased her lungs and chest, took the tremble from her step. For now, she could believe that everything might be okay.
At the library, she knocked on the door, loudly, desperately, three times. To her relief, Daerev answered almost immediately, a clawed hand grasping the edge of the door and pushing it open. Pinkie didn’t wait, shoving her way inside the second there was enough room.
Spikey,” Pinkie began, hating the name, and the way her mouth formed it without thinking. “There aren’t any trains.”
Daerev raised an eyebrow, and shut the door. “How are you feeling, Pinkie?” he asked. “I . . . I’m sorry. About last night.”
“Don’t be,” Pinkie said, tripping over the words. “We’ve gotta go, go, go! No trains means no Canterlot means no friends, so I guess I’m with you, Spikey. Where are we going?”
Daerev paused, regarding her with wide eyes. Then he stepped forward, wrapping Pinkie in a hug. Carefully, slowly, his wings followed suit, closing around Pinkie.
Squirm as she might, there was no escaping his arms—powerful, scales rippling with muscle--not without something special. Pinkie let out a little gasp, shaking her head, but then relaxed, sinking into the comfort of warmth. She could hear his breath, rumbling in his chest, his heartbeat a steady thump-a-thump, and, something else, a flickering, roaring sound, that of a fireplace on a cold winter’s night.
Feeling a tremor rising from her belly, Pinkie stiffened, pushing Daerev away. As soon as his grip relaxed, she sprang away, and began hopping from side to side, back and forth before him.
“Where are we going, Spikey?” Pinkie asked again, trying to keep her voice steady.
“North,” Daerev said finally. “Agyrt tracked the murderer to the Crystal Empire. We’re going after him.”
“Okey-dokey,” Pinkie said, now bouncing on the spot. “Maybe you’ll learn how to fly on the way. You promised, remember.”
“Yeah,” Daerev said. He coughed, once, a rumbling sound that Pinkie refused to acknowledge. “I did.”
“Can we go now?”
“I was planning to leave a little later,” Daerev said. “You said the trains were cancelled?”
Pinkie nodded energetically.
“Then I guess we’re walking. I’ll just grab a pack.”
Pinkie reached behind her, pulled Daerev’s pack out. She wanted to use sorrow—she knew it was there, no matter how far she buried it—but she hadn’t the courage to feel that pain again, rushing through her. So she was left with joy, setting the torch to what little she had left in search of a sudden hit. And just for that second, she felt good, felt the world regain its balance.
Daerev looked at it, then at Pinkie, then shook his head. “Don’t think about it,” he muttered, reaching out to grab the pack. It was already full of provisions—foodstuffs and some small shelter, enough to travel, if not in comfort. “Alright, Pinkie. If you really want to, we can go now.”
***
Fluttershy screamed. Her cry cut across the still atmosphere around the lake, shattered the tenuous peace established between the two groups gathered there. Achak flinched, staring at Fluttershy in horror. Braeburn spun, stumbling on his weak leg, and took a tentative step forward. Fluttershy noticed none of it, absorbed entirely in the battle that had ignited in her mind.
She had forced herself from her bed in an attempt to halt the growing dispute between the buffalo and Appleloosans. It hadn’t taken her long to perceive the changes in Braeburn: from the gentle old stallion she’d met and treated in town, just a few days ago, he’d become a bitter pony, convinced of the buffalo’s guilt. Applejack had already found a foreign influence in the water, draining northwards underneath the ground, and so Fluttershy, left with no other immeditae recourse, had approached the lake, bent down, and drank—just a sip.
A Conduit’s abilities were not based on the fundamental exchange of emotion for strength, like a Warden or Sage, instead, a Conduit was able to harness and channel external energies, altering their flow to the Conduit’s own intent. Luna's instruction, those years ago, was still as fresh in her mind as the day she'd heard it, and it served her well now, guiding her through the storm—her desire to protect, her bone-chilling fear, anger at the recent deaths and the despair plaguing the town, and even a fierce exultation, sweeping through her as she mastered the flow, all of these together had let her absorb the lightning strikes, the force of the rocks pummeling her, and ice shards cutting her flesh. She had taken that power and turned it against the storm, expending its own strength in her defense. She hadn’t been quite a match for the trial, as evidenced by her wing, which still ached, but she had survived, and contributed in her own way to its lessening.
As Fluttershy sipped the waters of the lake, she touched the underlying anger that had been building in Appleloosa—the pain and fear and despair that had driven Braeburn’s riot across the desert and that the buffalo had been drinking since the storm. She was not particularly surprised to find it there. With a flare of strength, a last gasp, she pulled it from them, drew it into herself, screamed, and flapped her wings, propelling herself away from the lake.
The onlookers, pony and buffalo both, paused. Not confused—they remembered everything that had happened, everything they had done—but bleary, sluggish, as if they had been woken up early, and hung over. They were ill-equipped to deal with Fluttershy.
The problem was, she had little outlet available for all this power. Whatever its source, it had been growing, feeding on them. A little seed, planted early, could sprout all on its own, even without the fertile grounds created by this drought. And she’d taken all of it into herself, absorbed it in a single, giant pull, channeling it from them with the scraps of will she’d recovered since her ordeal last night.
Inside her mind, she was screaming. It was a tremendous amount of hate, and she had nothing left with which to resist it. She skidded along the sand, hooves driving up a great cloud as she hurtled away from the shore, coming to a halt some distance away. Obscured, she clutched her head, wings flaring up above her body. They glowed with ethereal light, a blue that sparked, dancing between her feathers.
Nephele hurried after her, collecting herself in Fluttershy’s wake.
Conduit, she called. Calm yourself!
Fluttershy’s head snapped backwards, shoulders twisting. Below, scattered by her passage, all those who had come here with harm in their hearts stood, dazed. Fluttershy saw them through the sand easily, marked each of them where they were, clenched her jaw. She would not suffer them here, in her place of healing. She would not suffer them.
“No,” she said, crouching low.
With a cry that resembled nothing so much as a bird of prey, she sprang forward, wings sweeping down to propel her over their heads. Fluttershy circled, once, twice, then swooped, aiming herself for their heart, their centre.
Braeburn.
Her wings crackled. Wind, or the impression of it, slid through her fur. Her forelegs curled up at her chest, her hind legs extended straight back behind her. Her tail flapped wildly, chasing eddies in the air.
But even as Fluttershy gathered speed, she was rebelling. Hate had no place in her mind, it was a foreign feeling, and she couldn’t help but feel wrong, couldn’t help but understand the influence exerted on her. And even though all she saw was the figure responsible, even though the sight of him brought such pain, even though all she could think was the desire to turn that pain around, bring it down on him like Fate itself, she twitched.
Her swoop became a tumble as her wings cut across their own current. She struck Braeburn’s shoulder with her own, sending him tumbling back to crash amidst his own. Fluttershy herself hit the ground hard, skidding with her face in the sand.
Hatred compelled her to rise, but Fluttershy simply groaned, feeling pinpricks of light stab her cheeks and forehead. Coolness came to rest against her mane, a soft voice speaking in her ear.
Remain still, Conduit. You have not yet transgressed.
But it was another voice that brought her back to the world, another pair of hooves that turned her over roughly, and wiped away the grit from her face, another tear-stained visage that covered the sun, easing the glare on her eyes.
“Fluttershy,” Achak said, trembling. “Fluttershy, stop. It’s okay. We’re okay.”
Fluttershy growled. This one tried to tame her, to hold her down and lock her away. Strike her. Fight her. Force her away!
Fluttershy’s left hoof lashed out, driving itself into Achak’s cheek. The buffalo went flying backwards, landing roughly.
Fluttershy pounced after her, now ignoring Braeburn, sitting up, the ponies, scattered and wide-eyes, the buffalo, pawing at the ground. She stood above Achak’s prone form, and raised her wings high. Blue fury crackled along them.
Achak turned her head, looked up at the thunderous avatar before her.
“Please . . . Flutte-“ she began.
Fluttershy roared, sweeping her wings down. From the blue skies a single lightning bolt forked down, splitting the heavens asunder. It crashed into Achak’s body with a titanic crack, a static shock on a scale unheard of. And the hatred lessened in Fluttershy’s mind, its voice became less insistent.
She glanced down at the blackened smoke rising before her, and collapsed backwards, eyes rolling up into the back of her head.
Oh, oh no.
***
Daerev grimaced, flexing his wings. “Do I have to, Pinkie,” he said, giving her his best pout. The last few tries had left him sore and disillusioned, more than ready to spend the rest of the trip safely on the ground.
Pinkie stood her ground. “You. Promised,” she said, stamping a hoof to punctuate her words.
“Fine, fine.” Daerev gave his body a little shake. Crouching low, he took a deep breath, then sprang forward, powerful hind-legs stretching out and throwing his torso into the air. He was too heavy to jump high—just a few feet—but it was enough to give him clearance below his body, and at the peak of his jump, he flapped, hard, a single downward burst of energy.
He rose another foot. He hadn’t expected flight to be so arduous. All the pegasi made it look easy, made it appear effortless, but for him, it took a tremendous effort just to sustain his altitude. By the time he ripped his wings back up, brought them sweeping down again, he’d fallen a foot to match.
“Faster,” Pinkie cried from below.
Daerev tried. But the ground rose at an alarming rate every time he fell, and he had to force himself to streamline his body against the visceral fear of impact. His flight was serpentine, a cosine wave, traced through the air.
With a gasp, he thrust himself forward, allowing his wings to catch a glide, a dip to increase his velocity, and then angled himself upwards, gave the sky his all. He rose, a foot, two, three, steadily climbing. But again, his rise was matched by a fall—a fall he did not have the endurance to halt.
Pinkie moved to catch him, inexplicably whipping a mattress out of nowhere. Daerev knew better than to ask her where it had come from. She’d only reply with some inane comment about mattress stashes all over Equestria. Daerev, now gliding once again, angled himself over the mattress. Then he had an idea.
Bringing his hind-legs up towards his waist, he arched his spine backwards, and twisted his body from a horizontal line to a vertical one, spreading himself against the air to maximise his drag. He dropped almost instantly, hitting the mattress with his hind-legs. He stumbled, but curled his talons and braced himself against his forward momentum. He was surprised to find that he had none.
“Wow,” Pinkie said, racing around to his front. “That was really awesome, Spike!”
“Was it,” Daerev said, grinning. Thinking about it, he could see the appeal. A dragon, swooping down to flare himself out in the air, settling to the ground with ease, that would be a sight. With practice, he could make it truly impressive—sleek and powerful. It would be even better if he could actually reach any altitude, of course.
“Well, that’s landings,” Pinkie said. “Can I have a ride now? Can I Can I Can I?”
Daerev closed his eyes, tested his joints, took deep breaths to try to slow his heart-rate. Each flight was more of a sprint than a marathon, but it took his toll. “Gimme a few minutes here, Pinks,” he said, hopping off the mattress. “Where’s the water?”
Pinkie produced the bottle. “You’re getting better, Daerev,” she said, beaming at him though it didn’t touch her eyes. “I bet it won’t take long at all before you’re all the way up there."
Daerev passed the water bottle back, watching Pinkie make it disappear somewhere. “We need to keep moving,” he said.
They’d made good progress today—he could barely keep up with Pinkie. She’d seemed unusually quiet, and she’d deflected any attempt to bring up the mess in Canterlot—really, she'd been acting strange the whole trip, which was saying something. Daerev couldn't blame her. He'd hated dropping the news so casually, so callously. He hated everything about what they were doing. But . . . it was nice to see her smile, even if it was just a mask, and he wasn’t ready to push her on it. Not until they were well past Canterlot.
He also hated himself for manipulating her like this. It wasn’t something he ever thought he’d consider, much less actually carry out. But he knew Pinkie, and he knew that she would have done almost anything to go to Twilight, and the lack of trains be damned. He didn’t entirely agree with Agyrt, but he believed that his mentor was scared, that the threat was real. And underneath everything else, all the rationalisation and compromise, there was hatred for Boundless. Hatred for the murderer, and for the heartbreak he brought to Equestria.
There was a lot of hate in Daerev. He was not unaware of the less-than-wholesome nature of his emotions. But that did not change them, nor make him capable of denying his nature.
So a half-hour later, he stopped, placed a claw on Pinkie’s shoulder. “About that ride,” he said, offering a lopsided grin.
***
Rarity stretched herself out, arching her back like she’d seen Opalescence do many times before. The sheets beneath her were soft, made of textured cotton. A far cry from the silken luxury of her Ponyville home, but comfortable nonetheless. Beside her, still tucked in despite stringent demands and incessant wheedling, Twilight looked healthy. As well she should, after nearly a week confined to bed rest.
A few days in, Twilight had been well enough to get up, move around a bit. She’d started cooking meals, tidied a little when she wasn’t sobbing. But mostly, she read. In bed, on the couch, at the table, she was never without a book to snatch herself away from the world. Rarity and Rainbow had encouraged that—they knew she’d go crazy if she had nothing to occupy herself with—but they’d also been insistent that she stay indoors, and that she stay away from magic. It was important that she allow herself to recover, and to find some sort of equilibrium. Even if she was able to function, continually pushing her limits would only lead to further mental instability, wild emotional swings, and, inevitably, more property damage.
As sensible as that might have been, and despite a youth doing almost nothing but, Twilight was not well-disposed to a sedentary lifestyle. She had given up the role of the social recluse years ago, and there was always the thought of the world passing her by at the back of her mind, nagging her to put away her texts and go outside, if only to see the sky. Rainbow's influence, no doubt.
So it was that Rarity lay, listening to an extremely lengthy, detailed, and comprehensive report on Twilight’s condition, projected recovery, and current needs, complete with thirty-seven page summary of the benefits of physical and magical exertion on the healing body and mind. Twilight was reading from what might be called a tome, compiled partly to stave off her boredom.
“That’s all well and good, darling,” Rarity said when Twilight’s voice halted in favour of a sip of water. “But the answer is still no. Now, why don’t you cosy up here with some hot soup, hmm? I’ll fetch some dresses and we can have a little fashion show.” Rarity clapped her hooves together. “Oh, I just know you’ll positively melt at some of my latest designs. There’s been a real trend towards laid-back styles lately, dear, and I know that’s not my forte, as it were, but I am adapting tremendously, if I do say so myself.” She cast a critical eye at Twilight, who had dropped the tome onto her legs, and had a hoof pressed firmly against her forehead. “You know, dear, your wardrobe really could use an update.”
“Rarity,” Twilight said. “Did you hear a word I just said.”
“’Just said’? Darling, be fair. We’ve been here several hours, at least.”
“And?”
“And I hardly think that constitutes proper use of the word. Really, I expected better from you, dear.”
Twilight groaned.
“Now, I think this,” Rarity levitated the tome, grunting, and scrunching her face up theatrically, “is almost entirely accurate, and certainly a valuable addition to any library of physiological development and response to healing. And I also think that you are going to be staying right where you are, little missy.”
“Little missy?” Twilight repeated. She slumped backwards, scowling. “You can’t stop me, Rarity.”
“Oh, but I can,” Rarity said. She reached out and tapped Twilight on the nose. “Until you’re all well and better, you shan’t be leaving this house.”
“I am well and better.”
“Why, then, you should have no trouble leaving at all.”
Twilight sighed. “Rarity. Please, for the love of Celestia. Take this damned spell off of me.”
Luna’s last visit—which had done very little to endear the lunar goddess to Rarity—had produced one useful thing. She had predicted, accurately, as it turned out, that Twilight would not be the sort of patient to lie quietly under ministration. Given the rather dire nature of her predicament, Luna had devised a spell, which rather severely limited Twilight's access to magic. It was up to Rarity and Rainbow to keep her from anything too strenuous, but deprived of the ability to do more than lift a pen, that was child’s play.
For that, Rarity thanked Luna. For that, she had spent time practicing with Sight. Mostly, she kept watch on the Carousel Boutique, but thankfully, Sweetie Belle had it well under control. She wouldn’t admit it to her face, but that filly had grown into quite the respectable mare.
On a whim, she’d sought out the rest of her friends. Pinkie Pie was, for some inexplicable reason, halfway between Ponyville and the Crystal Empire. She appeared to be travelling by hoof, accompanied by Daerev. Those two brought her some measure of joy—she’d been pleased to report to Twilight that Daerev had finally grown those wings he’d been waiting on. Twilight’s elation turned to mirth when she related a few of his disastrous attempts to use them.
Applejack and Fluttershy were more worrisome. Rarity wasn’t privy to what had sparked this chain of events, but she had found them in Appleloosa, shaking off the effects of a catastrophic storm. Looking closer, she saw buffalo amongst the Appleloosans, and heard of a drought, severe enough to place the orchard at risk. She couldn’t imagine what was happening in Cloudsdale to so limit the available water in the south, and she couldn’t See it, either. There was nopony she knew there.
That particular crisis tugged at her heart. The simplest solution was to tell Rainbow—after all, she knew a great deal about weather, and she could get down there in a few hours, easily. But Princess Luna had been quite specific about the use of her time, and Rarity knew full well just how hard Rainbow had been pushing herself this last week. She was still unclear as to how time-travel would work, but the importance the both of them placed on it was not lost on her.
There was no point in telling Twilight, either. It would only worry her.
“Now, now, Twilight,” Rarity said. “Be a good dear and take a peek.”
Twilight rolled her eyes, shrugged her shoulders several times, and fidgeted a little, making sure she was comfortable where she lay. Then she lit her horn, turned her head, and met Rarity’s gaze.
Almost instantly, Rarity felt another presence alongside her, in her mind. Twilight needed almost no magic here, just eye contact to establish the connection. Rarity shivered a little, unable to stop herself. Not that it was unpleasant, per se, just extremely unusual.
Sorry, Twilight said, apparently noting her discomfort.
Oh, that’s quite all right, dear, Rarity said. Are you ready?
Yes, Twilight said. Do we absolutely have to look at dresses, though?
My Sight, my rules.
Rarity took a long breath. At the peak of her inhale, as if she was bracing herself for a plunge into a cold lake, she closed her throat and eyes. Lighting her horn, she cast her mind to thoughts of the Carousel Boutique, and all the work she’d been doing over the last few months. Grasping onto those images, she found herself awash with curiosity and excitement. Rarity tapped into that joy lightly, careful not to drain too much, and sent her mind’s eye to Ponyville.
She opened her eyes to see a colourful picture. The townsponies were wandering the markets, gossiping excitedly, and enjoying the day. Rarity turned, found her shop directly behind her. Through a window, she could see Sweetie Belle leaning through a window, waving.
She’s all grown up, Twilight said. Rarity felt a little jolt, abruptly remembering Twilight’s presence. The first few times they had tried this, Twilight had been left behind. By now, they were comfortable enough to sustain the connection, though Rarity would be the last to describe the sensation as natural.
Yes, Rarity said. I hardly recognise her, these days.
She spent some time inside, carefully examining the minutiae of her dresses—gowns arranged on mannequins in the window, hats and shoes on racks along the back wall. Sweetie Belle left halfway through the impromptu show, though Rarity only noticed when the blue frills she was explaining to Twilight dissolved into grey mist before her, earning her an amused snort. Rarity hummed, concentrating, and Sweetie Belle reappeared, moving backwards.
Some time later—neither of them could have said how long, so instead they measured it in distance, Rarity reaching halfway around the second room of the Carousel Boutique—Twilight coughed. I think that’s enough, Rarity.
Very well.
With another short hum, Sweetie Belle left the room, and everything dissolved into grey nothingness, swirling around, only to suddenly coalesce into coherence as Sweetie re-entered, the moon now riding high in the sky. The night disappeared just as fast, and the days began to flicker past, grey fog obscuring any ability to keep track of the date.
Stop, Twilight called.
Rarity let them come to a temporal halt, letting out a long breath. The storefront came back into focus, lit only by the shimmering moon. Applebloom was just leaving, Sweetie Belle at the door wishing her a goodnight.
What day is it?
Rarity focused. Previously, she’d always been able to tell the time in relation to the day she started with—the day she sank into Sight. But the whole point of this exercise in frustration was to obfuscate that relationship. Luna had asserted that Seers should be able to know, without any reference points. And if Rarity was to be of any help to Rainbow, she would need that ability.
All week, it had eluded her. But continual practice, heaped upon hours of theoretical discussion with Twilight, had convinced her of one thing. This was not something that could be forced.
So she closed her eyes, tried to block out unnecessary thoughts. It wasn’t a matter of power, but she needed to feel Coromancy, feel it flowing through her, at least until she grew more experienced. Delving, she found sorrow, partly, she suspected, Twilight’s, and tapped into it, letting it flood her mind and senses. Power welled in her, highlighting everything, every conscious thought. And, on the edge of her awareness . . . When she tried to grasp it, it eluded her.
So without thought or understanding, she spoke.
Tuesday. Seven months, three days, two hours.