I am far from weak. I cannot shatter the Veil myself—not without time, not without a catalyst. Not even Celestia could. That she allowed herself to fall under its sway—allowed it to erase even her memories—is proof of her devotion to this folly, and her heart. The peak of our capacity is but to suspend it, to halt the Veil’s corruption.
To do so on a nation-wide scale will drain me beyond hope of resisting our sister’s plans.
Thirty-Eight
DAEREV HATED himself. That much, he’d expected. Taking that life had been a conscious choice, spurred by flame but founded on cool deliberation. He knew the consequences: the self-loathing, the recrimination, the accusation he dreaded to see in those blue eyes . . . he’d anticipated that Pinkie’s sense of betrayal would hurt most of all.
Still, he thought it correct. The only possible option left, the only way to check Boundless’ rampage. These minions, these Disciples, they had been taught to respect only death. Surely his own pain—his sacrifice—was worthwhile, cauterising the infection, so to speak. What use was his vow, all those years ago, the articulation of the one line he would not cross, the foundation of his identity not as a dragon, but as a pony-raised hybrid . . . what was that, next to all the other shattered vows, little steps taken towards his true heritage, next to the lives threatened and blood spilled?
Pinkie didn’t agree. She led him onwards, rounding the corner in silence. Still in Hornwall, she had appeared with guards-ponies in tow almost immediately after the Disciple’s body hit the ground, joining his victim . . . now she hunted those left, all Gates watched, the Wall patrolled, the entire guard force here doing their utmost to prevent any more from escaping: shocked, at last, into action. She had yet to meet his gaze.
Boundless was gone. They had found little trace of him here at all, but Daerev knew better. He was fleeing north, deeper into the Crystal Empire. One way or another, that’s where all of this would end. And yet, they could not give chase. Not while any number of ponies remained, infected with his callousness, with his utter disregard for Life, ready to spread into Equestria, to bring his disease to more and more, until murder became commonplace and the streets ran with blood . . . that was a threat they couldn’t ignore.
Thankfully, Pinkie proved to be adept at searching, her Pinkie Sense—or, rather, her Coromancy—lending itself to the task admirably. Daerev bit his lip, seeing her abusing it so. Quaking, her body spasming every few seconds, head on a constant swivel, her fur standing on end . . . she seemed to glow with an inner light, a radiance that was at odds with her locked jaw and taut mouth. She led them unerringly to their prey. Wasn’t her sacrifice worthwhile, too? Hypocrisy would destroy him; destroy this fragile hope, faster than any amount of violence.
Another one stood up ahead, laughing in an empty street. Pinkie crept forward, now pressed flat against the earth, while Daerev watched from the shadows. He was not suited for stealth. They were in suburbia now, the quiet outskirts of the central marketplaces and thoroughfares, and there were lights on in the houses, ponies waking to a scene of horror . . . the same situation was repeating itself, all over the city. This one had yet to find himself a hostage, and though there was blood on his hooves—Daerev caught himself, swallowed back the fire in his throat—there were no bodies nearby. On the run, then, this one, another caught up in his supposed mastery over Death.
Pinkie struck, silent and fierce. One instant, she was approaching from behind, the next standing over his unconscious body, rubbing her hoof and knee.
“We can’t watch all of them,” Daerev said, stepping into the light.
“You’re not having him,” Pinkie spat.
Daerev sighed. “Then what? What’s your plan? Lock them away and pray to Celestia none of them ever get out?”
“We’re not murderers.”
“I am. That’s the whole point.”
“I will not allow you to martyr yourself, Daerev,” Pinkie snarled. All of a sudden, she sounded weary, voice distant. “Isn’t this enough?”
Daerev didn’t argue further. The Disciple would be brought back to the holding cells, locked in with the rest of his kind, behind bars of steel set in stone, runic wards inscribed on all four walls, the floor, and the ceiling, suppressing magic. An adequate prison, more than enough for any normal criminal, it would serve until they could be brought to Celestia’s justice. He lifted his head, unleashed a roaring flood of fire, spiralling straight up into the air. A good enough beacon, in the absence of a unicorn, and it did him good; helped to ease his chest and throat.
“Any left?”
Pinkie hummed briefly, her ears flickering back and forth. “Two. One’s nearby. The other . . . he’s running, south, outside the city. He’s heading to Canterlot.”
Daerev swore, and Pinkie flinched. Outside the walls, he’d be far harder to chase down. Pinkie’s Coromancy would lose its effectiveness—messages sent back from the future relied on her learning, somehow, where they were: stumbling upon the aftermath of massacres in Hornwall had allowed her to pinpoint location and even, assisted by the Guards, a rough timeframe, piecing this terrible day together—and without that tremendous advantage, the scales tipped in the fleeing Disciple’s favour.
“You get the one nearby,” he said, turning and bending down. Before he could launch himself into the air, he felt Pinkie’s limbs wrap themselves around his torso. He shook his head, growling just a little, but paused. “There isn’t time for this, Pinkie.”
“You’ll kill him,” she said. Her voice was muffled, muzzle pressed into his back.
Daerev took a breath. “Cross my heart and hope to fly, stick a cupcake in my eye,” he said, sans accompanying motions. “I’m not going to kill him.”
Pinkie didn’t move, only tightening her grip.
“There’d be no point,” Daerev said. “Not anymore.”
“I can’t trust you.”
“Fine,” Daerev said, straightening his back. Pinkie slid down, back hooves clacking onto the cobblestone. “We’ll wait for the Guard, and set them on the one nearby. That work for you?”
Pinkie nodded.
“Right.” He sat down, wings wrapping around him, arms crossed across his chest.
It took nearly thirty minutes for the Guard to arrive. By this point, they’d been able to regain some semblance of organisation, three ponies trotting up to Daerev and Pinkie, with restraints and a magic nullifier carried between them on a stretcher, ready to collect the snoring offender. It was a far cry from their initial floundering, or even the chaotic attempts at stamping control over the city just hours ago, individual Guards running around arresting random civilians, groups responding to a signal by leaving the pony they were escorting on the side of the road, and others too traumatised to do anything but collapse where they stood, coiling up with their eyes clenched shut. Unsurprisingly, the latter had occurred mostly in situations where Daerev and Pinkie had arrived entirely too late.
Pinkie buzzed again, her lips twitching as she did so, then gave the Guards a street address. Daerev had to stop himself from commenting: she was breathing hard, now, emotions cycling over her face—eyebrows coming together into a frown, ears standing straight up, tongue lolling out to lick her bottom lip.
Still, he spread his wings and bent down. “We’ve gotta go,” Daerev said. His voice curled up on itself, coming out as a low snarl. He winced a little, hearing it, but let the words hang in the air, suddenly unable to call them back.
Pinkie slumped her shoulders, clamboured onto his back. “Yeah,” and they were off, soaring through the air with just a few powerful thumps of his wings. Strange, how easily flight came to him now, flame spreading through his arteries and veins, coursing with every beat of his heart out his back and through his wings, a thinly layered web of colour and life. The difference was night and day. Part of him even knew why.
They soared over rows of houses, small parks, and open roads. Hornwall wasn’t small, but it wouldn’t be called large, either, and within a minute Daerev had gained enough altitude to see the city wall.
Then they were outside the city. So much had changed, so quickly. From tied up in a room playing card games, whiling away the hours waiting for Cadance’s response, to searching the streets for death. He was glad for the chance to stretch his muscles, feel the wind rush past him. But it wasn’t the freedom they’d been looking for.
Pinkie tried her best to help steer him. She knew where he would be, or had been . . . the Guard would be able to track the route he’d used to flee the city, witnesses, hoof-marks, and past suspicions leading them to one of Plain Sight’s old holes-in-the-wall. Beyond that, though, he could be anywhere. Daerev plummeted, steering them into a narrow downward spiral, to land just outside, then bent to snuff the ground.
His nose wasn’t as good as some predators. Dragons didn’t rely on scent all that much, preferring brute force and stamina. Still, the best defense against the kind of overwhelming offensive a dragon brought was and always would be to hide, and so he was able to distinguish the sweat of a pony at full gallop from the faint odor of a pony relaxed.
“Here,” Pinkie said, looking south. “See the tracks? They’ll find them in a few days.”
And then there was that. Daerev took his time, drawing in the scent hanging around each hoof-print, the little drips of lather that had splattered against the ground, soaked into the dirt.
“Alright,” he said. “Let’s go.”
They followed the tracks into the forest, Daerev matching his pace to Pinkie’s trot. The foliage almost immediately began to mask the scent he’d picked up, covering it with fresh grass, leaf juices, and tree sap, the wind carrying musk and water and even a few floral notes . . . Daerev sneezed, overwhelmed, and focused his attention on the ground before him.
The visual trail was similarly obscured. Adventure novels read years ago would have him believe that the Disciple’s frantic rush from the city would have trampled bushes, broken twigs from overhanging branches, pushed grass into the dirt. Daerev could pick none of that out, relying instead on a general sense of direction and Pinkie. She had her head held low, eyes roaming the floor, ears, or limbs, or tail twitching occasionally. She, more than him, lead them in pursuit.
It took hours. Hours, as Daerev grew increasingly skeptical about their chances, longing for the openness of the skies or structured layout of the city and beginning to plan for the Disciples’ escape. They would need to watch for him, to circulate a description, a name if possible, and a drawing of his Cutie Mark, nearby cities put on a quiet alert, as stories of a murderer roaming the wilderness passed, inevitably, through the press and into the public consciousness. How easy would it be, he wondered, for a pony, experienced already in the art of smuggling, to slip unnoticed through the cracks? How simple, to spread his disease, a plague of lost innocence running rampant through the world?
Hours, until Pinkie stopped, gestured to him, and mimed zipping up her mouth. Dense forest surrounded them, trees blocking almost all of the remaining sunlight, so that the blood-orange horizon trickled through in drips and drabs, painting the scene a murky brown. The wind, wrapping around thick trunks, produced a low whistle. Small rodents scurried away through the underbrush, rustling, disturbing rotting leaves and half-decomposed dung.
“Nearby,” Pinkie whispered. Her eyes were dead now, and she trembled on her hooves. “Over there.” She gestured vaguely at a group of trees, the ground giving way to a small hollow at their base.
Sure enough, when Daerev inched his way around, easing his bulk through the bushes, slowly, patiently, there he was. An earth pony, fast asleep, faint red staining his muzzle and mud clinging to his hooves and legs, he was curled up in a tight ball, as peaceful and content as any infant.
Stretching down, Daerev gathered the pony in his arms, watching with wide eyes as he murmured, then settled into the embrace, head tucked against Daerev’s shoulder. Pinkie nodded at him, and stayed by his side as they moved back towards Hornwall until the forest cleared enough to allow Daerev to fly.
***
It only took a few seconds for Fluttershy to realise she was asleep. Sometimes it was like this: blatantly obvious, even to her muddled mind, the kind of statement assumed to be fact without paying it much attention. At other times, even the most bizarre phenomenon would have passed unnoticed, the Dream making itself known as such only once Fluttershy woke.
In this Dream, Fluttershy was not alone. Phantasms, flickering shadows, sped around her, somehow always hovering at the edges of her vision. She glanced left, then right, and watched them move with her—all but one, standing still beside her.
“Hello, Applejack,” Fluttershy said, smiling. Applejack didn’t react.
Fluttershy took a step forward, and now Applejack did react, moving with her, perfectly in step. Experimentally, Fluttershy stepped back, and watched Applejack mimic her again.
It was all quite surreal, and certainly more than enough to unnerve her in the waking world. Here, though, she felt no fear, not even a hint of worry. Not so much that she felt safe in her Dreams, on the contrary, they often terrified her, but instead, she felt that all those surrounding her, all the shadows congregating at her back meant no harm, better, that they were her friends. All the residents of Appleloosa, all the buffalo they’d gathered here, Bill, Braeburn, Achak . . . everypony gathered together, gathered behind her.
The town itself was much as she remembered it, though eerily silent. Background noise—the wind, blowing through the streets, the soft gritty sound of ponies walking through the sand, voices in the distance, none of them had found presence here in the Dream. But the streets were laid out in the same haphazard sprawl, the hills and troughs kept their patterns, the skyline remained just as vacant and empty as the real world . . . save for that.
There, on the horizon, near enough to due north—though Fluttershy couldn’t have said how she knew—was a dark cloud. Hazy, indistinct, she could make out no more than its presence, and yet, she knew what it was. They all did.
Hushed murmurs began. Applejack turned her head, her gaze to Fluttershy.
“They’re going to keep coming, aren’t they?” Fluttershy asked.
The magic halting Cloudsdale’s shipments of water was gone, now. The alternate route, sending clouds over the railway line, was no longer required. That was good, in that that route added at least another day onto the journey, and required a group of weather pegasi to accompany the shipment. The straight line over the desert, conversely, needed no more than a push.
Except . . . Fluttershy had experienced two Storms, now, felt the anger and hate imbued in each, the torrential wave of power across their crest. The second had been weaker. She had expected to be forced back, to rely on shelters hastily reinforced, and to sacrifice portions of the town to the Storm’s fury, before they might beat it back. Instead, they’d lost no more than the orchard, if even all of that.
Why?
Applejack had told her that something—likely the origin, the culprit of all this devastation—was sucking water through the ground, drawing it north. The Storms were composed of that water. If it hadn’t been able to pull the same amount, because they’d stored it away: in barrels, in their bodies, in the apple trees . . .
Fluttershy’s mouth formed a thin line, her jaw began aching, and she moved forward at a trot. Applejack followed at her side, though the town remained where it was. Was this her future, then? To set out with her friend—the world blurred around her, moving faster and faster, until she could not match its pace even at a full sprint through the air—across the desert? To follow the Storm’s path north, into . . . she recognized this place. This was the Everfree Forest.
And the cloud on the horizon stood tall, cast a shadow for what must be miles around. Fluttershy passed under its specter, shivered as the air froze around her, tiny specks of ice floating upwards. A sharp wind spiraled, carrying loose dirt and pebbles with it, striking her flank.
Yes, the Storms would continue. The water they brought was tainted; Fluttershy could not cleanse it all. Cloudsdale’s efforts would only serve to worsen each attack.
Fluttershy paused, staring upward at the typhoon. It was not yet ready, not yet as large or virulent as those she’d fought through. Nonetheless, it exuded a foreboding aura, a tangible sense of rage, a taste of desperation on the air. Water rose from the ground, ice expanding in rings of sharp spikes, trees groaned and shook.
This time, Applejack didn’t pause, didn’t follow her steps backwards. Instead, she turned, blank eyes meeting Fluttershy’s, and then came to life.
“Fluttershy! I know, girl, I know, but listen! We’ve gotta do this!”
She nodded, but she couldn’t move her legs.
“Y’ain’t going to leave them to die, are ya?”
Applejack was being obscured by mist as the Storm around them grew. She felt a tremor run from her neck to her tail, followed closely by an icy chill.
“Fluttershy! Ah need you!”
She swallowed. She raised a hoof.
Then she woke up.
Applejack and Nephele were waiting by her bed. Sunlight streamed in through the window, the faint aroma of pancakes, apples and cinnamon wafted up the stairs and through the hall. A faint sheen of sweat clung to her fur, and the tremor persisted in her throat. She coughed, and Nephele was there, hovering above her, a few drops of water striking her tongue.
“And?” Applejack said, placing a hoof over Fluttershy’s.
“W-we’re going north,” Fluttershy said, rolling over to meet her friend’s gaze. There was a calm determination there, a solid strength in contrast to the need she’d heard in her Dream. Perhaps she could take comfort in that, and never mind the coldness in her gut, the tendril in her mind. “Ah need you!” She shivered. “Into the Everfree.”
“We’ll stop it,” Applejack said, squeezing her hoof. “We’re going to stop this.”
***
Twilight knocked on the door four times; a swift rap-rap-rap-pause-rap with her hoof that she knew would be instantly recognized. Even had the knock been commonplace, all the years she’d spent using it daily would have engraved its sound into her mind, so much so that just fractions of seconds from the well-worn rhythm stood out to her ear as loud as the noon bell.
“Twilight? Is that you?” Celestia’s voice called out. “The door’s open.”
She entered the Princess’ study, moving over to her old mentor and greeting her with a gentle nuzzle, neck lifted in embrace. “It’s good to see you again, Princess.”
“Twilight,” Celestia rebuked her. “I wasn’t expecting to see you.”
Twilight ducked her head. All these years, and it was still hard to break old habits. “Sorry—Celestia,” she said. “Is this a good time?”
“Of course.” Celestia turned away from her desk, let the quill fall to the wooden surface. “Is something wrong?” her face blanched, “Oh, oh, I’m sorry, Twilight, I didn’t-“
“N-no, no, it’s okay,” Twilight said, forestalling the apology. “It’s . . . something else.”
“Well, don’t just stand there,” Celestia said, standing and waving her in. “Come in, come in, take a seat.”
Twilight glanced, almost involuntarily, at the empty corner of the room where she’d used to sit, pouring over her lessons while Celestia worked, well into the night. The cushions had never moved, visit to visit, nor been replaced.
“I . . . didn’t think you’d need those anymore,” Celestia said, smiling that soft smile and following her gaze.
“Of course not.” Twilight closed the door behind her. “Force of habit, I guess.”
“It has been too long.”
Twilight nodded, settling herself nearby.
“So. What can I do for you?”
“Well . . .” Twilight bit her lip. “It’s about Princess Luna.”
Celestia sighed, glancing out the window. “My sister has been distant lately. What did she say to you?”
“That she’d lost faith.”
“And?”
“That’s all,” Twilight said. Then she shook her head, a grimace passing across her face. “But . . . I’ve been thinking. About . . . Trixie. A-and my b-brother.”
Celestia waited for her, turning to face Twilight fully.
“There’s . . . there’s something you aren’t telling me. Isn’t there, Princess?” Twilight said. She stared at the wall just above Celestia’s shoulder.
“The Veil,” Celestia said. “Have you heard the term?”
“Yes,” Twilight said softly. “What is it?”
“A spell,” Celestia said. “A Great Spell, woven a millennia ago.”
“What does it do?”
Celestia cocked her head, contemplating. “It imprints, Twilight. It creates a moral imperative in its targets.”
Twilight paused for a moment. The idea . . . horrified was an understatement. Rather than sit still, stare out the window, and think, though, she pressed on. Information, information, and then analysis. “Imprints what?”
“As far as I can tell, not a lot more than the prohibition of murder. We still see crime: theft, racketeering, fraud, even assault. But . . . I suspect it does more than that. I have not forgotten my past entirely. I remember chaos, and war, and death, and despair. I remember a time when a minimum level of crime was considered normal, inevitable, when murder on a street corner was just another, all-too-common tragedy.”
“Is it . . . was it you? Did you create it?” Twilight interrupted.
Celestia pursed her lips, glanced away. “I don’t know.”
“Wha-?” Twilight took a sharp breath. “What do you mean?”
“You recall, of course, the years of Luna’s absence from Equestria. Not even Rarity could See her, until she reappeared a few weeks ago, far, far to the south.”
Twilight nodded. “Of course.”
“She was beyond the Veil, Twilight.”
“It has geographical limits, then,” Twilight said. That was important. That meant it wasn’t simply a Rule of Reality, a Physical Law like gravity. It wasn’t ubiquitous. It wasn’t necessary.
Celestia seemed a little taken aback, mouth forming a small o before spreading into a wry smile. “The Veil isn’t just a moral law. It also has a physical manifestation.”
Twilight took a moment to digest that. “A border, then. Wrapping around Equestria?”
“Yes.”
“And not even Sight can cross it. No information, no knowledge?”
“When Luna returned to us,” Celestia said.
“She had no memory of Outside,” Twilight finished. “So you don’t know who created the Veil, because you’re inside it.”
Celestia nodded.
“I see. So that’s the problem,” Twilight said.
Celestia frowned. “Problem?”
“Nightmare Moon’s armour,” Twilight said. “Clearly something happened to Luna out there. It would be foolish to ignore that much. And if it involves Nightmare Moon, then it probably involves the Elements of Harmony, as well.” Twilight’s mind raced ahead. “We can’t See through it, and we can’t bring information in from outside. We’re effectively blind.”
“We’re safe, Twilight,” Celestia said, frowning. “We’ve repelled threats before. And anything that crosses the Veil is imprinted in turn. Even if some creature aimed to prey upon us, it would be immediately hamstrung. Why else do you think the nopony died at the hooves of Chrysalis, or Discord? You’ve heard the stories; you know how dangerous monsters like them can be.”
Safety, above all else, Twilight thought. Was that its intention? “I don’t know if that’s enough.”
“Luna put you up to this,” Celestia said.
Twilight nodded. “There was a message in the armour.”
“Oh?”
“From Nightmare Moon, I think. She didn’t mention it to you?”
“No,” Celestia said. “She did not. What did it say?”
“It said that Nightmare Moon was trying to help Luna. That it knew about the Elements, and never expected to stop us.” Twilight bit her lip. “Luna’s worried, Celestia. And,” Twilight looked away.
“Twilight?”
“And I agree with her,” Twilight said. “We need to tear it down.”
“What?!”
Twilight recoiled. “Princess?”
“Twilight . . . what do you think the Veil does?”
“Just what you’ve told me. Imprints a moral imperative, erases the memory of everything entering, and traps everypony in Equestria. Yes, it-”
“Traps, Twilight? Like a prison? A dungeon, with no escape?”
“No meaningful escape,” Twilight said. “Not if our minds remain behind.”
Celestia shook her head. “No. It protects us. And not just from monsters like Nightmare Moon, who are able to enter Equestria physically, but not mentally, not morally.”
“So we give up ourselves?” Twilight asked. “Exchange our minds for safety?”
“In the last thousand years, there have been many unhappy ponies. There has been poverty, sickness, depression, and cruelty. They have wept and bled and fought and died. But.
“But for that, there has been peace. Despite that, there has been happiness. Crime is motivated by desperation, and desperation alone. Not one murder, Twilight! Not one! I may not know where the Veil came from. But to suggest its removal is to suggest we return to that darkness—return to a world where your brother’s death is no more than a footnote at the back of the paper.”
Twilight’s throat had closed, heavy breaths forcing their way through in great bursts on exhalation. Liquid clung to the corners of her eyes, refusing to fall. “That—that’s w-what Trixie said,” she managed. “She . . . she thanked me! After what I did to her . . .”
“Only you, Twilight,” Celestia said, admiration playing in her voice, “would blame yourself for being angry at your brother’s killer.”
“It’s not funny. I-I don’t even know if it was me, o-or the Veil!”
“Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters!”
“You feel manipulated,” Celestia said. She dropped the playful look, adopted a more straightforward posture. “The Veil has had no more effect on your life—on your mind—than anything else in this world, Twilight. Are you not influenced by your upbringing? Your heart developed in early childhood, surrounded by a loving family? Was your faith in the sanctity of the mind spurred by your devotion to intellect, to study? And where did you learn friendship, if not from your friends? Do you resent them, for impinging upon your sense of self?”
“Those were my choices,” Twilight said. “Nopony forced me to go through any of that. This . . . this isn’t a choice.” She raised her face, eyes shimmering, light refracting from their surface. “The Veil isn’t a guideline, it’s a prison!”
“So you demand the freedom to murder, then,” Celestia said.
“What? No!”
“The Veil has kept us safe, Twilight, and at peace. Trixie sees its necessity.”
“She’s wrong,” Twilight said. “Luna’s terrified. I can tell. She sent Rainbow back in time, she’s so scared. Something is happening in the world, I can feel it, like an itch in the back of my mind. The Element of Magic’s getting stronger. Rarity learnt greater control over her Sight in half a week than she’d managed in ten years. And even if all of that weren’t true, even if the Veil weren’t preventing us from perceiving the danger . . . still I resent it.”
“You align yourself with this Boundless, then.”
Twilight snorted. “No.”
“He seeks the same end.”
“He’s a child still. He doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing.”
“As old as you were, at Moon’s Rise. And he’s free of the Veil,” Celestia said. “I don’t know how that happened, but just look at what it’s caused!”
“You can’t just ignore the fact that he is free,” Twilight said. “Somepony figured out a way around the Veil. Doesn’t that speak to the danger it poses?”
“Would you deny everypony, then, their peace? Because of one? We can still contain him. We can still protect everypony.”
“Not everypony,” Twilight said.
Celestia stopped, mouth left hanging open. “That’s the second time, Twilight. I truly am sorry.”
“I don’t think we’re going to agree on this, Princess.”
“Twilight . . .”
“I still trust you, you know,” Twilight said, taking a deep breath. She brushed a hoof across her eyes. “If you truly believe that this is for the best, then I’ll be by your side, arguing against you all the while.” She stood, turned to leave.
“I ask for no less,” Celestia said, with a smile.
“Talk to Luna,” Twilight said, and shut the door quietly.
***
Boundless stepped off the train with a smile across his face, straight into a biting wind. Snow gathered on his coat, sticking to the raised ends of his fur. The crushed ice under his hooves crunched and shifted.
The train station was deserted. It was late, late in the dead of night, and there wasn’t supposed to be any trains running. Its presence would announce his arrival. He would have to send it back.
He walked down the stairs of the train station, breath pluming before his face. Already, he was beginning to shiver. Where . . . ah, there they were, the escorts promised him. Plain Sight’s crew wasn’t restricted to Hornwall: he had guessed—correctly—a smuggling group as notorious as they were would be spread all over the region. These few, waiting with carriage and coat just around the corner, were grunts, only, but they represented the interests of those for whom Princess Cadance’s isolation was proving troublesome.
This was the other reason he had needed Plain Sight’s support. He was not so foolish as to believe he could gain access to the Crystal Heart himself, not faced with a grieving alicorn forewarned of his arrival.
One of the grunts stepped forward, wrapping the coat around him, and ushering him to the carriage. Almost immediately, Boundless felt warmer, could sense the soft magic pulsing through the fabric to repel the cold. Another made for the train station, no doubt to drive the train away, deposit it somewhere out of the city.
“Go, go,” he said, quietly, to the ponies strapped to the front of the carriage.
“Sir,” was the reply, as they began to move away, and he could all but hear the snark in their voices, “and welcome to the Crystal Empire.”