Lord Frosthoof was a very important pony.
He’d been alive fifty years ago when Nightmare Moon had shattered the Castle of the Two Sisters. Young, of course, barely a stripling, but on his way up. He’d seen her teeth, sharp like a meat-eater’s. He’d heard her laugh, high and wild as the night wind. And he’d seen Princess Celestia strike her down and trap her in the moon with the power of the Elements of Harmony, artifacts so ancient that nopony knew their origins, not even Princess Celestia.
Now he was old, but he was still strong. A Solar Knight had to be strong. Princess Celestia had maintained the peace for five decades, but there was always the risk. And the Princess did not like risks.
He was in his study, poring over a new plan for the revision of the Castle of the Two Sisters. It was a surprise for the upcoming Summer Sun Festival, a gift for the Princess. She’d shirked away from the Castle ever since her sister’s downfall.
Frosthoof believed it was for the Castle’s lack of grace. The roof was caved in, massive pieces of the roof littering the floor from Nightmare Moon’s alicorn magic. The wind drifted in through the holes in the walls. The ground was a mess of dead leaves from the Everfree Forest. And goddesses knew what creatures lurked there among the shadows.
Canterlot was quite a ways away. Frosthoof would need a pegasus-driven carriage to even get close. At the edge of the forest, it would be by hoof, protected by a contingency of the Solar Guard. Horrors lurked in the Everfree, now that the Princess had taken up Canterlot as her castle.
He pushed himself from his desk and rubbed his eyes. The night had grown thick inside his study. The sputtering candle that lit his room was dripping with beads of wax.
Outside, moonlight poured down. The night was silent. Even the final pegasi guard had finished their flight. Perfect stillness. A cold wind blew in through the window, ruffling the sheer curtains.
He frowned. A draft could give him a cold. If he were sick tomorrow, it would ruin the whole reconstruction project. The crew certainly couldn’t go on without him, even for a few days of sniffling and sneezing.
Frosthoof stood and shut the window. The view from his room was Canterlot’s main square. A tiny patch of the Princess’s tower was visible in the frame of night sky. Her room was lit.
I’m not the only one working. It pleased Frosthoof that the Princess was working hard. Much harder than Princess Luna had worked, slacking off during the day and sleeping the sunshine away. Her deposal had marked the upswing of Equestria.
In the full moon, he could see the Mare in the Moon. Ponies said that was Nightmare Moon’s face. Frosthoof scoffed and belittled them. It was a mark of alicorn magic, nothing more. He was firsthoof witness to alicorn magic. He knew what it looked like.
The Mare in the Moon blinked.
Frosthoof stumbled back so quickly that he nearly tripped. His heart was racing.
What was that? Frosthoof was not a superstitious pony. Earthponies rarely were, and he was the pinnacle of earthponies.
He shook his head. It was a trick of the light. He was tired. His vision was—he loathed to admit—not as strong as it had been when he had been young. An error. Not a reality.
But one more look couldn’t hurt.
Frosthoof was leaning up, his face pressed against the cold window, when the door slammed open. “Lord Frosthoof!”
Frosthoof nearly leapt out of his coat. He whirled, dark anger brewing in his stomach. It was the young cadet. What was his name? Gingersnap? Butter Biscuit?
“Yes, yes, what is it? Can’t you see I’m very busy?” With dignity, Frosthoof strode out of the tangle of curtains to stand in front of the colt.
He was a young earthpony. His armor barely fit. The plates clanked together ungracefully when he walked.
Frosthoof disapproved. When I was his age, I had to wear stallion’s plates.
“Sir, Lord Amorous wants to know if you’re still intending to come to the Castle of the Two Sisters tomorrow.”
Frosthoof shook out his mane. “It’s barely midnight. Why isn’t Amorous asleep?”
“I’m only bringing the message, sir.”
Frosthoof snorted. “Well, of course I’m going. I’m the one in charge. I have to be there, Shortbread.”
The earthpony winced. “It’s…Maple, sir.”
Lord Frosthoof waved a hoof in dismissal. “Yes, yes, fine. Whatever. Tell Lord Amorous that I will be there. Now get out. I have to rest.”
“All right, sir.” He bent his head respectfully. Then he looked up, a strange expression on his face. “But, sir…if I may—”
“What is it now?” Frosthoof demanded, exasperated.
Maple’s eyes flickered uncertainly. “Maybe you should close your window, sir. Begging your pardon. But the night wind is cold tonight. Sir Lament always says to be careful of the night wind. I’ll take my leave, sir.” One more dip of his head and he was gone, back down the hallway the way he’d come.
Frosthoof closed the door and stared at it for a moment longer. A creeping feeling was coming over him, trailing down his spine. Slowly, he turned around.
The night breeze was playing in the curtains once more. They lifted and fell like pegasi wings.
I closed that. Frosthoof’s mouth was dry. I know I did.
He went to the window. Outside, it was the same. The kingdom slept. The stars shone.
The Mare in the Moon watched him.
Frosthoof slammed the window shut, putting his back against it. He was breathing heavily. He could feel the Mare’s eyes on him, boring into him, cutting holes in his gray coat.
Ridiculous, part of his mind said. Don’t be foolish. It’s just a magic mark. It’s nothing.
Moonlight streamed in past his shoulders, silhouetting him on the floor. Motes of light drifted in and out, softly as falling ash from a forest fire.
Call the Solar Guard, he thought, but that was idiotic. They’d think him a fool. They already thought he was weak and old, too old to be Captain of the Guard. In his youth, he’d been feared. Now he was mocked, called toothless, asked about the state of his back, offered bran muffins and soft puddings for his old teeth by colts who hadn’t even been born when he’d made his name in this kingdom. No, he couldn’t call the Guard.
There was a blinding flash of light. Frosthoof covered his eyes with his forehoof, wincing out past it.
He dropped his hoof back to the ground.
In front of him was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Shining, glorious, magnificent. He stared and stared, mouth agape, hair raising on his back, his legs trembling as much as they had the day he’d been born.
Frosthoof coughed up blood.
Slowly, agonizingly, he looked down. From his chest protruded a black blade, wickedly-sharp. He hadn’t even felt it enter.
His attacker wrenched it free. Frosthoof fell forward, like a puppet, all strings cut. He landed on his face, his cheek resting in a pool of blood.
He strained upwards, fighting against the fading light in his eyes, striving to see that resplendent sight once more, one more time, before…before…
Dear Ghostwriter (if I MUST call you that),
I hope things are going well for you in Canterlot. I read your last novel The Mystery in Maneco, and found it to be quite inventive! You always were such a bright colt when we were younger, making up fun games for the pair of us to play—and for me to win! Ha ha!
You must know already, what with your connections, but the Castle of the Two Sisters’ reconstruction has come to a grinding halt because of Lord Frosthoof’s death. Sad for him but good for me, as I have a few days of free time before construction begins anew. How would you like to come visit your big brother on the site? Perhaps you’ll even get inspiration for your next book?
Give it a thought. I’ll even pay for your travel expenses. There’s an old knight in Canterlot who owes me a favor, Sir Cypress Stalwart. He’s a bit odd but a good heart. He’ll give you a hoof down here. You can meet all the new friends I’ve made since I came to work.
Your loving brother,
Valiant
Ghost folded the letter back closed with his magic. “Always eager, my brother,” he muttered. He adjusted his thick black glasses with a twinge of magic.
His assistant, a unicorn called Bluebell, said, “He means well.”
“Hmm.” Ghostwriter didn’t know that for sure. Valiant seemed more up in the clouds than a pegasus. “I’m going home.”
“Quickquill wants a word, when you can,” Bluebell said, dipping her head to the door down the hall. Canterlot’s Tower of Scribes was a winding pillar of pure stone with a cap of sapphires, created by Princess Celestia after the fall of Nightmare Moon. Its purpose was to keep a running rapport with the ponies of the realm, tracking festivals and parties, noting births, celebrating lives, even a little investigational activity. That was Ghost’s domain.
“Tomorrow. I’m tired. I need some rest.” He slid the letter into his satchel and began to trot down the hall.
He didn’t go ten paces before the door flew back open behind him. “Ghostwriter.”
Ghost sighed, furrowing up his face. Then he turned and plastered blankness over it. “Quickquill. How lovely to see you.”
Quickquill was a dark blue unicorn with a neon green mane. Her cutie mark was a quill trailing an artful rainbow swirl. Ghost, with his gray coat and white mane, looked entirely out of place next to such a bright creature. And felt it.
She frowned. “You didn’t respond to my letters.”
Ghost scrubbed the back of his neck with a hoof. “I was busy.”
“With your nose in a book, no doubt. Or your recent reviews. Shall I offer my congratulations?”
The Mystery of Maneco was not Quickquill’s favorite subject. He’d written it almost entirely using the time she wanted him to be documenting the reconstruction efforts. “It’s well-received.”
Her expression didn’t change from extreme displeasure. “What an accomplishment.”
He adjusted his glasses once more. They were always sliding off the end of his snout. “Did you need something, Quickquill?”
“Yes.” She seized a letter out of her satchel with bright green magic and deposited it in the air in front of him. “I want you to interview this earthpony. Maple. He was the last to see Lord Frosthoof alive.”
Inwardly, Ghost sighed. It had been only one day since Frosthoof’s death. The kingdom was in uproar. Murder was extremely rare under Celestia’s solitary rule. “Why me?”
“Because I believe your position is Head of Investigations.” She put her head to the side mockingly. “Or do you want to upset the Princess?”
Ghost had no opinion on the Princess. He’d never met her. And he certainly wasn’t alive when her sister was ruling, too. His parents hadn’t even been born.
But Quickquill was right. He had his duty. Ghost sighed. “Where is he?”
An hour later, Ghostwriter was seated with Cadet Maple, a nervous earthpony with a pale brown coat and eyes a few shades darker.
Ghost poured the tea. When his magic, pale green, wreathed around the cup, Maple’s eyes widened.
“You’ve never seen magic?” Ghost asked, setting the cup in front of the cadet with a soft clink.
Maple shook his head. “Not this close. The war unicorns are trained separate from us.” He took the cup in both hooves, holding it carefully.
Ghost lifted his own with magic, watching with light interest. Earthponies had to do everything with their hooves. He couldn’t imagine how difficult it would be. Most of the Scribes were unicorns out of necessity. Earthponies simply did not have the dexterity to be writers.
“Now,” Ghost said, levitating his quill and paper out of his satchel. All the Scribes carried such satchels. It fit snugly around his chest and back; the pack itself fit between his shoulders, with pockets that sealed with magic when he flipped them shut. It kept the materials from falling out. Inside, he kept extra parchment and quills, and an inkwell he’d enchanted to refill the quill without dipping. It was this spell that had gotten him his cutie mark: a quill fading at the tip, leaving behind a trail of half-invisible ink. “Tell me what you saw.”
Maple seemed nervous. Ghostwriter had trained himself to watch ponies, really watch them, so that his stories had more depth to them. Maple’s hooves twisted the teacup back and forth, and his brow was furrowed. “Lord Frosthoof was at the window when I arrived. He leapt back when I opened the door.”
Ghost’s quill started to flit across the page. “Why was he surprised?”
“It was nighttime. I had just come from Lord Amorous with a message about the Castle renovation plan.” Maple took a gulp of tea. The cup rattled against his hooves. “Lord Frosthoof seemed…shaken by something. Before I left, I suggested that he close his window.”
The quill stopped. Ghost frowned. “Why would you do that?”
“It was cold outside. We’re barely past winter. I was afraid he’d catch a cold.”
The quill resumed zooming across the parchment. “How did Lord Frosthoof react?”
“He seemed nervous. Like I’d said something horrifying.” Maple looked down at his teacup. “That was the last time I saw him alive. The next morning I heard the news that he was…d…d-d—”
“Dead,” Ghostwriter supplied.
Maple nodded with a gasp. “Dead,” he said, whispering it. “Stabbed through the heart. No sign of an attacker. Soaking in a puddle of his own blood.”
“Yes.” With a thought, Ghost sealed up the parchment and tucked it back into his satchel. The quill followed after. “I know that part.”
He got up to leave but Maple called out, “Wait!”
Ghostwriter turned. Maple was standing now, his teacup upended on the floor of Canterlot’s library.
He looked afraid again, his brown eyes wide. “They say when the found his body, he looked…happy. He was smiling. I’ve known Lord Frosthoof for years and I’ve never seen him smile. What do you think of that?”
Ghostwriter considered it for a second. “Maybe he was happy to die. He was an awful old stallion.”
Then Ghost turned and left.
On the way back to his room, he was thinking. What could have gotten the old lord so afraid? He was alone in his room, it was the middle of the night, there was nopony even close to those rooms.
He decided to double back to Frosthoof’s room, just to make sure. The old stallion had lived in the Tower of the Solar Guard, opposite from Ghostwriter’s room. It took two bridges and three sets of stairs to finally find it.
Two war unicorns stood outside the door, cloaked in golden Solar Guard uniforms. Metallic sunbursts kept their red cloaks fastened beneath their necks. One of them was actively applying magic—his horn glowed faintly purple—but Ghost didn’t see the subject of it.
Ghostwriter stopped in front of them, surveying them with vague interest. They were much bigger than him, their horns longer, their hooves wider. Ghost was small for a unicorn. Valiant had always made fun of him for it.
“Hello,” he greeted. “I’d like to check out the room.”
The unicorns shared a look. “Do you have permission?” one asked skeptically.
From within his satchel, Ghost pulled out his badge. “I’m a Scribe of the Tower. Directly under the Princess’s permission.”
The unicorn that had spoken looked outwardly surprised. “You’re a bit young to be a Scribe.”
“Are you denying me entry?”
“No. I was just noting it.”
“Noted. Let me pass.”
Now looking a bit irritated, the unicorn opened the door. Ghost trotted past him into the room.
Now he understood: there was a globe of the same faint purple magic glowing in the apex of the room. It lit everything without casting shadows, giving the floor and desk an odd, shadowless starkness.
Someone had cleaned up the blood as best they could but the outline was still there. Old Lord Frosthoof had died facing away from the windows, his hind legs splayed out behind him. The window was closed now, the curtains still.
Ghost popped it open with a flick of his magic. Outside, the view of Canterlot was peaceful. Salesponies had tables of their wares set up—charms imbued with unicorn magic told to bring luck, hair bows, dresses, scarves, dried flowers in necklaces that could be worn and eaten, and of course the odd weaponsponies, offering to polish Guard armor or sharpen swords that hadn’t seen battle in decades. The sun shone down warmly, not too hot, not too cool. A perfect new spring day.
Ghost closed the window and went to the desk, delicately stepping over the blood. Blueprints of the Castle of the Two Sisters were still set out, bunched up in the corners from someone sleeping on them. Most likely Frosthoof. The chair was pushed back in a way that made Ghostwriter think Frosthoof had stood up quickly.
The bed was made, the corners neat. He hadn’t slept there. No food tray either. He either took his meal in the kitchens or in the barracks, but not here.
Enough data now, he thought. Ghostwriter closed his eyes, gathering his magic, and then let it burst out.
At once, ghostly green outlines appeared, overlapping in places, streaking with slow-motion movement. Ghost focused them, drawing back, until one image formed in front of him, sitting slumped in the chair. Lord Frosthoof.
Ghost could see entirely through him to the desk. Ghost’s magic-visions—as he liked to call them—relied entirely on his imagination. The more information he collected before, the more he could control the illusion. Frosthoof had a rough, gray coat—a little lighter than Ghostwriter’s own—and blue eyes. You couldn’t see that through the haze of green magic, but it was enough to change the saturation of the green. Frosthoof’s mane was always carefully cut short, shorn so closely to his skull that you could see his coat through it. A look of frowning discontentment finished the illusion.
The ghostly Frosthoof was asleep on the corner of the maps. Ghost stepped closer, tilting his head, and Frosthoof’s position changed, more accurately lying on the desk.
Lord Frosthoof was at the window when I arrived, Maple had said. He leapt back when I opened the door.
The Frosthoof at the desk faded away in particles. He reformed at the window. Ghost opened the window once more—it swung through Frosthoof, scattering him for a moment, then the motes swung back together into the proper form.
Then he crafted Maple. Maple was an easy shape—curved, strong earthpony lines, cloaked in Solar Guard armor that fit a little too loosely, spiked yellow mane. Ghost even added the cadet’s freckles.
He put Maple at the door and acted out the scene. Maple hadn’t given exact quotes—which Ghostwriter had noted with a little displeasure, as he loved specifics—so Ghost had them simply open and close their mouths. Knowing Lord Frosthoof the way he did, Ghost made the lord’s mouth shapes more dismissive, stubborn, proud.
Magicked-Maple faded through the open door, leaving Frosthoof alone.
Ghost paused the illusion right after Frosthoof closed the window once more. He stepped closer, circling around, keeping his eyes on the window.
The window had been open when Frosthoof was discovered. Morning dew had settled on the lord’s cool flank.
Ghostwriter stared at it. “Why would you be open?” he muttered. Assuming that Frosthoof had followed Maple’s request, the window would be closed. Out of stubbornness, perhaps, he would have left the window open rather than follow the order of a lesser officer. Frosthoof had been proud and arrogant, but he had not been stupid. He would not have ignored a fact to make himself feel superior.
There was a knock on the door. Ghost ended the illusion, scattering motes of green energy. “We have to clear the room for the Princess, Scribe. Come on out.”
The Princess? Celestia rarely left her tower. For her to come out, something serious must have happened.
Ghostwriter looked back down at the blood on the floor. Lord Frosthoof was important, true, but not particularly close to the Princess. She had countless Captains. Frosthoof was the oldest, so maybe there was something important about that that Ghost didn’t understand.
Or maybe it was something more.
Outside the room, more Solar Guard had appeared. They lined the hallway, facing inwards, all of them wearing the same fixed look of alertness.
From the end of the hall came Princess Celestia.
There was a strange, charged glow about her, sparkling, crackling golden energy that wreathed her like mist. Ghostwriter was intimately familiar with magic—as any unicorn innately was—but he had never felt anything like this. It was the newborn sun dawning on his face. It was the shifting of the earth beneath his hooves. It was the turning of time, the change of the seasons, magic that could raise seas with barely a thought and birth galaxies from nothingness.
He shivered. The power of a goddess. Celestia was truly not of this earth. His magic was a parlor trick in comparison. A match next to a volcano.
Ghostwriter scrambled back as she approached. Her mane was pure energy, rippling in thick bands of colors, and her coat was white as starshine.
She was talking to her generals, all of whom he recognized. Counterstrike and Steel Song and Thunderbolt. All legends, right here in front of him.
He noticed he was getting excited and tried to calm himself, tried to keep his face blank. Before he could get too carried away, he slipped from the crowd and headed down the back stairs. It was dark here, free from Celestia’s emanating sunshine.
By the time he got home, it was already dark. The door to his room was at the end of the Scribes’ dorms in the west wing of the castle. They were all round as rabbit holes. The locks were attuned to each unicorn’s magic. At the familiar touched of his, the door opened soundlessly.
His magelights reacted to his presence, filling the room with soft green light. It wasn’t the stark light of Frosthoof’s room. Ghostwriter didn’t like too much light, just enough to see by.
He loosened the straps on his satchel and hung it on the hook by the door. From within, he fished out his paper, sliding them into order. They were a little crumpled, but nothing too bad, and as long as the ink didn’t smear, he didn’t care.
Ghost set them on the desk next to a message from Quickquill. He frowned. She works quickly. Letters were delivered by a simple transport spell that one of the other Scribes, Cipher, had made. A dish set in each room was soaked in Cipher’s magic. Another dish was in the Tower of the Scribes, linked by thought. All a pony had to do was set a letter in one of the dishes and say the recipient’s name to send the letter on its way.
Quickquill’s letter was brief.
He muttered it out loud. “'Ghostwriter, make sure you send me your notes from Cadet Maple’s interview today. I want to start compiling. If you get the chance, stop by Frosthoof’s room. The Guard might let you in if you say you’re a Scribe.'” He scoffed. “Too late for that. 'Also an earthpony stopped by here looking for you. A Solar Guard, by the looks of him. He didn’t give his name but he said he knew your brother. I told him to come back tomorrow but he didn’t seem to like that much. If you’re bringing your problems into the Tower again, so help me, I’ll break off your horn myself. We don’t need a repeat of the Evergreen Spring’s case.'” He dropped the letter back to the table. “Evergreen Springs,” he repeated. “That was one time!”
An earthpony looking for him was interesting, too, he supposed. But ponies were always looking for their story to be told.
He turned away and yawned, stretching out his legs. It had been a long day of walking and he was tired.
The servants had come by and turned down his bed. He slid into it, settling into his pillows. By now, night had fallen. The first stars were coming out. The tiniest slice was missing from the full moon, signaling the start of another month. He closed his eyes. One month closer to the Summer Sun Festival.
Valiant would be working hard even into the night. On any other occasion, though. Construction was still paused while Canterlot figured out how to deal with Frosthoof’s death. Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad to take him up on his offer to come and visit. Ghost hadn’t seen Valiant in some months, ever since he got signed on to aid in construction. He was a powerful unicorn. He could lift almost as much as an earthpony, and with a magnitude more dexterity.
At least he gets a little vacation. Valiant was Ghostwriter’s only brother. And Ghost did love him, in his own way. Valiant made it clear that he worried, though Ghost only replied in short letters, several days too late.
Whoever wanted Frosthoof dead wanted something. He was nearing sleep now. The warmth of his bed was sending him off on a lulling wave. Maybe they wanted to stop the reconstruction effort. But nopony would want that except—
Ghost bolted upright. All traces of sleepiness were gone, replaced by a cold fear.
There was peace now. Crime existed because it always existed. The hungry stole, the angry fought, the foolish died by manticore or dragon or getting lost in the Everfree, but nopony murdered. Nopony had since the War of the Sisters, since fifty years ago, since—
“Nightmare Moon,” Ghost whispered, shivering as the name passed his lips. Nopony dared speak it aloud in good company. Nopony dared bring about the wrath of a pony long gone. Or was she?
He slid out of bed and ran to his desk. His quill came at his call, ready to write. The green light of his magic lit the page as the quill scratched across the paper.
Bluebell, call for an earthpony named Sir Cypress Stalwart. Have him meet me in my study tomorrow morning. We leave for the Castle of the Two Sisters at dawn.