“By choosing this path, you risk much, Zecora.”
“I know my choice and I know what must be. I would not expect those in power to agree.”
“This is not a matter of power, young one. What those of the Path often neglect to remember is the middle of the legend. The middle of the ‘prophecy.’ Do not look at me like that. The Path is not the only group who knows the legends of the pony races. Hmph. By the Everlasting Balance, even the ponies have all but forgotten the truth. The tale is little more than a bedtime story to frighten foals!”
“I have studied the legend, as you know, and grasp the tasks and hardships we must undergo.”
“Do you? Do you really? I doubt it. Take a closer look at what happened the first time. The first time, we prepared for war. We were going to march on Equestria itself. Our sky burned under the endless sun! Chaos gripped the streets! That fear has not left our people, even after a thousand years, Zecora! There are many who know the Old Tales. Many who would see you in chains, especially as the time approaches. There are even those who believe all who follow the Path should be slain.”
“…You would do such a thing to your own kin? Erase us as though we had never been?”
“I am not among those, Zecora. As you well know. But by accepting Zuila as your Mshauri, you set yourself against them. Finally, I see it in your eyes. Yes. You should be troubled. This could have dire consequences not only for you, but your family… perhaps even your entire tribe.”
“And what of our sacred responsibility? Do you ask us to abandon our task and flee? We were given this charge by the most famous mage. By staying true to the Path we will be rewarded this age.”
“Our reward will be the end of us all! He was mad. Stricken once by grief at the loss of one of his dearest friends, stricken twice by seeing the pain in her sister’s eyes. It’s an elaborate, desperate gamble, to save a single pony. We aren’t even speaking of one of our kind! This is all for an outsider!”
“An act of kindness should require no eyes, for if one’s heart is pure, there can be no disguise.”
“Ugh, you and your damnable Weaver’s Tongue! You are as stubborn as Zuila! You threaten to doom us all with this madness. I know the time. I know that it will end up being you, not Zuila who takes the long journey to Equestria. And I cannot say what will await you in the end there. You may be forced to lift a hoof against your kin, Zecora. Even if not, dark shadows lurk in the places you will tread. Do yourself a favor… and try not to be eaten by one of them, you dense fool. Your mother would never forgive me.”
“I appreciate the advice, Uncle, but I must attest that no matter the resistance, I must pursue this quest.”
“Stubborn mare… you are your mother’s child. Still… you have been set on this path since your glyph came to you. But, I beg you… at least try and be safe.”
“I will seek safety in all that I do, no matter what I face… and no matter who.”
Zecora stifled a cry of pain as she pulled herself over the enormous fallen tree. The dense forest to either side transformed the spot into a natural chokepoint along the ancient road, making travel around the dead tree impossible unless one was foolish enough to venture into the depths of the Everfree in an attempt to circumvent it.
She didn’t have the time, nor did she have a desire to face another pack of timberwolves.
When she reached the top, the rotting branch she’d been using to keep herself steady snapped, sending her tumbling down to the muddy earth on the other side. She couldn’t stop the howl of agony as she landed on her wounded flank. Stars danced in her eyes and she flopped back against the old moss-eaten wood, gasping for breath.
Groaning, she looked around, checking to see if her agonized sounds had attracted any hostile attention.
Only the soft sounds of birds of the night greeted her.
With a sigh, she checked her vials. Only three left.
What’s worse, her healing poultices were gone. She’d used the last to mend her broken hindleg she’s received from her fall at the second watchtower. The potion had been strong, but not strong enough to heal both bone and skin. She’d been forced to tear apart her canvas tent for bandages. They chafed horribly, but at least they had stopped the bleeding.
Zecora took a minute to catch her breath and tried not to think about what would have happened if she hadn’t tried to jump a river across what turned out to be a cragadile, just a mile away from the watchtower.
“My age has caught up to me, I fear," she whispered to herself with a faint smile. "But the Path is mine alone, and my fate draws near."
Less than a half mile away stood the ancient observatory, a long-forgotten piece of pony architecture in this Balance-forsaken place. It had been constructed a manner similar to the other towers, complete with battlements and crenelations. In fact, it looked much the same as the rest of the ruins within the forest: worn, dilapidated and ready to collapse at a moment’s notice.
Zecora noted one key difference: an enormous star glittering on the western side.
Zecora could feel her top anklet vibrate with barely contained magic as she lifted her hoof toward the star. She wondered if she would even see the image if she took off the golden band.
As if on cue, the starry form of her companion stepped through the fallen tree as if he were a specter from the Lost Savannas. He glanced down at her once with those piercing golden stars and then looked to the observatory. There was a faint motion from the shape, almost a nod.
Zecora cracked a weary smile, pulled out her canteen and took the last few gulps of water. She swished it around in her muzzle before letting it slide down her throat. With a heavy sigh, she got to her hooves.
She glanced at the ground… and her heart stopped in her chest.
Beyond her own muddy hoofprints were two sets of fresh tracks, from either pony or zebra. One had the heavy strong pattern of a male gait. Zecora studied it for a moment until she caught sight of a small divot in the rear right hoofprint. She winced. Even though she didn’t need to, she checked the other set of hoofprints. Just as she suspected, the second set were made by a creature used to moving swiftly and silently through any terrain.
These two would not have have run afoul any timberwolf. It would be a miracle if anything within the Forest knew they were here.
She looked up at the great Moon and bit her lip. She tried to ignore the ache in her flank and the throb of her reknit bones.
There was no sense in putting it off. Even if two of the Mlinzi awaited her, she still had her task to perform. She knew the price she must pay for walking the Path. It would be a sad thing if restoring the Balance to this world began with blood, especially the blood of her kin. Yet she had made a vow. They had as well. Both vows were made to be followed to the dying breath. Zecora hoped such extremes would not be required.
It may have been a vain hope… but she still had it.
With another, far deeper sigh, she once again put one hoof in front of the other and followed the Path.
The journey to the observatory was far from easy. Her bandages kept slipping and despite the humidity in the air, she found herself parched after only a few dozen yards. The land sloped up and down without consideration for her pain. Vines and branches tugged at her mane and tail.
Yet her hooves did not falter. She kept up a study gait as she plodded to the observatory. She knew they were already there, watching and waiting.
Zecora checked her three vials again at the halfway point. If she truly faced two of the Mlinzi—Mother Earth help her if there were more—she perhaps had a single chance to survive this without bloodshed.
Her companion said nothing. At this point, Zecora would have settled for a smile. Instead, he just stared between the observatory and the Moon.
She let out a long sigh and made her way forward, trudging down the long, lonely path.
It took at least another hour, but she managed to push her way through exhaustion and pain to reach the edge of the clearing around the ancient observatory rising tall against the cliff. Beyond the cliff lay a narrow ravine that seemed to snake its way deeper into the Everfree Forest. A quick survey of the area revealed no movement, but she knew better than to expect the Mlinzi to show themselves so readily.
Yet no challenge came when she stepped beyond treeline. Her eyes kept scanning the ruin and the wood around her, but she saw nothing. Even the wind had become still. There were no hints as to her foe’s location. After all, Mlinzi were excellent stalkers. They needed only one chance.
Which meant she had been correct. The hoofprints had been left there intentionally. Likely a tactic to sap her will if she managed to get this far.
Even then, she suspected they knew it wouldn’t stop her—just as she knew little could stop them.
The steps leading up to the old observatory were broken and cracked. The forest had tried to reclaim the stone of this place, but the stone had resisted even the strongest root. With every step up the crumbling stairs, Zecora felt the magic swelling up from Mother Earth. It danced along her coat and swirled along her glyph. It felt wonderful, easing her exhaustion, her thirst and her pain.
Despite the age, she felt the life of this place. It had been blessed a long time ago. Not only by pony magic… but more.
A Weaver had once stood here. A shiver ran through her as she felt a forgotten tendril the Weaver had used to connect with Mother Earth. At first, she had thought it to be simple power, but it was more. It welcomed her like an old pup. Its power warmed her.
She lifted her eyes to the observatory battlements. If she looked hard enough, she could almost see the shadows of the Royal Guards who once watched over the land. Beside her, her starry companion shifted. The stars rearranged themselves, and the shadows that made up his body thickened.
He looked past the battlements and to the Moon. The shadows lengthened around her and she swallowed. For an instant, the tingling of her topmost anklet intensified. She staggered against the stone railing, clutching at her chest. A bolt of black magic blasted against her white coat. A maddened cackle echoed over the canopy. Tears in her eyes as a blinding rainbow—
Then, as if it were nothing more than a passing thought, the image vanished, leaving only an aching pain her chest and a heart weighed by sorrow.
Zecora looked to her companion and swallowed. A shiver ran through her body, sending both anklets and neckrings jingling. It took effort to push the memories of the ancient past aside, but she did so, focusing on the here and now.
Then, she squared her shoulders and stared into the intact archway leading into the interior of the observatory. Beyond, she could see moonlight pouring over the stones of the ancient structure. She swallowed and stepped over the threshold.
Above her, the observatory’s ceiling had long since given way, allowing moonlight to flow in from high above. A great deal of the structure had crumbled, despite the ancient Weaver’s work. Great gaping rents in the observatory’s walls on the north and east sides allowed glimpses into the night beyond. Only small sections of what had once been the upper stories remained.
Within, the stone beneath her hooves had been all but subsumed by a thick layer of purple and blue grass. An empty archway lined with old vines and creepers led off the crumbling cliff eastward. Above her head were the decaying stones to the upper sections of the observatory, eventually leading to a small outcropping of rock that cast the northwest corner into shadows.
She didn’t bother studying those shadows too deeply. She knew what lay within.
To Zecora’s surprise, on the far side of the observatory, a tapestry had survived the onslaught of both the elements and the ages. From her angle, she could see it had been protected from direct exposure by a narrow overhang jutting out from the old stone.
Whoever had crafted the tapestry had done it with an amazing level of detail. Even now, she could catch the faint lines of deep golds and silver, only somewhat faded by the passing of time. Despite the condition, Zecora cared far more for what it depicted: the ancient symbol of the sun, the ancient symbol of the moon… and two alicorns. One dark, one light. She knew them well, for her lesson book from Zuila had numerous sketches of them.
And in the middle of it all, in the very center of the great open space, lay a large Moon Lantern, far larger than the one that had been in the first watchtower. It shone brilliantly, like a blue and green lantern planted here just for her. Motes of light whirled around it like excited fireflies. The magic within it flowed through the entire structure as if this simple flower had been responsible for keeping this ancient place intact. For all Zecora knew, it could be. Nozebra fully understood the true power of the Moon Lanterns.
Zecora slowly trotted up to it, her hoofsteps muffled by the strange grass that filled the room. Only then did she see the three white stones placed around the Moon Lantern. The same rune burned on each stone with a dull white light.
Protect.
Zecora nodded and sighed. The time had come.
She stepped forward, her voice solemn. “Come forth and show yourself to me, for you very well know I will not flee.”
Shadows to her right and to her left coalesced into two worn-looking zebras, a mare and a stallion. Both wore stained and frayed travel cloaks in the traditional desert style, ragged from days of hard travel. Zecora knew she looked much the same, but there was something about their hooded eyes that bespoke a different—and far harder—road than she. It didn’t surprise her. After all, they would have been ordered to arrive here before her.
“The Path ends here and now, Weaver,” said the stallion in a low, resigned voice. “Your actions would destroy us all. We cannot allow you to reach the end.”
Zecora blinked in surprise. She hadn’t expected a familiar voice this far from home. She pulled back her traveling cloak’s hood to address him with proper respect. “You are Zerrin of Pommelwane. You are quite far from your home terrain. I have heard tales of your great deeds sung, yet you fail to address me with a Weaver’s Tongue.”
“You are not worthy of being addressed in the Weaver’s Tongue, witch!” snarled the mare to her left. “You are not worthy to speak it yourself!”
“Zelabra!” snapped the stallion. “We have travelled far, but you will not speak to a Master Weaver in such a way! She is still to be honored for her station!”
“There is no honor left within such a fool. Despite the edicts handed down by the Elders, she departed our lands! She burned her bridges! She spits on us all with her mad quest! She will be the death of our people! Of all people!”
Zecora glanced at her silent companion, unseen by anyzebra save herself. He watched the two, almost as if amused. For a moment, she thought she caught the faint outline of a smile upon his muzzle.
"So you must be the Pommelwane youth. You're quite loud, to tell the truth."
The mare took a step forward and yanked out a vial of frothing red liquid from beneath her cloak. Her bright green eyes glittered like shards of broken glass in the light of the Moon Lantern. Even under Zelabra’s hood, Zecora could see a muzzle twisted with hatred and fear.
“Do not dare speak to me, witch! I have no qualms about seeing you thrown into the deepest pit of the Capitol for the rest of your miserable life for what you are willing to unleash.” Her eyes flashed with something dark. “However, if I have my way, you won’t need to worry about that.”
Zecora eyed the vial warily, but refused to show any other sign of hesitation. “You will not dissuade me from the Path, no matter how hot you’ve stoked your wrath.”
An animalistic snarl was her only response.
“Master Weaver, I beg you—” Zerrin began, but Zecora lifted a hoof. She was impressed—and honored—when he actually stopped.
“I have believed as I do for many a year. What you do now, you do out of fear. I am committed to the task that I was assigned. There is nothing you can say that will change my mind.”
“If we cannot dissuade you… if there is no recourse….” Zerrin spoke slowly, his voice slipping into the Weaver’s Tongue, though Zecora was unsure if it was out of respect or fear. “Then your actions dictate we must use force.”
Zecora nodded her head sadly.
“So be it!” the hot-blooded mare shouted and downed the frothing vial.
Zecora admired Zelabra’s fervor. It reminded her a great deal of herself at a young age. But it had been many years since she had been so zealous over anything. After endless hours of study, practice and training, Zecora’s fervor had been reforged into something far superior: devotion. Tempered by long years and a smiling teacher.
Zelabra had passion.
Zecora had commitment.
And passion tended to make mistakes.
Then again, considering how fast Zelabra moved, Zecora considered that sometimes commitment could simply be outmaneuvered. The Mlinzi—the ancient protectors pulled from every Zebra tribe in the world—were nothing if not thorough in their instruction.
Zecora didn’t even have time to snatch up one of her vials before Zelabra was upon her. She spun on a forehoof and swept Zecora’s legs out from under her. Zecora yowled as she landed against her wounded flank, but quickly turned it into a roll. Zelabra’s forehooves came crashing down where Zecora stomach had been seconds before.
Zecora attempted to sweep Zelabra’s legs, but Zelabra leapt clear with the grace of a cat. Zecora tried to scramble to her hooves but Zelabra turned again and bucked low and hard. The impact sent Zecora flying across the grass in an uncontrolled tumble, toward the Moon Lantern. Zecora bounced painfully off the small bubble created by the ancient technique of the Mlinzi. She rolled again, coming to a stop against a broken pillar on the far side of the fortress.
“Zelabra!” Zerrin barked. “Halt!”
Zelabra had already cleared half the distance when she stopped. Her hood had come off in the fight, revealing a mare at least twenty years younger than Zecora, with a short-cropped mohawk mane. Her ears were flat against her head, and her green eyes burned with hatred.
“Zecora, Master Weaver,” Zerrin said, his tone formal, though it no longer held the rich tones of the Weaver’s Tongue. “I ask you to stand down and surrender. You cannot hope to best the two of us in combat.”
Zecora slowly staggered to her hooves and swayed. There was a ringing in her right ear and she had to squint to keep her vision from going blurry.
“Why do you hold back, Zerrin of Pommelwane?” Zecora asked, wiping the blood from her muzzle with a dirt-coated hoof. “Why from this fight, do you abstain?”
“I made a promise to protect all of our peoples,” Zerrin said, his voice steady. “You are still among that number.”
Zelabra let out a hiss.
Zerrin ignored her. “I have no wish to see you come to harm. You are a Master Weaver. I have no desire to fight you. But I will if you force me. Will you yield? Please?”
Zecora simply shook her head.
Zerrin bowed his head and his shoulders slumped.
Zelabra never took her eyes off of Zecora.
“I’m sorry,” Zerrin whispered.
Zelabra exploded into motion.
This time, so did Zecora.
Though she had been loathe to use it, she drew upon the strength the anklet had been tempting her since she had entered the forest. The magic felt nothing like the magic of Mother Earth. It felt arcane and artificial, far too controlled and far too rigid. Yet for the task she needed, very little was required.
Zecora leapt backward to dodge Zelabra’s first strike. She reared onto her hindlegs and swung her left forehoof at the Mlinzi warrior.
Zelabra sneered and caught the hoof without even blinking. “You are a pathetic excuse for a Weaver.”
Zecora closed her eyes. The tingling in her forehoof increased exponentially. A flare of light erupted all around her, dazzling her even through her eyelids.
However, for the two zebras who had been sulking through the night in their quest to stop her, it had the effect of a miniature sun being thrown into their faces.
Zelabra let out a howl of pain and Zecora felt the other mare release her. Zerrin shouted something she couldn’t make out. With her eyes still closed, Zecora reached into a pouch, yanked out a vial, flipped open the top and swallowed the contents. She willed the anklet’s light away.
Only then did she open her eyes. Awareness flooded her. She saw every blade of grass shifting in the unseen wind, smelled the wild alien scents of the Everfree, felt the cool stone on her flanks, tasted the moisture in the air and heard the slow echoes of Zelabra’s cry fade away. A moment ago, her heart had raced. Now, she could count the seconds between each beat.
Zecora took a deep breath and looked to her opponent. Even now, the mare still fell backward to the soft carpet of grass beneath her. Zecora winced at the sheer amount of pain in the Zelabra’s face. The anklet’s glow had been far stronger than Zecora had intended.
Such a thing wasn’t unexpected, of course. Zecora was no unicorn. She had no idea how to channel this kind of magic. She had little more than the ability draw upon its power, which in turn, drew upon the power of the Moon itself.
Despite the circumstances, Zecora hoped the light hadn’t been too painful to the zealous young mare. Still, she had to finish this.
Even as the other mare continued her fall, Zecora pulled out her second-to-last vial. The final vial remained securely in her pouch.
It would do her no good in this conflict.
With languid grace, Zecora stepped around the mare just as Zelabra landed hard. With surprising speed—despite the Swiftstep Brew burning through Zecora’s veins—Zelabra leapt back to her hooves in a flying somersault.
The Mlinzi had apparently been experimenting with new styles of combat.
The younger mare’s hoof struck out in what would have been a paralyzing strike—had Zecora not moved. Instead, Zelabra looked confused for a moment, her head spinning in slow motion as Zecora circled her opponent. The other zebra’s eyes went wide in recognition—and a small amount of panic. She tried to stumble back.
Zecora gently pushed the vial—shining with green and amber light—under Zelabra’s muzzle and popped the cork. A puff of white vapor flew from the vial as it mixed with the air. While Zecora remained under the effects of the Swiftstep Brew, the potion itself didn’t, and the small cloud drifted up lazily into Zelabra’s face.
Just then, the Swiftstep Brew ran out. Time snapped back into motion and her hypersensitive awareness faded like a dandelion in a breeze. Zecora cringed backward, careful not to breathe in any of the vapor. Zelabra stumbled and her eyes went wide with panic.
“No!” Zelabra cried and lunged for her.
Halfway into her lunge, her eyes rolled into the back of her head and she went limp.
Zecora darted forward and caught the younger mare in her hooves. She staggered for a moment, then gently lowered Zelabra to the grass. Zecora checked Zelabra’s pulse, found it to be strong and breathed out a sigh of relief.
“Young one, you put up quite the fight, but I'm afraid that your task is over tonight."
Zecora rose to her hooves, wincing at the spot where Zelabra had struck her in the side. She likely had a few bruised ribs at the very least. Either way, she knew this next battle would not be won with potions or hooves. Yet she found confidence in a simple, unassailable fact: Zerrin had never moved to attack her as had Zelabra.
Zecora faced the young Mlinzi Weaver and smiled at him bitterly. “Quite the temper stirs within your young friend. Now stand aside, so my journey can end.”
“I knew you would show caution and tact,” Zerrin said, though Zecora heard frustration in his words. “But still, I must ask… Catnap Extract?”
Zecora nodded once.
“I must thank you for your restraint,” Zerrin said with a bow. “But I cannot allow you to release this taint.”
“I plead with you to not stand in my way. You already know that from the Path I won’t sway.”
Zerrin sighed and pulled down his hood. Younger than Zecora had expected—maybe only a year or two beyond Zelabra—he wore the traditional choker of the Pommelwane, a tear-shaped emerald set into a band of crimson pineapple leather. His face was not that of a warrior, but of a healer. Zecora couldn’t help but wonder what had made a promising young Weaver join the ranks of the Mlinzi.
Despite her scrutiny, her opponent’s gaze did not waver.
“Why are you so determined to fight?” Zerrin asked. “You know what would become of a world of endless night. The fate of lands far and wide you are gambling on the well-wishes of a long-dead pony's rambling. The mage has long since ceased to be, and of the success of your cause there is no guarantee.”
Zecora studied the young stallion and considered her words carefully. A quiet suspicion built within her.
“Young Weaver, I must know before our dance shall begin: is your friend’s stance shared amongst all your kin?”
Zerrin didn’t meet her eyes.
“There are many who still believe,” he whispered, almost to himself, “of what might be and what you might achieve.”
“I do this because I made a vow. My goal is not hopeless, I swear to you now.”
Zerrin was silent for a long time. Zecora prayed to the Mother Earth and the Everlasting Balance that he would see reason. She would regret being forced to bring down another Weaver—assuming she had the power to do so.
Though if she were to be honest with herself, she knew her chances against him were slim at best.
Zerrin’s skill with alchemy and potions was unmatched. Zecora herself had studied the young stallion’s papers. He was a prodigy of his tribe, one who many believed would someday lead as the next Great Mshauri Weaver.
She had no wish to fight such a brilliant young mind. She had no illusions as to her chances of success either. But she would if she must. The Path demanded it.
Her eyes wandered to her companion. He now stood at the base of the stairs leading to the crumbling upper floors. She could feel the magic pulsing around the Moon Lantern and around her glyph. Her anklet shivered with pent-up power. She looked up to see the Moon directly overhead. It filled her with both joy and sorrow.
Three stars shifted in the night sky toward the Moon, the motions separate from all others. One bright star remained fixed in place.
“You would do this on the promise of a dream?” the other Weaver’s voice was a mere murmur, barely audible over the forest around the observatory. “Even knowing it may not be what it may seem?”
“My first lesson I learned when I was made my Mshauri’s charge: fight for your dreams, and always dream large.”
Another silence. This one, far shorter.
Then, Zerrin slowly walked toward the three stones surrounding the Moon Lantern. With a deft flick of his hoof, he broke the circle and the magic field vanished. Instantly, power washed over her, the power that had been trapped by the circle. The magic surged around the room on invisible currents, wrapped themselves around her and then leapt upward like a geyser through the whole of the observatory. Zecora watched as the ancient banner of the two alicorns fluttered in the breeze.
The magic rushed back down, tinged with both moonlight and starlight. It spiraled down to their level… and slammed into her companion.
His entire figure flared in a flash of light. He took a deep breath and nodded, his large hat outlined in starlight. The figure turned and slowly walked up the steps of the ancient observatory, each hooffall silent as the Moon in the sky.
Zecora looked to Zerrin and bowed her head low. Then, with slow deliberate grace, she touched her anklets to her throat, so they chimed softly against her neckrings. Zerrin sucked in a breath as she lowered her foreleg and looked up at him.
“I promise that this is the right course to take. I know very well just what is at stake.”
“I pray that you do, my fellow Weaver and friend. If you fail, our land will face a fiery end.”
He stepped forward and reached down for Zelabra. Zerrin lifted her onto his back , carrying his companion’s weight without comment or complaint. He let out a low sigh, glanced at the Moon and then back at Zecora.
For a moment, a flicker of a smile appeared on his muzzle. “Your Uncle sends his blessings,” he said, dropping the Weaver’s Tongue.
At Zecora’s expression, Zerrin chuckled faintly to himself before departing the ruined observatory. She watched him leave, her mouth hanging open in shock. Zerrin never looked back. After a short time, he disappeared into the trees.
After Zecora had recovered her wits, she bowed again in the direction he had gone. It wouldn’t have surprised her to know the Mlinzi Weaver had decided to remain to see what would transpire. Even if he did not, he still had more than earned her gratitude.
Zecora took a last deep breath and followed her starry companion up the stairs.