The trail had been faint and short. If she hadn’t known what to look for, and where the trail began, Celestia would have missed it completely.
After the cave by the river, the trail had continued northwest with a travelling salespony who had never arrived and was never found, his path having crossed something deadly. But then, his was a dangerous trade, so his death had hardly warranted investigation. Then, there was a farmstead, the family mysteriously devoured by scavengers. It had been surmised that while the animals might have attacked for reasons unknown, probably the ponies had just gotten sick and died. There was certainly no sign of foul play.
And then, further along, a small fishing village of perhaps twenty ponies, all strangely vanished sometime between annual market days. Every mare, stallion, and foal, along with all their personal belongings, were simply gone. But as the railroads continued to be built, a community that small moving into a larger town was becoming more common. So, while ponies in the nearby villages had missed them and their wares, there was little reason for concern. It was, after all, the way of a changing world.
But in every instance, Celestia had known better.
Thus, the trail had led to a large farming village, in a steep valley in the northern Whitetail Woods. Technically a town by population, it was still called a ‘village’ simply due to tradition and location. It was remote, isolated by terrain, and reputed for its inhabitants’ love of privacy.
The village itself might not have even had a name. Map makers gave it the valley’s name, on the rare occasion they marked it down at all. Neighbors – the closest of whom lived days away – called it ‘in the valley,’ while its inhabitants apparently just called it ‘the village.’ Like Cloudsdale, it was one of the few places in modern Equestria that essentially had only one tribe of inhabitants. And the earth ponies who dwelt there had little use for trade, visitors, or much else from outside.
Voe Valley.
According to what little was written about the place, Voe Valley was lush and fertile, thanks in part to the creek flowing through it. Now, flying over the valley, Celestia could see that those accounts had hardly done the place justice. Flora and fauna alike flourished under a rich forest canopy, and the stone cliffs of the valley itself were as breathtakingly beautiful as they were sheer and unclimbable.
But Celestia had little inclination to appreciate the beauty of the dale. For in the center of the valley, covering where the village was supposed to be, was a massive web of egg-colored silk. Anchored to the treetops on all sides, it rippled gently in the wind like the sail of a giant’s shipwreck.
It was concealed by an illusion, of course. But not one so powerful that she could not see through it. And for that, Celestia allowed herself a moment of elation. To all appearances, her enemies were not expecting her, or else the Crimson Queen would have woven a much more powerful enchantment. Or, perhaps, her enemies were simply not powerful enough to deceive her in person.
Then she stopped in mid-air, and reminded herself just who she was dealing with.
Concealing herself behind the white autumn clouds, she concentrated for several moments, looking for any further trace of magical deception. Finding none, Celestia hesitated. She remembered well how difficult the Queen’s illusions could be to detect, how cunningly they could lead one into the monster’s webs... and especially how those deadly strands let the monster feed even more voraciously on those trapped within. It was an evil memory, and the princess shuddered a little as she thought of it.
But looking at the billowing weave below her, the web seemed designed to prevent entry, not to ensnare. Celestia frowned. If the Crimson Queen anticipated intruders, why not let them tangle themselves, and feed at leisure? And for that matter, who would she be expecting, if not Celestia? It was a curious defense, one that asked more questions than it answered.
For a moment, Celestia considered simply burning the web away, charging into her foes’ nest, and challenging Queen and Knight alike in a blaze of fire and light. But only for a moment. She was not the young mare she had been when they had last fought, so long ago. She liked to think she had gained at least a little wisdom since then. And there was obviously something in her enemies’ plans that she did not yet understand.
So, caution.
In a flash of sunlight, she materialized at the west end of the valley, away from the village and any roads leading to it. Whatever might be awaiting her, she would be better able to see it at walking speed. And if she was expected, she was likely expected to arrive by air.
At the same time, there might have been snares set here or there as a matter of course; or strands set where they might be broken by an intruder, setting off some hidden alarm. So she would need to proceed carefully.
The creek emptied into a small fissure at the mouth of Voe Valley, vanishing underground. As she made her way along the rocky terrain and down into the valley itself, the woods below and before her were full of life. As she passed the creek’s fissure, ancient trees, bushes, and high grass fairly bristled with birds, rabbits, and other animals. All of them completely oblivious to the cottony mass further in the valley, and to the strange, musty scent it exuded.
Straining her senses to their utmost, Celestia continued her journey eastward, deeper into her enemies’ lair. After a time, Celestia passed through a meadow full of flowers and birds, eyeing every shape and form with suspicion. Yet, everything seemed to be only as it appeared.
Warily, Celestia walked further into the valley, slowly approaching the webbed nest in its center.
Then, eventually she simply stopped, staring at what lay before her.
On the outskirts of the Crimson Queen’s nest was the village cemetery. But it was one unlike any Celestia had ever seen. It was composed of small stones. Just row after row of them, each about the size and shape of a bread loaf. No marks, no decorations, no flowers or offerings. Just… stones. Hundreds of pale little stones.
Celestia stepped carefully as she navigated the crowded graveyard. After a while, as she got closer to the village, the stones started having engravings. ‘Son.’ ‘Daughter.’ Then, after that, the previous year carved on as well. And after that – only after that – the small markers carried names as well as dates and genders.
Ages four and less, she thought. All of them. Looking around, it seemed that a few years ago, the village’s young foals had all died. The first stones she’d encountered, the ones most recently buried, would have all been weanlings born since that time.
And there were so many. Far, far too many.
The entire village hasn’t had a weanling survive in the last four years, she realized. And now their deaths have become so commonplace, so numbing, that the villagers have stopped even giving their newborns names.
When she and Luna had faced the two monsters before, it had been shortly after Discord’s fall. The pair had been known to devour entire herds together, leaving nothing but empty, staring husks for whatever scavengers might come. But Celestia had never imagined what it might have looked like if they had decided to feed slowly.
Now, surrounded by the little grave markers, Celestia looked around herself with growing sadness. For a long moment, her head hung almost to the ground. She honored her guilt, allowed it to wash over and through her. Then, she focused upon her anger instead, raising her head again. She looked further on, into the web-shrouded village itself.
She understood now. That wasn’t a nest she saw before her. It was a larder.
I know you’re here, she thought. I know you’re here, and I’m coming for you.
Mira looked over at the cavern entrance, frowning.
Blue followed her glance, frowning as well. “Mother? What is it?”
She shook her head. “Business I have to take care of.” She sighed. “Come on, son of my heart. Bedtime.”
“But I’m not tired!”
“That’s all right. Come on. I’ll kiss you goodnight.”
“But…” his shoulders sagged. “But I don’t want to go to bed this early. The sun’s still out. Can’t I just go outside until it’s dark?”
“No, dear heart. Sorry. Come on, I’ll make it quick.”
Sighing in defeat, Bluebottle went to where his mother waited. He hissed slightly when she kissed him, where the neck and shoulder met, but it was only a little sting and one he’d long ago become used to. Almost immediately his eyes were getting heavy, and he could feel himself nodding off.
Shortly thereafter, another being entered the cave. Upright and gleaming in silvery steel, the intruder contemplated the sleeping foal in his protective silken orb, hanging from his mother’s web.
“So, he yet endures.” A masculine voice, echoing and strange. “Never did I dream he would last so long.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Be quiet. He could hear you.”
“Nay,” the cave’s new occupant chuckled. “Not ‘till a hot Hearth’s Warming, with thy kisses in his veins.”
She grunted, but said nothing, crouching in her customary place by the fire.
“For lo, these many months, hast thou been keeping thy treasure to thyself,” the figure observed. “Seasons and years have come an’ been spent. Tell me, hast no inclination of community in thy feast?”
“An’ hast no patience within thy hearts, to ask me so?” she hissed, lapsing into the Old Speech herself. “Fie! Thou’rt wild wood as those sisters, to state such confusion.”
Mira Pisaurina rose and went to Bluebottle’s hammock, where he hung in peaceful slumber. “Ne’er before has there been such a trove,” she purred, touching its silken threads. “Nor, belike, shall e’er be again.”
“And thus, let caution rule thy desires,” the figure said. “Thou takes too long in thy feeding, an’ thus the risk doth swell. Single heart hath single strengths.”
“Aye, made no easier by thy o’er cunning to-do!” she snapped, whirling on him. “Didst have to give him memories of the villagers below? Of enjoying himself there? What was possibly to be gained? A jewel such as ne’er before dreamed, an’ thou wouldst risk it in petty temptations!”
But the armored form only shrugged, what little light there was in the cave gleaming off his bipedal form.
“Teaching despair is e’er a fine art,” he said. “Contentment may weaken the soul, e’en as envy doth corrode it. But ‘tis loss which ultimately breaks it. An’ recall: when his heart finally empties, he passeth from thy plate... to mine.”
Then, he chuckled. “And what of thy nursery charades? Speakest to me of to-do, with all thy this-is-for-stallions and this-is-for-mares nonsense?”
She favored him with a sour look. “’Tis a useful confliction which hampers the mind.”
Beneath the pony illusion she maintained, a few of her eyes looked back to the hammock where Bluebottle slept peacefully.
“This is a foal of unique power,” she said softly. “A heart as strong as a thousand suns, as wide as an ocean, as welcoming as a tomb. Nothing done by any art can change that. Yet, ‘tis by fearing weakness that he doth keep that heart’s defenses weak. An’ being weak, lo, he remains a river for me alway to sup from, again and again. An’ thus each night, I grow stronger. So, so much stronger.”
“Ah. An’ here I thought ‘twas sentimentality. Or dost truly despise so the role thou hast taken, an’ the form thou needlessly wears, e’en now?”
Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “An’ speakest thus, e’en as thou walks in a two-legged skin of steel. Is’t only this foolishness for which thou hast sought me in my haven?”
“Nay, my dam, in sooth ‘tis not.” His bow was a mockery forged in polished silver, but his voice was sincere as he said, “The remaining sister hath caught our scent, else one aligned with it. She approacheth fast.”
She hissed through her compound mandibles, all form and semblance of ponykind discarded, her bladed forelegs rearing up in fear. “Impossible! My spells protect us from all scrying!”
“An’ yet, she is near here now.” The Knight of Mirrors tilted his helmed visage in invitation, saying, “E’en now she walks among the dead, mourning their soft skulls an’ softer lives. Shalt thou see to her comfort, an’ her to thine, as in ages before?”
“Verily, I must have mated with a scorpion, to throw tarante with such tongue as thine,” Mira snarled. With some of her eyes, she again glanced at the foal hanging above. Others she kept on the figure before her. A few glanced at the cave’s entrance, calculating. Ultimately, her forelegs lowered again. “Nay. E’en now, mine harvest is far from complete. How much time have we, bethinks?”
“Time enow to count thy limbs, an’ mine,” he replied. “Mayhap less.”
“An’ only now dost mention this tiding?” she demanded. “My son is a fool!”
Another bow. “Know thyself, madam. Once, thou reserved the Sun Maiden for thyself. I contested that choice then, an’ do so now. We did ourselves no credit, to strive against our own strengths. An’ therefore did we fall. Now, I but crave thy leave to do as I must.”
“Damn you!” She crossed her forelegs over her face in frustration. “Aargh! I have no choice now! We cannot escape from her thus ill-prepared, an’ the feast must not be broken.” She slid her forelegs down her many eyes, rounding on him again. “Didst thou need to harvest the village entire in thy impatience? Thy gluttony?”
“They were ripe. Thy feeding had ended, thy migratory preparations begun at last. ‘Twas therefore my own feast which was at hand. I did but claim my right.”
“An’ yet hadst waited but a single day, or e’en fed more slowly, we might have hidden!”
A shrug. “Hunger begets little patience.”
“Patience enough to bring me this laggardly news,” she snarled. “An’ now thanks to thee, we have no time! Now we must needs fight her, prepared or no!”
“Ah,” he said, inclining his head again. “Then I have thy blessing.”
“Thou hast a thousand curses for thy ten thousand follies, thou arrogant whelp!” She screamed. “Go, then! Do as thou wilt, an’ see thou art the victor, on thy life!”
His laugh was a hollow sound, echoing and cruel.
“Madame, ‘tis already won. The lady died the moment she entered our valley. Indeed, she died upon her mind’s own spear, a thousand year agone.”
He departed unhurriedly, metal moving against metal and stone. Then, silence.
Meanwhile, within his hammock, Bluebottle stirred fitfully. With a grace beyond that of any mortal creature, the Crimson Queen ascended on her nine legs to where Bluebottle’s protective orb hung, secure in her massive snow-colored web.
“Shh, shh, shh... oh, there, there, my poor son,” she crooned, “I am here, oh, the dreams that must have given you, there, there… shh, my dear one, shhhhhhh…”
She stroked the outline of his cheek through its protective silk, rocking him from side to side, singing softly until he was still once more. Then, she turned her many eyes again to the cave’s entrance.
“Be victorious, child of mine flesh,” she whispered in the dark. “For thy sake, an’ for mine.”