//------------------------------// // III. Descent Into Sarnath // Story: 81 Days To Celestia's Front Door // by Cynewulf //------------------------------// Sarnath is brighter than one would expect a subterranean city to be, but do not trust its light.  That would be my first word of advice to any who entered that place. Yes, the streets are mostly lit, and the caverns glow. But the darkness is always there at the edges of everything. We forget, or at least I did before I journeyed down into Sarnath, just how omnipresent light is. The sun’s gift is so, so precious. We can just see, no constant effort involved--most of us, of course, I do not mean to exclude--and for half the day we do not need to bear torches or walk only in lit paths. But in Sarnath to see at all, any who is not native to that realm must have constant assistance. Normal torches will not suffice, as the smoke from most will suffocate with time.  The batponies of Sarnath who are native to the dark can see in it perfectly fine. Though they are less sure in absolute, total darkness, the tiniest bit of light within sight will illuminate vast caverns for them. So off the main highway one finds neighborhoods and markets where there is only one or two soft green lights. Not magic, I’m told, but in fact a fascinating sort of botanical alchemy. One can synthesize many volatile and valuable substances from the plants beneath the earth’s fecund crust which can do far more than I imagined.  Sarnath’s denizens walk swiftly past, often at the edges of your vision. Few will meet your eyes. Think about that, imagine it, because it will come up again. When you do catch their eyes, they are golden, or like amber stars in the shadows.  We were given a tour of sorts. Our hosts showed us their monuments and grand architecture, always framing this display as educational for me. It was very much so, but I know better than to think it was altruistic. Certainly now I know that nothing those monsters do is done with good intention. Their architecture, by the by, is eldritch. I know that I’m being a bit short, but ‘tis the term most suited. It bends in odd ways, in measure both savage and beautiful. I saw a spire at the center of the city which curled up in a double helix towards the rocky ceiling of a cavern a mile wide. Bridges crossing chasms I could see no bottom too with railing that twisted and flowed like rock had become water, windows that seemed to waver, that one’s eye got lost in the lines of--it was hard not to gawk at every single thing. Of course, there was more to it then architecture and lights. The worst I save for last, but in the street one feels an oppressive air. Not a single bat pony would look at our hosts. They fear their rulers. They are terrified of them. The citizens of Sarnath do not linger for a moment in the sight of the dreadful creatures. They do not wish to be speared by their predatory gaze. And yet... I think you would have enjoyed it, Miss Ink. Truly, I know I have perhaps painted a grim mood, but you would have enjoyed it. Despite the gloom and despite our hosts, there is something enchanting about Sarnath. The lights are lovely and soft, even if they are mostly in greens. There is a bridge in the district called Deepgate that crosses a coursing river which cuts the rocks, and glowing flowers bloom in the crags. The bridge is so very delicate in its appearance, each pillar of the railings seeming to be crafted with a master’s skill as if each were again made of water, rivulets coursing together to create a structure. But when you are halfway across, you see the true wonder of it: there are lamps that sit low to the ground beside the pillars and the light they cast causes each shadow to dance in the clear, cold water below. It’s all very enchanting. I wish I could show you that. * We took a break then.  I made tea for us both while Passport had a look at a book that I had brought with me. It’s just my copy of Cereal de Braygerac that I carry around with me sometimes. It’s a comfort object, or so I explained it to her when she asked. While I was staring down at the kettle, I couldn’t help but let my mind wander elsewhere. I lived in the city of Sarnath, far below the ground. Strange music drifted lonely like smoke on a wind, but there was no wind, there couldn’t be, but I swear that I felt a chill breeze on my back. I had been in Hollow Shades and seen the batpony tree-towers there, but this was nothing like that. Yet… I could imagine. Hollow Shades had been so warm and welcoming. The smell of bread led you around the corner, and foals flew between the tall trees chasing each other and laughing. But if I took away the polite elders and the playful children and the moon above, what else was left? Strange angles and strange music which weaved through the trees. I could imagine it.  She was right. I did want to see it. When I returned she smiled up at me, and I confess that I was happy to be smiled at. “Here you go,” I said brightly and set down a tray for us. “Thanks, really.” “It’s my pleasure. You’re a delightful audience, Ducky.” I grinned myself and looked down. “So… where were we? Sarnath. You were talking about the bridges.” She took her tea and hummed. “I was, yes, but it’s probably time to talk about… the rest. Or maybe not right away. Let’s see…” * After our tour, we were shown our lodgings in the spire at the center of the city. We had separate rooms, which to be quite honest with you, I was not happy with. I am not, how would you say it, clingy? But I was in strange environs with hosts who unsettled me. I wanted to be close to my lady, for protection, but also just… Well, because she was familiar. Might I tell you a story? A story within a story, which is I know, a foolish thing. When I was a young girl, I went with my parents to visit another city. Our lodgings were palatial, and yet I was miserable. I couldn’t sleep. I was a young woman, newly come into my own, and my father decided that I should have my own room. I agreed… but in a new place, in a large, dark space… I was so alone. So I tossed and turned in Sarnath, and after many hours I rose and wandered into the halls. I know that it is foolish to say so, but I swear to you that Sarnath is nothing more than a realm of corridors, long and forboding, lit strangely, cold and discomforting. They lead into each other, confusing in their alienation. I found a strange sort of lounge, with an overlook which showed the city lit and alive, teeming below. The air was rank with a smell I did not recognize. In fact, I recalled as I explored among the luxurious plush seating, many places in Sarnath had smelled like that. Like something rotten and wet. I was naive, really, truly naive. I should have recognized that smell. But I didn’t. It would have saved me a lot of grief. I thought to find my way back when I heard a noise just to my right. I whirled, but saw nothing. Another, on my left. Fear seized me, and I turned both ways, backing towards the wall. Did shadows run between the opulent couches, did I see something reflected in the crystal vessels left carelessly on tables? Even now I’m not entirely sure. But what was true was this: at the height of this beastial and frankly embarassing panic, I heard a voice. It sounded like needles in silk.  “You seem lost.” And he was there, a bat pony with dull red eyes. He was dressed in finery, his high stiff collar trimmed in the same color as his eyes and gold everywhere that such a creature could find an excuse to hang it. My heart lodged itself in my throat, and I recoiled. But… well, I wanted to jump or move or gain a bit more distance from him. The stranger loitered in the door way from which I had come, between me and my room. Was he some sort of lordling, stalking the halls? Or some lackey sent to keep watch over troublesome guests? “I couldn’t sleep,” I replied. I would like to say my voice was even and controlled, but in truth I less spoke and more mewled my answer. Pathetic. I felt like I had been taken out of my own story. I was a bit player brought in off the street to fill the role of Distressed Damsel Number 3 in a penny-dreadful adapted for street theatre. I say all of this so that you will not think less of me. But I was both afraid and oddly enamored at once, unable to tear my gaze from the crimson eyes of the shadow who approached.  “So you just wandered about, hm? Didn’t anyone tell you to keep your hooves to yourself?” “I… no, not really?” I managed to say.  He was beautiful in the moonlight. I will confess that there are very few of the masculine persuasion that I have ever found truly beautiful--I look for other things there, on the occasions I care to look--and so I am confident when I say that I shall never see a face in this world quite so perfectly the ideal of masculine beauty.  “Ironic, that you come here as well.”  Then he smiled at me.  Friend, can you describe a fiend? His eyes, his face, his poise? Can you see him dancing in your mind’s eyes, bright and hot with reckless, lascivious fire? Because I can now, and the fiend wears that stallion’s face in the moonlight. But I was not so blinded that I did not notice the fangs. I think it was his elongated fangs that helped me escape the glamoring, and which jolted me awake.  I stirred and backed away from him, and where I had hoped to see him taken aback, brought up short, anything at all--he was unfazed. His progress was unimpeded. “Do you know in who’s kingdom you have come so innocently, girl?” “I-I’m starting to put it together,” I said, my voice cracking. The only other way out was behind me, and I edged towards it. He tsked, that demon. “There’s no need to be dramatic. I’d be still if I were you.” Grinding my teeth, I threw my answer back. “Why?” “Because you’ll run into much less forgiving guests.” That brought me up short. So I was pincered between potential foes. Splendid. The stallion came a bit further, so that we were but two pony-lengths away, and then he stopped. With a bow that was more scorn then gallantry, he finally introduced himself.  “My name is Withers, friend of the House by who’s hospitality you currently are benefiting. Luckily, I am also rather inclined to be a part of that hospitality. How fortunate for you. And might I have the gift of your name?” I did not wish to give him my name, to be honest. But I am less attached to the name I use in this world than I am to my original, so it is less a cost to give it. “Passport,” I said, squaring my shoulders. Now that his preternatural charm had worn off, I found myself growing tired of his archaic way of speech. He chortled. “Fitting. You’ve picked a very bad time to be up and about, young Passport. This place will be very lively soon. Perhaps lively earlier now that there is the, ha, blood of innocents about it.” “Can you explain what exactly you expect to happen?” I asked, resisting the urge to glance back over my shoulder. I didn’t want to take my eyes off the obvious threat in front of me. “A bit of a soiree. Some loners courting patrons or their current patron’s favor, much like myself. Noble houses’ scions here for business and pleasure in equal measure. Have you not noticed?” “What?” “The staff.” I blinked, and couldn’t help but look. There, in the shadows against the wall I saw them. Batponies with dark coats going silently as ghosts in and out of a door in the wall I only now noticed. They carried in pairs great vessels. The smell I had not really given much of a thought to came back again with greater force. It was acrid and growing stronger, and I cringed. “I hadn’t seen them,” I admitted. “If this place is just hosting some sort of gathering, why should I be in any danger?” “Because any normal pony in the presence of her predators and betters should be nervous. You already are--don’t deny it. I’ve honestly grown slightly bored of the effect on the untouched. It’s a hind-brain trigger, nothing but ancient stirrings to protect you from predators that stopped hunting you a long time ago. Though, I must say how curious it is that you seem to have pulled away quicker than most. It is too late for you to leave, but it is not too late for you to live and be unsullied.” “So, what, you’ll give me protection?” “Yes, I will. Do you hear them coming?” “What? No.” He rolled his eyes, and somehow that action more than the others actually made me feel as if he might be earnest. “Of course you don’t, blast it. I forget how dull and senseless you lot are. You have but a moment before they begin to arrive. It’ll be the more chaotic sorts and the weaklings first.” I bristled at his tone. “And I should trust you because of…?” “Because your hosts are my patrons. The loss of face they would suffer from having their guest’s attendant stolen from under their noses. Their loss of face effects my own standing.” He gestured, his hoof outstretched and flat open to the ceiling. “It’s pragmatism, if that’s what you’ll accept. Your safety costs me little and gains me more than I shall lose. It’s simple arithmetic, and you seem a keen sort for logic. Think about it, and stop arguing.” I just… blinked at him. It made sense. If I believed what he said, it made sense. He hadn’t attacked, and I had the feeling that if he wanted to, he could have leaped the gap and sunk his fangs in me. “Fine. What do we do?” “You step closer and you stay close,” he said, holding out a hoof. “You tell anypony who asks that you belong to me, and they assume I defend my property as a matter of course.” Loathsome. I all but hissed at him in response. The arrogance, the gall of suggesting such a thing. But before I could say anything to him, I heard hoofsteps echoing down the hall. I turned at last. Giggling young mares leaning on each other, laughing at some shared malicious joke. Their eyes blood red, their faces perfect, their mouths glittering with sharp teeth like knives. I turned abruptly back towards my wouldbe savior. I hated him and his demands and his perfection, and I hated that he was telling the truth. I hated having to be in the same room with him and his arrogance. But I did not want to meet the mares or whomever might join them. So I stepped forward and touched his hoof with mine.