//------------------------------// // Wherein Our Heroine Doesn’t End Up Going To Summer Flight Camp // Story: Legends // by Carabas //------------------------------// “It was a beautiful day in Canterlot.” Daring Do, a great believer in setting the scene, narrated to herself. “Through the hustle and bustle, our valiant heroine and her trusty sidekick made their way to the Royal Archaeological Society’s headquarters, to which they had been mysteriously invited…” “I work there. That’s not too mysterious,” Dad protested, by Daring’s side. He looked briefly thoughtful. “Mind you, I like being trusty. Can I be dashing as well?” “You can choose one,” Daring said with all due severity. “And it’s kinda mysterious. You said Lady Charroan hadn’t told you exactly why she was calling you there.” “Lady Charroan, long may she reign over our mad society with the iron hoof we all deserve, loves tantalising ponies with an air of mystery.” Dad grinned wryly.  “What do you think she wants?” “If I had to guess, she’ll want me to help organise a new conference or draft me into helping edit the next Archaeological Enquiries journal.” Dad shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe it’ll be something more exciting than that. But most importantly, if forced to choose between adjectives, I opt for ‘dashing’.” Daring absently nodded, mentally updating her narration. She wasn’t entirely satisfied with it, truth be told. It was a nice day, sure, with a clear sky and a bright midday sun that made the marble sparkle. But there was a briskness to Canterlot’s air today that had made Daring put on the khaki bush jacket Dad had gotten her for her eleventh birthday a few months back and had made Dad button up the front of his own indigo justacorps. ‘Beautiful’ could stand, though. Embellishment made for the best stories. And Canterlot was in full hustle, with even a bit of bustle going on as well. Well-dressed earth ponies and unicorns thronged the wide streets and pegasi cut through the skies. Full carts and wagons found exciting new ways to end up at cross-purposes to one another. Overhead, past the teams of pegasi, Daring squinted at the towers of the palace on Canterlot’s topmost tier, as she usually did, for the sight of a white figure at a high balcony. Having a fan-in-waiting had induced the habit. Especially when they happened to be the Princess. “Nearly there,” Dad said and Daring turned her attention back to the street. Excited, she flapped up off the ground, alighted on Dad as the nearest perch, and used his back as a platform from which to propel herself up into the air, eliciting an ‘Urk!’ from him as she did so. With a few clumsy wing-flaps she flew ahead, skiffing the edge of a lamp-post in the process and whirling round mid-air to see the society headquarters. Before her, taking up the end of the short side street, sprawled the Royal Archaeological Society’s headquarters. Temperamental artifacts and treasures with unsuspected destructive potential meant that the Society had often had to rebuild from the smouldering craters where bygone headquarters had sat. This latest was a large, white-washed, and timber-framed building with wings and pennants and superfluous little towers sprouting from it at their own private whims. Daring eyed it approvingly. Her attention was caught by something black-and-white perched on the roof. It was about pony-sized, though not pony-shaped. A griffon, maybe? But it looked like it had two legs, rather than four... “Daring?”  Daring turned away from the black-and-white thing and, with some effort, hovered round to face Dad frowning up at her. “Try not to break yourself on civic infrastructure. And especially try not to break poor, decrepit fathers while doing so.” “Sorry,” Daring replied, abashed as she flapped back down to the pavement. “I did almost miss the lamp-post, though.” “‘Almost’ is the key phrase there.” Dad sighed and tousled her mane, which she allowed with only a few token protests. “Summer Flight Camp’ll be good for you, poppet. Looking forward to it?” Daring nodded. She absolutely was… well, saving for the presence of a couple of foals from her school who she knew would also be showing up. Before Dad’s mysterious invitation, it had been the most exciting thing on the horizon. She’d practised flying as hard as she could on her own and could move through the air in a sort-of-flying-ish way, but she was tired of doing so with all the grace of a thrown hardback. Dad had tried to help, but there was only so much he could do as an earth pony. She’d seen Wonderbolts shows and sought out new stories with heroes that could break the sound barrier and fly in death-defying races. Those were nearer the ideal. “One more week, and then you’re there for a month,” Dad said as they trotted towards the headquarters. “Worse ways to spend your summer holiday. Remember, when you emerge as the best flier in Equestria and begin winning all the races, share the prize money with your nearest and dearest. I have bad habits that need maintaining.” Daring grinned. “Nope. You’re only getting it for good habits.” Dad sighed. “How could I have raised such a cruel daughter?” They neared the oversized front door of the building and Dad leaned forward to push it open. “Well, never mind. Let’s pretend to be respectable members of society.” Daring duly pretended as the doors swung open and they ambled in. The vast main room of the building greeted them, centred around a great wooden pillar permanently coated with pinned notices and printed papers. Around it spun rows of wooden walkways and staircases and doorways on each floor led into mysterious recesses of the building; to studies and vaults and offices and armouries and libraries and more.  At the moment, it was disappointingly quiet. The last few times Daring had been here, there’d been at least a couple of rival adventurer-archaeologists brawling around the scenery each time, complete with cheering spectators.  This time only a tall, lean, yellow-hided unicorn mare stood at the column’s base, hammering in a notice with her forehoof as they entered. She turned and a rune-engraved prosthetic foreleg nudged up the wide brim of her hat. Daring met the diamond-blue gaze of Lady Charroan, Peer of Equestria, Head of the Royal Archaeological Society, Dame of the Order of the Spur, recipient of the Celestial Cross, and almost certainly all sorts of other things.  Charroan was an easy mare to be awed by, even if a pony didn’t know her reputation. And if they did, they’d know she’d led the first delve into the Thorn Tower, set a new record for the furthest attempt yet made to reach Utmost North, helped rescue Zebrica’s Pharaoh from the accursed Wandering Pyramid, and loads else. She’d received a knighthood for saving Equestria once and had been granted a full-blown peerage for doing it a second time. She was also a soft touch for peppermints and had slipped Daring one each time she’d come to the society headquarters before. Dad nodded politely and doffed his tricorn and received a nod, doff, and grin in return. “Gallivant,” Charroan said, her voice marked by a soft growl. Daring bobbed her head at Charroan, and she in turn smiled down at Daring. The multitude of interesting scars that notched her face creased with the motion. “And Trouble. Glad you got my message.” “Glad to have received it.” Dad smiled wryly at Charroan. “Share the exciting details, your ladyship. How many journal submissions do I do battle with this eve?” “You cynic. I’ve something a little more exciting than that in mind.” “More exciting?” “More exciting.” Lady Charroan stepped closer to Dad, her grey braids swinging, and tapped the front of her embroidered jacket. “We have a foreign visitor in need of our bespoke services.” That got Daring’s attention. Someone sought the services of Equestria’s adventurer-archaeologists? Who, and why? Dad blinked. “Did they ask for me in particular?” “Not you by name, but any competent member of our society.” Lady Charroan smirked. “You are something resembling that. And —” She leaned closer. “You may not have been able to publicise it, but Princess Celestia has divulged enough to me regarding the Antlertean outpost and your work there. Frankly, even if most of the others weren’t off competing with one another to get at those new-found ruins in the Dactylian Interior, I’d call on you in particular.” “Gracious,” said Dad after a moment. “You’ll make a stallion blush.” “I’d sooner make a stallion hear the visitor out, at least. No more than that, if you’d sooner not take his offer up, but ...” “His offer,” Dad said, prodding at those details which seemed to need filling out. “He’s a he, then. This all sounds great fun, Charroan, but I’m still almost totally in the dark.” “I’ll be happy tae enlighten ye, cuddy.” The words came from an upper story, from a low, soft, burr of a voice, and Daring and Dad glanced up at the same time. Daring’s eyes widened. High up, one foot resting on the wooden railing, there perched a corvid. Its frame was the size of any pony, bent wings at their side promising a wingspan to rival griffons. Black feathers covered them, save for flashes of white on their withers, belly, and flanks. Dark eyes glittered over a long, sharp beak, set in a thin face. A patched tweed waistcoat was buttoned tight about his torso, set all over with little hooks and pockets. A hemp strap was wound over the waistcoat, and Daring glimpsed the edge of a satchel peeking up over his shoulder. Daring didn’t think she’d ever seen a corvid before, except maybe apart from a few far-off specks in the skies over Manehattan. They were a strange, far-off species that lived in the easternmost wild expanse of the continent of Ungula, as far away from Equestria and the west as you could get. She rummaged through everything she knew about them.  Fliers, check. Lived in clans, check. Tartan and black powder and weird, wailing bagpipes, check. They’d been at war with Equestria ages back, a war which Equestria and Princess Celestia had thoroughly won, check. They did other things, maybe? This one spread his wings and flew down to land before them, his taloned feet scrabbling briefly on the richly-carpeted floor before finding an awkward purchase. Daring took a half-step towards him. Dad stood still, though little muscles moved in his face and his stance shifted ever-so-slightly. “Gallivant, I present to you our unexpected and honoured guest.” Lady Charroan gestured from pony to corvid with her steel foreleg. “Unexpected and honoured guest, I present to you Field Researcher Gallivant, one of our more accomplished and, most saliently, present members. And his daughter, Daring Do.” “Pleased tae meet ye,” rasped the corvid. Now that Daring got a closer look at him, he seemed fairly old. Weathered, at the very least; his plumage was shabby and scruffy and tufted in places, especially on his head, and his eyes were wrinkled around the edges. Then she was aware of the corvid turning those eyes to briefly inspect her, saw vague — curiosity? Amusement? Something in the cast of those eyes, though his strange, gaunt, beaked face made it hard to tell. Then he turned back to Dad, and as Daring wondered what he’d made of her, he raised one foot and extended it towards Dad, balancing smoothly on the other. “Likewise,” said Dad, his tone mild and measured as he extended his own forehoof and shook the corvid’s foot. “You have the advantage of me, Mr …?” “Gamfer. Bard of Clan Glimrovoe, if we’re tae ken each other by our occupations.” His r’s all trilled out, the corvid released the grip of his foot’s long, clever digits on Dad’s hoof, and leaned back, scrutinising the stallion. “Charroan here, who I’ll take tae be an authority on these things, assures me ye’re a competent adventurer-archeologist. Is that a fair assessment?” “I defer to her opinion,” Dad said neutrally. “Guid. I — and my clan for that matter — require someone wi’ that exact description.” If she was intrigued, Daring knew, Dad must be as well. But he had a lot of experience in looking sober and composed, and so while she unabashedly goggled at the magpie, Dad instead said, “It’s nice to be in demand, but what exactly do you require an adventurer-archeologist for?” One of Gamfer’s nimble feet rose and tapped at his waistcoat’s breast pocket. “Lead me somewhere comfy and I’ll show ye, Mr Gallivant.” Dad glanced round at one of the doors leading to the side. “Is anypony using that meeting-room, Charroan?” “Sweep the dust off the table when you enter.” Lady Charroan replied. “I don’t think that one’s been used since Dust Devil kicked Wavebreaker out through the window after he tried to steal her trophy-piece at the end of a delve. Again.” “One wonders when they’ll just admit their true feelings and get engaged. After you, Mr Gamfer.” Dad gestured to the room and then glanced round at Daring. “Wait outside while I discuss things, poppet. There’s books over by the —” “The wall over there, got it,” said Daring, making for the cubby-hole in one wall, which came stocked with its own little library of diverting literature. “Tell me what it’s all about once you’re out!” “Tell me your plans as well, for that matter,” said Lady Charroan, turning and ambling in another direction. “I do like knowing what bits of geography my archaeologists are bound to inflict themselves upon and who to send the inevitable apology letters to.” As Dad and Gamfer vanished into the room, affording a brief glimpse of the shadowy meeting-room within before Gamfer nudged the door shut, Lady Charroan swept around a corner out of sight, and Daring flapped up into the little cubby-hole in the wall.  It was a familiar cubby-hole to Daring. Its base and back were lined with cushions, and its sides were bookshelves lined with a mix of dry-looking journals and biographies and considerably more fun-looking adventure novels. A good place to sit in peace to do some research or to leave a bookish foal while you chatted about exciting things on the other side of a closed door. Daring nestled herself into the cushions. She pulled an Equid Brayton book at random from one of the shelves — it seemed like ages since she’d last read one. She opened it up and glanced inside while, from the other side of the meeting-room door, she heard the faint sound of chairs shifting, followed by murmured conversation. Then, once they’d had a moment to get engrossed in whatever they were talking about, she shoved the book back where she’d found it, flapped out the cubby-hole and landed as quietly as she could on the floor, and then scooted over to the meeting-room door. Hushed conversations were made for listening in on. It’d be so discouraging for a hushed conversation if it wasn’t listened in on. And she obliged it as she pressed her ear against the wood. She picked up Dad’s muffled voice, as well as the flap of papers. “—imposing from the outside, certainly. You said it was called …?” “The Auld Howe.” That was Gamfer, and more papers shifted and a chair creaked. “A chambered cairn. A resting place for heroes, built in bygone times.” A hoof rapped against the paper and the table underneath. “These inscriptions. Writing, or magical runes?” “Runes. Wards on ‘em kept the whole cairn sealed tight. Nae getting in, not for love or money or even barrels of black powder ignited against the wall. No corbie’d even tried in living memory. It was just part of oor island’s landscape, ye ken. There’s the sea, there’s the cliffs, there’s the ridge, there’s the mysterious cairn we cannae breach, and there’s yer tour.” “Until now?” Dad replied. “Until now. The enchantments must have just been quietly fading. And well, there were the earth-tremors, and shortly after, that wyld storm blew over, and something finally gave. Namely, that wall.” Now a talon tapped the paper. “See the rent?” “I see it.” Dad’s voice was quiet, which meant he was intrigued as all heck, Daring knew. After a pause, “Any estimate on the age?” “Nothing firm. I’d peg it around two thousand years. North of the Capric Empire’s invasion. North of all our named Cormaers.” Dad softly said a word Daring knew would get her a telling-off if it was repeated. “Some time between the Fall of Antlertis and the rise of Capra. If so, that’s … that’s a marvellous find. We’ve precious little from what went on then.” “Even mair precious and littler for us. We’ve legends. We’ve stories of the First and Second Cormaers. We’ve got the odd other cairn like this. Otherwise, nae much.” Silence. And then Dad. “And you’re looking for assistance in delving into it.” “Aye. A bard has clout and in matters of oor tales and histories, we’ve mair clout than usual. I urged our chief tae leave it be till I’d had the chance to go recruiting. She indulged me, though that raised a few hackles, I dinnae mind saying.” “Why did you raise those hackles, then? Why come to us?” “Because ye’re the experts at this.” Gamfer replied. “I’ve flown far and wide in my days. Seen mair than most, rubbed wingtips with many, and I ken of yer Society. And I respect oor history enough that I won’t have it tarnished or lost by accident or have it blow up in oor faces. I’ll have whatever’s doon below uncovered properly.” “Has your dad agreed yet?” somepony said at Daring’s back. “It’s not often we get mysterious old magpie bards turning up with offers of adventure. I’ll be put out if he hasn’t.” “Gah!” Daring spun around and looked up. Lady Charroan had snuck up at her back, stirring a cup of tea with her magic. “Eavesdropping?” Lady Charroan asked. “I, ah, they, er, I, erm.” Daring floundered, and then conceded the point. “Yes.” “Well, budge over and make room, Trouble. I want to eavesdrop too.” Before Daring could react, Lady Charroan plonked herself down by her side and leaned to place an ear against the door. “Voices low, now. No sense in the eavesdroppers being eavesdroppable themselves.” “I … I guess,” replied Daring. “You’re not ... er …?” “Your dad’s mentioned you’ve got an eye on the adventuring lifestyle yourself, correct?” Charroan said, still absently stirring. “Correct,” Daring carefully replied. “Vital adventuring quality, nosiness. And as the nosiest of all our number, far be it from me to discourage promising qualities when I see them.” She sipped from the cup at last and savoured the brew for a moment before remarking, “That, and when one’s long past the glory days of field work, one learns to make their own entertainment. What have they said so far?” “Ah. Um.” Daring recollected what she’d overheard. “On the island where he’s from, there’s an old cairn … that’s like an old stone tomb —” “I know what a cairn is, Trouble.” Charroan’s face twisted in a wry smile and she tapped one of the scars on her face with a forehoof. “Got this courtesy of a guardian zombie who objected to me borrowing a burial mask from one. But sorry, I’m interrupting. Go on.” “Right. Well, it’s been untouched for as long as they’ve known it’s there. It was warded too strongly. But it’s been broken open by a storm and they want Dad’s help to properly excavate it. Or Gamfer does, at least.” “Good and concise,” replied Charroan. “I approve of a pony who can summarise. The corvid passed a lot of the details onto me when he showed up yesterday. Seemed to have had a rather fraught journey here and he was rather in a hurry to get his talons on somepony. Luckily for your dad, I happened to remember he was somepony.”  Charroan leaned to press one ear against the door and Daring did the same. “—plenty of corbies on-site who’ll be gagging to join in the delve,” Daring caught Gamfer saying. “Chief Tirla and myself’ll be making sure the mair sensible of their number’ll actually get the chance to. And when it comes to planning and directing things, oor lugs’ll bend tae ye. If ye accept.” “I see.” Dad was silent for a moment. “If I should accept, what will I be able to write about after the fact? Will I be able to take a trophy-piece?” “Write as ye please,” replied Gamfer. “Stories ought tae spread. But it’ll almost certainly be a hard ‘naw’ to trophy-pieces. What comes from clan land is the clan’s.”  There came the rap of claws on wood, as if Gamfer had paused to think. “Tirla may gift ye something if she takes an especial shine tae ye, but dinnae count on it. And dinnae take a daft risk to try and get around that.” “Duly noted.” “No trying tae deter ye, and if I could promise ye something, I would, but ye deserve tae have that sort of thing made plain.” By Daring, Lady Charroan groaned. “Bah,” she said. “We’ve few enough corvid artifacts as is.” “I need to think about this,” said Dad quietly. “And if I were to accept, I’d need to set some personal affairs in order. When would you need an answer by?” “Soon, bordering on immediately. My journey here was a peedie bit fraught. Dirigible whales are utter nuisances tae airships, I’ve learned. And my schedule for homecoming’s tragically unsympathetic.” “What’s your schedule?” “At ten o’clock tomorrow morning, an airship from the docks here’ll take me back to Rhovies in Ovarn via Asincittà and my clan’s sailors’ll be expecting me there the day after. That’ll have tae happen, whether I’ve a cuddy in tow or not. The clan’s eager to explore the cairn.” “...You appreciate that that’s about as short a notice as you could have thrown at me?” “And I’m sorry for that. If ye’re able to wrangle yourself into helping, dinnae doubt I’ll appreciate it.” Gamfer sighed. “Lady Charroan’s been guid enough to offer me lodgings in exchange for company. I’ll be here till the last second the morn and then at the aeroport till the last second there as well. If ye decide tae come, ye’ll ken where tae find me.” “That I will,” Dad replied. Chairs shifted past the door. “Well, I’ll try to let you know my answer in person either way. You’ve granted me an excellent opportunity. It’d be only decent of me to give you my answer myself.” “Much obliged.” Hooves trod and talons scuffed, and Daring remembered to hurry back away from the door just before it opened, Lady Charroan doing likewise in a much more sedate way. The door swung open and Dad and Gamfer ambled out. They stopped when they caught sight of Daring, who froze mid-hurry and tried to look as non-eavesdroppy as possible. Charroan, at that moment, pointedly stirred her tea and glanced skywards. She whistled in a manner even the most bribed jury in the land couldn’t have found innocent. Dad sighed and rubbed his brow under the brim of his tricorn. “If I was to ask exactly how much of that you overheard, Lady Charroan and Daring—” “Are you going to Corva?” Daring delightedly exclaimed, having concluded that, as Lady Charroan’s whistling made maintaining a fib more than impossible, she may as well let her simmering excitement take charge. “Are you?” Gamfer snickered. Lady Charroan noisily sipped her tea and Dad gave her an exasperated look. “Charroan, have you been teaching and/or enabling bad habits?” “I would never.” “Peedie cuddy.” Daring glanced up at Gamfer, confused briefly by the words, until she concluded that based on the way he (A) had used ‘cuddy’ in reference to ponies, and (B) was looking at her at her with a glint of mischief in his eyes, notwithstanding that (C) she didn’t have the least idea what ‘peedie’ meant, he was probably talking to her. “Persuade yer daddy, aye? Insist he’s tae have a grand adventure to tell ye all about.” Gamfer could have benefitted from being followed around by a translator, but Daring immediately approved of him regardless. “Shall do!” Dad closed his eyes and breathed the weary sigh of the only sane pony in a room being chivied by lunatics. “Ah, goody. They’ve all joined forces.” “I’ll be kind and spare ye, Mr Gallivant,” said Gamfer. “There’s a book back up there I was enjoying, and which I might try tae filch from Lady Charroan before I go. Take care, and keep me in the loop.” He turned to Lady Charroan and bobbed his head. “Obliged tae ye for setting that up, Lady Charroan. I’ll see ye shortly.” He turned to Daring and winked. “Mind now, nag him untae death.” “Thank you, Gamfer,” Dad replied past teeth that were very nearly gritted. “Do please go enjoy that book now.” Gamfer smirked, spread his wings, and took off back to the level he’d come from, the air from his wings buffeting Daring and obliging Dad and Charroan to hold onto their hats.  Once the magpie had vanished back upstairs, Dad stood for a moment, looking thoughtful. Not a happy sort of thoughtful either, Daring noted. “Take him up on it, Gallivant,” Lady Charroan said softly. “You’re a capable old hoof and I shan’t have you coop yourself away for another long while. Do it for your own sake.”  “Just for my sa—?” “Shush. Do it for the Society’s sake. And because I never got the chance to visit anything in Corva and must live vicariously through others nowadays, do it for my sake.” Charron paused. “Do it to spite Old Chestnut as well, maybe?” She frowned, as if consulting some internal notebook. “Are you two still rivals or have you changed about? It’s hard to keep track of who’s rivals with who these days.” “I’d love to, for all these reasons.” Dad continued to look dour. “And yes, we still are. She’s still sore about the Everfree outpost, even after she made me exceedingly and literally sore near the end of events there. But there’s … look, it’s the timing. There’s personal things I’d have to take care of. I … I’m leaning towards not doing this. I’m not sure I can.” “When you say ‘personal consider—’” Something must have flickered on an unseen part of Dad’s face or some signal passed between him and Charroan, because the unicorn hushed. After a moment, Charroan sighed and patted him on the wither. “Well, think on it. And come to whatever decision you see fit.” “I will.” “So long as it’s the right one.” “But I’m so good at wrong decisions.” “See what I must work with?” Charroan tossed her head in a theatrical way and glanced dolefully at Daring. “At times, I suspect the princess grants our Society royal support merely so she can have all the most deliberately awkward ponies in Equestria under one roof where she can see them.” “And she considered you best-qualified to lead us.” “The greatest cat-herder in the realm. What a boast that is.” Charroan drew her hoof away and gave Dad a last, imploring look. “But do think about it. Consider taking him up on it.” “I will.” “And if you don’t decide to do so, I will personally kick you into the sea. No pressure.” Dad smiled and turned to leave, and as Daring made to follow him, she felt Charroan’s magic discreetly press something into the front pocket of her bush jacket. On inspection, it was two somethings. Peppermints, snug in their wrapping. One was usual. Two had something of an unspoken bribe to it. Daring felt it’d be rude to turn a bribe down. They made a detour to pick up that night’s dinner, the trimmings for a bean casserole. Dad liked cooking, but he especially liked the sort of cooking you could leave in the pot and reheat day after day until Daring lodged protests. As he got the ingredients from a farmer’s market and stowed them in his saddlebags, and as they wound their way down through the tiers of Canterlot, Daring mulled things over. She mulled Corva over. What did she know? Well, there was what had been mentioned in the conversation between Dad and Gamfer, in which cairns and islands and curious clans had featured. There was Gamfer himself, who seemed nice enough, though Daring felt she might have to make notes on what exactly he was saying and what it all meant when they went with him to Corva. Because they were going with him to Corva. Dad was. And Daring. That was inevitable. It was just a matter of threading the needle of evitability, if that was a word. What else did she know? There was the whisky Dad sometimes had a glass of in the evening, the bottles of which had labels with things like misty valleys and grim, towering mountains and lakes and corvids playing the bagpipes mid-flight. It looked exciting. And then there was A Foal’s History of Equestria, as well as the other Equestrian history books Daring had read. Most of them had touched on a war about eighty years back, how a cruel and terrible corvid king — a Cormaer — had united Corva then and led it to war across the whole continent, and how he met his end at the Battle of Dream Valley. A Foal’s History knew its audience and depicted exactly that, with a picture of an apparently-famous painting of the battle spread out over two of its pages. Across the length of a valley, according to the artist, countless ranks of earth ponies and unicorns in gleaming barding had held firm against even countlesser corvid warflocks tearing down from the eastern skies with their strange black powder weapons.  Daring’s gaze had risen skywards, as a pegasus’s did. Arcs of spellfire and bursting rockets and erupting shot made the middle a hellish riot of colour, and above them in the high skies, jostling banks of skyforts and pegasi squadrons stormed into corvid warclouds and their flaming gonne-batteries.  Princess Celestia herself flew at the bit where the painting vanished into the central crease, coming with the dawn to end the battle at the decisive moment. She’d ended it thoroughly. The eastern half of Dream Valley was still glass and ashes to this day. Daring thought about these things and tried to get as solid an idea of Corva in her head as she could, and she was so lost in thought that she didn’t realise they were nearly home until Dad’s voice snapped her out of it. “Daring?” “Hmm?” She glanced around, back in reality. “Yeah?” “You’ve been quiet. And you’ve not tried to concuss yourself off the scenery once. You’re not deep in thought, are you?” “Maybe,” she allowed. “Oh no,” said Dad. “It’s amazing how I can feel a mane-hair turn white. If you’d asked me, say, twelve years back, when all this was a nice and even grey spectrum, I wouldn’t have thought it possible. How I’ve learned.” “Dad.” “Woe, how I’ve learned.” “Dad.” “I’m teasing. What are you thinking about?” “Corva. ‘Cuddy’ means pony, right?” “I believe so.” “What does ‘ken’ mean? And ‘peedie’?” “First one means ‘know’, I think. Not sure about the second.” Dad looked briefly thoughtful. “Always been interested in Corva. Source of one of my bad habits. If you’re interested in a more personal connection, then — on my side, at least — you’ve two great-uncles who fought at Dream Valley.” “Really?” Daring hadn’t heard this one before. “Really. Fine Grain and Gothic Art. Both signed up on the same day, both joined the same battalion, and both unfortunately got hit by the same satchel of black powder. After the smoke cleared, nopony could tell which bit had belonged to who. So they just pieced together whatever they could find and called it Fine Art.” Daring boggled at him for a moment. Then, trying and failing to not fall apart with scandalised giggles, she flapped up to deliver the savage beating Dad amply deserved. “Gross! You just made that up!” “From whole cloth.” Dad laughed and fended her off. “Stop murdering me! Look, Mrs Mortar’s watching from the other side of the street. What’ll she think?” “She’ll think justice is being done!” On the other side of the street, Mrs Mortar just rolled her eyes and declined to pass comment. Daring and Dad made their way past her, and turned down the final stretch into their cul-de-sac at the base of Canterlot. It was never hard to spot their home, detached and in the middle on the cul-de-sac’s left-hoof side. According to Dad, back in the days when thoughts like ‘settling down’ had first begun to cross their minds, he and Mom had looked at their combined revenue, compared it to existing house prices in the capital, and decided they’d be better off just buying an empty plot, getting the raw materials, and building it themselves. A third of the way in, Dad had thought something had gone terribly wrong in their interpretation of the plans and had advised stopping. Mom, however, had been committed, and had persevered. Their house was two stories high with every wall at a slightly jaunty angle from the outside, and it produced a whole orchestra of creaks when the wind blew. On the inside, as they stepped in, the hallway’s own angles defied mathematical law, and in other rooms, superfluous windows afforded views of dazzling expanses of wall.  Most surfaces looked as if they had just been attacked by a book monster and the scullery was on its side for reasons Dad (and one day, a team of increasing-fraught architects chasing dreadful rumours) had never been able to pin down. Daring had her own room upstairs, all shelves and cushions and old toys and a bed that had rendered sterling and versatile service as a palace or galleon or sky-fort in its time. Dad had a bedroom that was a little too large for him. It was home, and Daring loved it. Especially when the creaks started harmonising whenever there was a strong wind outside. “I’ll get these bags put away,” said Dad. He took a moment to hang up his tricorn and justacorps, and shook out his unruly grey-banded mane before making for the kitchen. The kite-shaped doorway to it always obliged him to step carefully. “The afternoon’s still young. You want to go down to the park in a little—?” “Are you going to Corva?” said Daring. Time to broach the topic while Dad was still vulnerable and overseeing groceries and whatnot. “You want to go, right?” Dad sighed. His withers seemed to slump. “I do. But I don’t think I will,” he said. “Why not?” Daring pressed. Gamfer had urged her on and Lady Charroan had bribed her in good faith, and besides, Daring really, really wanted to go as well. It was time to make the inevitable happen. “You want to go. I know you do.” “I do,” he said, and moved towards a cupboard. “But there’s not enough time if Gamfer needs to fly back tomorrow.” Daring frowned. “Time for what?” “I heard what he said about his clan wanting a first crack at the cairn. If he shows up without the promised pony, they won’t waste any more time before levering stones aside and investigating everything themselves while he sighs and shrugs. And I’d need time to sort things out here. Time to pack, and research, and to see you’re not left by yourself.” “Left by myself?” “A week till flight camp, remember? I don’t want you left alone here, and I don’t want you left hanging and with no way to contact me if something goes wrong at either end. There’s not really anypony I can ask to look after you, either.” Dad clicked his tongue. “Ivory Scroll’s picked the worst time to go visit family in Seaddle, how dare she. And I’m out of touch with most everypony else. There’s nopony convenient.” Daring had learned to think with something like forethought, else she might have reflexively argued back on the grounds that she could be left by herself and that the incident with the living room and the whirlwind had been a complete one-off. But she had goals in mind. Dad had to go to Corva, that was obvious. But so did she. She already had an adventure to her name and a story to go with it. But the thing was, she couldn’t share that story. It was all hush-hush for reasons of state, and Daring had promised both Princess Celestia and Dad that she’d keep quiet about it all, even if it sometimes felt like she’d burst for not getting to tell everypony about it. She wanted another adventure, especially in a land few ponies ever went to, which she could finally talk about once she was home again.  She could tell ponies all about it and hold them spellbound, and write about it and amaze all Equestria. All she had to do was get there. “You don’t have to find somepony to foalsit me. You could take me to Corva with you,” she said, as Dad dipped his head into one of the bags Dad slowly raised his head, a tin of beans held in his mouth, and regarded Daring levelly. She barrelled on. “If I go with you, you don’t have to worry about finding me another pony to stay with or that I’ll be out of touch at Flight Camp, because I’ll be there with you! See? It all ties up.” “One problem there is,” said Dad, setting the tin of beans on the table and turning back to Daring, his voice gentle, “that’d get in the way of you going to Flight Camp. And you do need to go to Flight Camp.” Daring didn’t immediately reply and Dad sighed. “I know you’re trying your best and that most of Canterlot’s still intact for all I joke, but you ought to be properly taught flight by another pegasus. It’s not fair for you and your talent that I can’t really help you with it. The camp instructors’ll be able to help you better than I can.” And the part that went unspoken, Daring knew, was, Mom could’ve taught you. Daring bit the inside of her cheek, and tried to not think about how heavy and awkward her wings felt and how her cheeks burned, and tried not to think about a couple of other foals jeering, fresh in memory, before a sudden insight jolted her brain back onto the proper topic. “Corvids can fly!” Dad blinked. Daring pressed on. “They’re all fliers. They’ll know how. If I go with you, I can make some friends, like I was going to do at Flight Camp anyway, and get some tips, can’t I? If Gamfer was happy to have you, and you can’t fly, he wouldn’t mind having me!” Dad’s brief smile was wry before he quickly put his solemn face back on. “That assumes Gamfer’ll take you as well.” “It wouldn’t hurt to ask him,” Daring urged. His expression grew solemner yet. “Even if he was willing … Corva is … well, it’s not the same as Equestria. Things aren’t as managed there. They do things differently. It’s more dangerous. All the clans are practically countries unto themselves, and they bicker a lot. And there’s the whole matter of how we were at war once. It wouldn’t be safe there.” “Ask Gamfer,” Daring said. “Maybe his clan’s safe to be in, if their bard was allowed to go ask ponies for help. If they’re all different, they can’t all be unsafe, right?” Dad suppressed a smile, she could tell, and he turned to finish unpacking. Daring waited for him to finish and tried not to fidget. “I’ll head back up soon,” Dad said after a while. “I’ll ask Gamfer. If he says it’s safe to be there, and if I think he’s not fibbing just to get his archaeologist, and if he’s willing to bring you along as well … then maybe—” He got no further before Daring whooped and all but tackled him with a flying hug. He seemed to have braced for impact and released nothing more than a comically exaggerated wheeze. “So bearing all these conditions in mind,” he said, after gently nudging Daring to shift her grip from his throat, “I’ll have to add another. If I took you, would you promise to stay safe and do what I tell you? Even more than usual?” “I will!” He could have asked her to promise the moon and Daring would have agreed. Adventure beckoned, and when it did, you didn’t quibble. “Do you really? Not to be too blunt, but I do have vivid memories of certain exploits three years ago.” “Don’t worry,” said Daring, flying high and pleased with everything. Not least herself. “I don’t do the silly stuff I used to. You know. When I was little.”