The regular clacks and rumbles of the train are a meditative sound. They let me think in peace—and I don't get much of that as a Princess.
It feels nice to be heading to a familiar destination. Well, as familiar as Da Huangdi can be, at least. Every rock formation looks about the same, and it's as dry and featureless as ever.
We used to call them the Windswept Plains, but since we discovered the kirin named it first, it seemed only right that we call it by that name, too. For as close as they came to being forgotten in this world, I want to do my part to make sure that ponies know their legacy.
I shake my head. Wrong word.
This train car is no more popular than it was the last time we rode it—nopony goes this far on this line. But I suspect we could see more visitors to Da Huangdi Shan in the next few moons (we renamed that, too). Especially after the guest lecture coming up at the School of Friendship hosted by Autumn Blaze and Fire Song.
Plus, I've received word that more than one kirin is interested in becoming an exchange student. I'd love if they were able to help fill out the Royal Library, seeing as how the kirin section still only has one volume in it.
Silent hoofsteps settle beside me, joining me in watching the featureless landscape roll by. I need not look to know who it is.
"Have you talked with her?" she asks. Her voice is refreshingly severe.
I shake my head. "Too early. She needs time to grieve and make up with her village right now, not deal with international relations or us ponies. And I don't intend to talk about this once we arrive, either, unless she brings it up herself. We're going to show respect and offer emotional support, nothing more."
Then I turn towards her. "And you should know all this. This whole course of action was your idea!"
For as spirited as my words are, Tempest remains stoic, eyes fixed out the train window. She glances down to the medallion around her neck.
In a softer voice, I say, "Are you asking because you didn't believe I would listen?"
Then she turns towards me, her face once again betraying no emotion. "I'm asking because I still believe you made a mistake."
I merely chuckle and drop a wing on her withers. "Then you should be happy that I'm disagreeing with you." I light my horn and lift the medallion off Tempest's neck. It's a small gold and amethyst item engraved with Equestria's coat of arms on the back and my own crest on the front. The six stars along the top command instant authority, signifying the highest rank of my appointed offices, second only to the Princess herself. Along the bottom is a line of runes written in Ancient Equestrian.
Conciliarius regius: royal advisor.
The press definitely had a few things to say once I announced that particular development: Equestria's Going Straight to Tartarus, or some variant thereof, they all said. Why would Equestria's former foremost enemy be hired to be the left hoof1 of the Princess if, in fact, she didn't succeed in conquering Equestria from the beginning?
And for as much as I vouch for Tempest's reformation and the value of friendship and forgiveness, even for former enemies, I know there's not much I could say to refute any of those claims. Ultimately, it'll be what I do. Hopefully, Equestria will come to realize it's still the same nation with the same Princess. Well, almost the same.
My ministers were especially skeptical, though they were cured of that opinion quite quickly. Or rather, they were cured of expressing that opinion. I remember the first time Tempest riposted a thinly-veiled insult from Magistrate Golden Gavel—he's still licking his wounds.
Even still, for as fiercely loyal and confident as she is when she has something to prove in public, in private, there's no one more skeptical of my decision than Tempest herself.
"You knew that announcing me could do nothing but harm your reputation," Tempest continues. "You knew."
I sniff. "I did know, and I still did because I consider some things to be more important than my reputation." I put on a small smile. "I might have learned that from a friend who does amazing things despite it.
"Like I said before," I say, "I know I'm new to leadership, and I need someone with a fresh mind who can present new ideas, or at least be a sounding board for my own. I don't need someone who will always agree with me just because I'm the Princess. I don't need someone who won't give me an opinion because they don't want to get into arguments. I don't want any of my Ponyville friends because none of them want to elevate themselves above the others. Plus, they have their own lives to live.
"I don't even need someone with a perfect or even especially directed moral compass. Because if that compass is pointing in some direction, I'll be tempted to go there, even if it's objectively the wrong decision. Even if that decision is, well, friendship." I roll my tongue around my mouth like I chewed something especially unpleasant.
"I need someone who can think, first of all, and think clearly. I need someone who generally wants for Equestria what I do, but that someone can't be so obsequious that they aren't willing to disagree with me or tell me I'm being foolish." Another reason why my friends aren't suitable. I love them all, but we've known each other for so long—I can't be anything but the leader and final word of our little group. "And I need someone courageous enough to take on the kind of responsibility that comes with leadership and isn't afraid to use that to reshape the world, even if not everyone agrees with those changes. If anything, I need someone who's done it before."
I return the medallion to Tempest's neck. "It's why my advisorship has never been an open position. How many ponies in Equestria fulfill all those requirements? How many ponies are fit enough to be the advisor to a Princess and wouldn't do it for selfish reasons? I could go through the entire registry of Equestria and wouldn't find anyone who'd be capable enough." I put a hoof on her shoulder. "Save one."
Tempest scoffs, easily shrugging off the words from a Princess that would have anyone else kissing my hooves. "Then I suppose it's in my job description to tell you that it's short-sighted to allow a former villain to have such power over you and Equestria. I could bend your compass, you know."
"And who's saying I don't need a tweak now and again? It's more important to me that you speak your mind, not speak what's necessarily right. I'll make sure Equestria keeps heading in the right direction; you'll double-check that I'm not running us into a hole."
Then I step back. In a softer voice, I say, "And for that matter, if you didn't want the responsibility, you didn't have to take the job."
Tempest merely returns her gaze to the rolling landscape. "You know why I did."
I let out a breath and step in to give Tempest a hug. She raises a hoof to gingerly touch mine in a half-hearted attempt at reciprocation.
It's a start.
I join her in looking out the window and notice something that wasn't there before. I open the window and stick my head outside to get a clearer look. The clouds move quickly in this region—it's what got the plains their original name—and in the distance is a new gathering of clouds that doesn't look terribly friendly. They're certainly not the benign, wispy cat-tail clouds I normally see out here. I'm no pegasus, but I might be worried about that cloud formation turning into something more troublesome. And it's headed straight for Da Huangdi Shan . . .
"We need to warn them," I say. Rain Shine's entirely capable of protecting her village, but they'll be safer if they're aware.
That's when Tempest puts her head out the window too, narrowed eyes directed at the clouds. She yelps as I cinch her tail with a ring of magic and pull her back inside. "Don't even think about it."
Instead, I focus on the clouds myself. I close my eyes and charge a ball of energy at the tip of my horn for ten, twenty, thirty seconds. Just when it starts sparking and I'm at risk of losing control of it, I rear up and launch it at the cloud formation. For several moments, nothing happens. Then, when the bolt reaches its destination, it explodes with a flash of purple light so bright I have to shield my eyes from here.
Once the light dissipates, I let out a heavy sigh of exertion. First diplomacy topic: getting some pegasi stationed here to surveil the sky. I'm willing to post them here for free if only so the kirin don't have to deal with the sorts of flash storms that appear out here.
I look at Tempest. She flicks her tail a couple times and scowls at me. "I wasn't planning to do anything."
"I-I know," I say timidly. It was more a reflexive response than a measured one. "Just looking after you."
Tempest merely narrows her eyes at me. If I didn't know her any better, I'd say she was trying to intimidate me.
At that moment, a flash of green light and smoke appears over my head, and a scroll drops out of it. Reflexively, I catch the scroll in a wisp of magic.
"Spike?" Tempest asks, straightening up.
I nod, straightening up as well. "Someone really wants to get ahold of me on my vacation, I guess. No rest for the weary." I unroll it for both of us. Before I begin reading, though, I notice Tempest squinting and leaning back a hoof or two. Then she grabs a pair of glasses and places them on her snout before leaning in to read once again.
I have to admit, the glasses take much of the edge off Tempest's intimidating expression. She looks more professional, like the librarians in the Royal Archives, and even a little bit cute. I honestly think her glasses have helped her fall in with the rest of the ponies at the Castle and avoid the odd altercation with someone looking to pick a fight with the latest controversial figure.
I swallow. I only wish I didn't know why she needed them now.
Tempest turns her eyes to me and catches me looking at her. She takes off her glasses and narrows her eyes again. "Twilight, what do I hate more than patronization?" she asks in a warning tone.
I know it's a rhetorical question, but . . . well, you just don't not answer Commander Tempest Shadow. "Pity?" I answer in a small voice.
Tempest just sighs and puts her glasses back on, returning the attention to the scroll. "You don't get to pity me until after I'm dead, understand?"
They're heartless words, and they hurt, but just as I was looking after her, I know this is Tempest's way of looking after me. She won't let me be sad or anxious. Not only do those feelings only make me feel worse, she and I literally don't have time for them, not while there are still things she wants to accomplish with me. I know in my heart that she believes in the good of this world—that's why she's pushing me so hard.
But all that doesn't make it any easier. I wonder whether Tempest intended for me to stop feeling sad or just get better at not expressing that sadness in front of her. And sometimes, I wonder whether she cares about the difference.
As the train lurches and begins to slow down, I lock my anxiety in a small box and start reading the scroll myself.
Princess,
I am acting in your stead to finalize the magical research budget for this year. I have discussed the numbers with the Ministry, and we are in concordance with where funding shall be allotted. Find the figures below for your perusal.
This budget has been approved by sole mandate of the Ministry of Education.
Chancellor Larghinius Neighsay
Now I frown, irritated. There's more than a few things Neighsay left out of his letter. I remember this particular debate, and the final hearing for the budget was not supposed to be on my vacation, so they must have moved it. And moved it they did, to a day they knew I wouldn't be in Canterlot. And, conveniently enough, the mandate that allows the Ministry to waive royal approval is only active if the Princess is indisposed. Thankfully, it doesn't waive the need for me to know what's going on.
I scan through the figures Neighsay provided, and as I expected, the budget is terribly lopsided: there's no item at all pertaining to earth magic research—maybe he thought I wouldn't notice. I glance out the side of my eye, and I see Tempest scowling at the letter, surely having noticed the same thing I did. Then she looks to me to see what I'll do. Challenging me to do.
I snort and shake my head. "Take a letter: 'Neighsay, this is a Princess Decree: your budget is rejected, and your mandate for this session is revoked. Stay research funding until I can personally approve the budget. Rewrite it to allocate an equal amount of funding to earth, pegasus, and unicorn magic and submit it to me again for final approval. I will not approve a budget on vacation if it doesn't fulfill this criterion at a minimum. Otherwise, you can wait for my return, and I would be happy to help you pen one that does. HRH Twilight Sparkle.' And send."
I return not to a wisp of smoke and a disappearing letter, but Tempest staring at me in annoyance and bemusement. I grin sheepishly. "Sorry. I guess I'm too used to having Spike or Horolog around for me to dictate letters to. I'll just . . ." I sift through my bags, wondering whether I stashed a quill in one of them.
Tempest just rolls her eyes and takes her own quill in her mouth, writing my dictation on the back of the scroll in her once again remarkably neat writing. While writing, she speaks, her voice only slightly muffled by the quill. "You're sure you would use one of your Decrees on this?"
I nod. "It's important to me, and it's important to Equestria that every race is equal. The entire Ministry is full of unicorns, so they'd probably never create something balanced otherwise. Frankly, I don't know why I didn't put my hoof down sooner."
"Will they be angry?"
"No doubt in my mind, they will."
Tempest says nothing, but a ghost of a smile appears on her lips and disappears just as quickly. When she finishes writing, she rolls the scroll back up and tosses it to me. I pinch my eyes shut and concentrate, picturing Canterlot Castle in my mind's eye. With a purple flash, I teleport the letter to roughly where I think Neighsay's desk should be.
I open my eyes and shake off the mental image. "I really do need to get a dragonfire candle—it makes sending and returning letters so much easier when Spike isn't around."
"This is the last time I'm going to be your secretary, Twilight."
I just smile good-naturedly and give Tempest a light cuff on the shoulder.
Once the train stops, we step off and are greeted by a familiar endless rocky expanse. In the distance is the storm we saw, already over and past Da Huangdi Shan in the time we were sitting on the train. Hopefully everyone in the village is safe. Wind whips through my mane, raising it from my neck and loosing a few sparkles of magic.
This is where our journey started and ended—and will start again.
Ahead of us, on top of the mountain, lie the kirin of once upon a legend. Not too long ago, they were content to be lost to history. It was at Tempest's hooves that they're where they are now, standing at the precipice of their mountain, looking over the edge—she was the only one with the heart to drive the kirin out of their isolation. A tiny push could have them vanish into the forest again . . . or leap into this incredible world and show the rest of it how beautiful it can be.
I take a step forward to begin this adventure anew. And—
"You don't get to pity me until after I'm dead," it says. It only lasts as long as the passing breeze. I blink, and it disappears.
—the box opens. I lose my feet from under me.
I hated those words, and I hated that she was right. But what I hate most is why she said them—she's preparing me for when she'll no longer be around to remind me. One day, one horrible day, they'll be all I have left of her—the memories of the words she left behind, and the scars of the lessons she imparted to me in the only way she knows.
I'd be happy for her to challenge my every decision every day . . . if only so she'd be there for every one of those days.
I can't do it. This is one mission of a countless number I've had and will have. But I leaned on Tempest to see this one through—friendship is why it worked at all—so how does she expect me to finish her work alone? This will be an entire society I'll be ushering into this world, by myself.
I look at Tempest again. She doesn't know what I'm asking for, but I have to say something. I succumb to the weakness only she's allowed to see, and I can't help but start shivering. "I'm afraid," I whisper.
What do I mean? Nothing—it's emotion, and it has no substance. And everything—it's emotion, and it influences my every action. The fear is paralyzing, robbing me of measured thought.
Tempest twitches and looks at me. The disdain on her face holds for a terrifying moment but slowly gives way to a sigh. It could be a sigh of exasperation or disappointment.
But I choose to interpret it as her releasing the chains she keeps around her heart.
She sits down close to me but does not touch—she leaves that to me as I lunge for her. "I don't see why you need to be," she says, bringing her voice down. "You've led Equestria well enough before I started arguing with you."
I sniffle and wipe my eyes pathetically. "M-maybe I'm just thinking how much I'll miss those arguments. How lost I'll be when you're . . ."
She just shakes her head and chuckles. "Foolish little princess. Crying over a villain so weighted by evil that not even Tartarus would take her. You already have all the wisdom you need. Let me give you the same words a wise pony gave to me a long time ago." The words she says are poignant and so familiar:
"'Don't stay stuck in the past, and don't dwell too much on the present. Look to the future so we can build a brighter one for everypony.'"
"I-I said that?"
Tempest chuckles again. "You did."