//------------------------------// // Part One // Story: A Dream of Pride and Envy // by Tundara //------------------------------// A Dream of Pride and Envy By Tundara First among the Great Sins is Lust. For those with a covetous heart will never see what they already possess. -The Book of Sol, on the Seven Sins of Ponykind Dust covered the well worn pith helm, collecting in the gouge created by an arrow until it overflowed to trickle like a grey river down to the rim. The helm had been given a place of respect and reverence, sitting atop a low shelf of books and journals that overlooked the grounds of Honigwein College in the rolling hills of Beinehaus county. From there it would be warmed by Sol most of the afternoon and be seen by the students milling about the commons during the morning. The helm’s owner knew that her hat didn’t know any of this—it was just a piece of felt covered wood, afterall, and not one of the few eldritch artifacts that lay scattered across the disc, waiting to be uncovered in ancient, lost tombs—but it gave her some comfort to think that the helm was enjoying a good retirement. She could not say the same for herself. Daring Do gave an exaggerated sigh, glancing up at her old companion from the stacks of papers she was grading. Calling it retirement would have been a stretch, she still worked, after all, as the professor of pre-classical history for the college. But she no longer delved into ancient vaults, sneaking past insidious traps, battling Prench agents seeking a tool to use in their endless war to dominate the Old World. No, Daring Do had left the adventure and romance, the danger and excitement, the wonders and mysteries behind for a desk, comfort, and a teacher’s aide. Perched on the end of her muzzle were a pair of fine, gold rimmed glasses that almost seemed to blend into her bronze hued coat; a gift from the Bey of Mareta. Much like the rest of her body, her eyes were worn and damaged by her adventures, leaving her partially blind in the left. Without her glasses, Daring could hardly see more than four pony lengths. While Daring wasn’t old, at least not in terms of years spent on the disc, she wasn’t young, either. Her back ached where she’d had too many crash landings, and she was lame in her hind-left leg from where she’d been tortured by her deceased nemesis, Ahuizotl, and her right wing refused to fully extend anymore. None of these injuries, old even by the time of her final adventure, would have been enough to keep Daring out of the field. No, it had been her lungs that relegated her to a teaching position. Her breaths were slow and laboured even while resting, and she couldn’t run or fly for more than a few minutes without collapsing, gasping for air, tears streaming down her face. Old Wheezy, her students called her behind her back when they thought she couldn’t hear. Daring’s face burned at the memory of their taunting voices. She was about to reach for her medicine when the door to her office was flung open and Plumb Bob marched in, a stack of envelopes and letters in his telekinetic grip. “Letters for you, Professor,” the slate-grey pony said, his bright eyes glowing like a pair of polished oranges as he shut the door. “And a package.” “Package first,” Daring said without hesitation, giving the letters a suspicious glare. The Equestrian Tax Revenue offices had been hounding her for months, claiming that the idol of Faust she’d discovered on her final journey had been worth ten times what she’d claimed. A constant stream of letters were flowing back and forth, Daring arguing that if the idol had been worth so much she could buy half of Canterlot out-right, the Equestrian Tax Revenue just demanded that she pay something on the order of twenty thousand bits. Their letters had started to grow rather nasty, threatening to toss her into the debtors prison. Repeating, “The package, Plumb Bob,” Daring pushed her war with the government aside. She gave the address written atop the box a cursory glance, ready to rip into the packaging, but stopped at the bold lettering scrawled in the corner. The address was for a border outpost beyond the south-western reaches of Equestria, where settlers continually plopped new communities down on land that most-certainly did not belong to ponies. But this was not what caught her eye, rather that, in the space between the address and the edge of the box, was an odd, noble sigil. It was a crest, done in the old stylings, a white shield at the heart bearing the founder’s cutie mark; a trio of red poppy flowers ringed by leaves shaded in rainbow hues. A fabled halla stood to the left, raising a staff, while on the right was a rearing unicorn. Above the shield sat a royal crown, resplendent in sapphire and white, decked with jewels of sparkling red and green, the royal flourish of lost Marelantis atop the pinnacle. On scrollwork beneath the shield, in script legible only with a magnifying lens, was the phrase, ‘Túrelma ter vinirya’. “What is it, boss?” Plumb Bob asked, hardly looking up as he sorted the remaining letters. “I’m… not sure,” Daring admitted, reaching for the House Registry, where every noble crest in Equestria and the Old Kingdoms were kept. The crest bugged her, poking at the back of Daring’s mind with a stick, which she’d learned long ago was a warning sign. Plumb Bob picked up on it as well, noting the slight way Daring crinkled her eyes as she glanced between the register and the crest. As Daring suspected, the crest wasn’t in the register. It bore a striking resemblance to the royal crests of Prance, Hackney, and Pondenavia. Daring knew she’d seen the crest before, once, long ago, and that memory was what jabbed at her, so she picked up the register for the lost crests belonging to those Houses and lines that were extinct. It was the Marelantian flourish that drew Daring’s towards the back of the book, where the oldest crests were placed. And there she found it. The crest of the Royal House of Tuilerya. Beneath the name, where there would normally be a description of the House, their holdings, notable members and deeds, there was but a single line; One known member: Iridia Tuilerya, also known as the Deathgiver, Black Star, Bloodmaned, and She-Not-To-Be-Named. Daring repeated the name outloud, scanning her office for Ginger Cookie’s, The Founding of Equestria, and the End of the Long Winter. She knew the name was tied to the period, a great villain defeated by the Founders, but the details escaped her mind. When the book failed to instantly appear, Daring gave a little shrug, told Plumb Bob to find it for her, and opened the box. Inside rested three objects; sitting atop a packing of golden thread was a scroll, an old, leather-bound book, and a dark blue pinion. On the scroll was Daring’s mark, while the book was simply engraved with a number in the ancient Unicornian style on it’s face, ‘XIII’. Deciding to inspect the feather first, Daring lifted it out of the box. “Careful, boss,” Plumb Bob cried, reaching out to take the feather. “It’s just a feather,” Daring gave an exaggerated roll of her eyes. “From a juvenile pegasus judging the length of the vanes and down. An old feather, but just a feather.” Daring put the pinion aside, and picked up the scroll. Breaking the seal, Daring examined the parchment. It was made of some yellow wood or grass, heavy with chalk dust, and a peculiar smell Daring couldn’t place. From the fibers, Daring could tell the paper had not been made anywhere in Equestria, furthering her suspicion towards the package. Her curiosity fully engaged, Daring read the letter, the words written in an elegant, yet clear, red script. To Mrs. Daring Do, I’ll admit, I’m not sure exactly where to begin this letter. I have pondered it for some considerable time, and have come to no clear consensus. Should I appeal to your ego? Perhaps introduce myself? Or one of the other myriad little dances so often performed through letters? So, I have decided to go straight to the point; The tales of your adventures written by your senior wife have been a great inspiration to my daughter. You were all she could talk about when I visited her last—I being unable to care for her as she requires, she has been raised by a dear and most trusted friend. Curious about this mare she spoke of so highly, I snuck out and picked up a set of the books. I found them a most interesting read, and can see why they bring my little star such delight. Performing a little research—I felt a bit like you during the opening of Daring Do and the Windigos Well—I discovered that your critics and detractors are far off the mark. You are a singular mare in this age, Mrs. Do. To show a measure of my gratitude, I have enclosed a few old heirlooms as gifts for you, your wonderful wife, and your assistant. Somethings I found while sorting through the vaults beneath the old manor. When I saw them, I immediately thought of you, and knew what to do. I leave it to you to figure out whom they are meant for. May your dreams be pleasant, Signed with the deepest affection, ~A grateful mother “Fan-mail,” Daring mumbled to herself, setting the scroll next to the pinion and taking up the journal. It couldn’t be anything else, with its grotesque binding and lack of title. Her suspicion was instantly confirmed as, on the very first page, was a long sequence of blocky script. The quillwork was impeccably precise, and lacked flourish or embellishment. At the top were the date the journal was penned, and the place; the Conigo monastery in the Old Kingdoms, Spring of the 285th Year of the Stars. Daring’s brows shot up into her grey-scaled mane, as her eyes took in what lay before her, quickly converting the archaic Seven Signs callender into Equestrian Reckoning. “That can’t be right…” Daring mumbled, pulling over a sheet of parchment so she could double check her math. It came up the same, even when she triple and quadruple checked. The journal had been written in 34 E.R. It was over fifteen hundred years old. Taking a moment to set the journal down on a folded silk cloth, Daring knew she had to make certain of the journals age and authenticity. From the drawers of her desk she withdrew a sensor gem and a vial of diamond dust. Monasteries of the era were known to use complex preservation spells while binding their books. If the journal had truly been penned at Conigo, then… Daring held her breath as she placed the sensor gem on the journal’s cover. Hesitating for a few moments, the gem took on a healthy reddish-pink glow, indicating that a preservation spell from the period was in effect. To make certain that it had been Conigo, Daring sprinkled the dust around the gem. The fine grains of diamond didn’t hesitate, shooting and skipping across the aged leather to form a lopsided spider-web. “It’s authentic! Well, I’m fairly certain it is. In the upper nineties, at least.” Daring gave a loud laugh as she put the dust and gem away, and put on a set of fine, cotton mittens. “Good on it,” Plumb Bob absently called from where he was sorting through the other mail. He hadn’t done much sorting, and instead was staring intently at the feather that had come with the journal. “Interesting, this is written in Upper Unicornian,” Daring said, adjusting her glasses—how she despised the things—to peer closer at the script. “Bring me my mother’s journal. The one on pre-classical Unicornia.” “What’s ‘Upper Unicornian’?” Plumb Bob asked as he began poking through the bookshelves, pulling out various books in the search for the journal. Daring, for only the second time that week, made a mental note to have Plumb Bob organise the shelves and label the books that had bare spines. He always spent ages, looking through every single one, when asked to bring her reference materials. Daring would have thought he’d know each book’s contents by heart, he’d read the opening pages so many times. “It was the dialect used by the Cabals and the unicorns living in the Alpany mountains. It—the language—was descended from that used by the ancient Theulusians near modern day Zbori and Stalliongrad.” Daring couldn’t keep the impatient snap out of her tone as she tapped her hoof for Plumb Bob to hurry. When he finally brought the requested reference, Daring flipped it open to one of the dozen placemarks and set about translating. “It is in this, the twilight of my life that I, the only remaining member of my Order, pen with a mountain of regret my last journal. Bear respect and pay heed to these truths recorded here-in, for they are the greatest and final shame of the Solar Cabal,” Daring read, her hoof tracing down the ancient script with something akin to reverence. Pausing, she looked up at Plumb Bob, asking, “Do you know what this is?” “Oh, please don’t say, ‘adventure’, boss,” Plumb rubbed at his temples while groaning. “Last time you said that, I got shot. Not shot at, which would have been bad enough, but proper shot.” Plumb Bob turned so the light could shine on a short scar, a slight patch of bald fur just above his cutie mark where he’d been grazed by a griffon crossbow bolt. “No! Of course not… Well, maybe… We’ll have to see.” Daring tapped her chin a few times, glancing towards her collection of journals and reference materials. After a few moments, she gave her head a shake, and asked, “What of Yearling? Is she back yet?” “Still on the latest book tour. She’ll be in…” Plumb Bob scrunched up his face as he thought, “Trotonto, right now.” “Might want to prepare a telegram for her, then,” Daring muttered absently, cross-checking a translation. Gulping, Plumb Bob’s face an ashen hue under his coat, he asked, “We don’t have to do that, do we? You know she’ll come rushing back, and when she gets here and sees you’ve only got half the book translated…” “I’ll have more than half done,” Daring snorted, or tried to, rather. It came out more in a wheezy cough. “Besides, she’ll be more focused on if I am taking my medicine or not.” “And good for her,” Plumb Bob said, his voice muffled as he rooted through a box. “You’ll never shake that curse otherwise.” Attempting to glower over the growing stacks of references, Daring grumbled, “You don’t ‘shake’ ancient, eldritch curses, Plumb Bob.” “Don’t shake being shot and riddled with steel, neither,” rejoined her assistant as he dumped a copy of Eminent Translations seminal work, The Ins and Outs of Pre-Equestrian Unicornian Dialects, and Their Uses There-Of During the Classical Age of the Greater Queendoms, on her desk. “That was just a nick. If you want to do archeology, Plumb, you have to go out into the field.” “Prefer it here, safe and warm,” grumbled the unicorn under his breath, just loud enough for Daring to hear. A little louder, and with more consideration, he added, “I thought you said that most of archeology was done in the library.” “That too,” Daring rapidly nodded her head. “The points aren’t incompatible.” She tapped the desk between the journal and references a few times, signalling her impatience to continue the translation. “You have a good supply of quills and ink?” He hardly looked up from his work as Plumb Bob intoned a low, solemn, “Of course.” “Excellent, then write exactly as I say,” Daring said, before, in a low, more officious tone, continuing to read the journal’s contents. “It began, as so many things do, with a cup of tea…” Second among the Great Sins is Pride. For she who has too much Pride will see only their own actions as justified. -The Book of Sol, on the Seven Sins of Ponykind The Valley of the Eternal Foal, Spring, 12 B.E. Laughter echoed through a valley nestled in southern Unicornia, rebounding from snow topped mountains that formed the kingdom’s borders. Near the top of each peak sat a squat, grey fortress, serving as the guardians between the northern lands, and those that had fallen in the south. Beyond them lay the Mareberian Peninsula, filled with griffons and monsters foul and terrible, all of them hungry to make a meal of any pony they caught. Once a half dozen queendoms had rested on the peninsula. Now only one remained, Castile, clinging onto survival. The others had been lost, one by one, the ponies ground beneath the griffon’s subjugation. Together, the castles formed a buttress against the griffon armies, their towers topped by ballista and catapult. Soldiers stood ever vigilant, eyes turned to the south where their brothers and sisters fought and died in the mud and blood soaked fields and hills surrounding Airagos Spire. It was under the direction of the brilliant tactician, Commander Hurricane, that the griffons had been driven almost to the walls of their city. Along the valleys serving as conduits for the army’s supplies came rumours of a deeper connection ready to form between the two age-old rivals. Pegasus legions had even moved several of their cloud citadels to the valleys’ mouths, serving as guard posts, inns, and observatories. The laughter echoed lower, becoming a hefty rumble, before rising again into high and shrill shriek, like the war-cries of the pegasi. The nearest pegasus citadel sat just inside this particular valley. Home to a half-dozen herds from the Cloudsmasher Legion, the cloud was barely a fort, much less the grand citadel-cities along the roads. While the residents of the fort joined the unicorns in keeping a watchful eye for griffons, most of their energy was spent maintaining the valley's weather. In return for the protection and climate weather, the Earth pony villages that dotted the long valley tithed to the unicorns and pegasi a portion of their crops. While appearing to be a mutual and harmonious exchange, such appearances were deceiving. The earth ponies grumbled and wondered why they had to feed the unicorns, or at least why they had to haul the wagons up and down the mountain paths. They were less begrudging towards the pegasi, the symbiotic nature between the two tribes creating a buffer. Still, the earth ponies were thankful that their sons and daughters were not even being considered for conscription into the various armies. Earth ponies, according to the pagasus and unicorn generals, were too timid and weak—having neither magic nor flight—to be of any use beyond hauling supplies and maintaining the real soldiers gear. The three tribes, however, were not alone living in this particular valley. Nestled next to a crystal clear pool fed by glacial waterfalls was a building unlike any other on all of Ioka. The walls were tall and seemed to have been grown from the ground, with elegant windows of coloured glass spaced evenly across the building’s face. A thick growth of ivy clung to the walls, making the entire structure seem to vanish into the ancient trees and mountain side from a distance. A roof of red tiles shone out against the thatched homes of the earth pony villagers. With sprawling rooms, wide hearths, an indoor kitchen with running water, and a library; the house was a complex greater than many of the villages, and rivalling the unicorn’s castles in size, and making them seem like cold, inhospitable places in terms of comfort. This was a warm home, a lively home, filled with the scent of spices from lands most ponies could not name, with fruits and vegetables that no pony had seen or tasted before, grown special in the lush gardens. The laughter grew, originating from an ornate flower garden surrounding the pool. Around an old oak raced a pair of dark forms. The first was small, her dark blue coat almost seeming to meld with the shadows cast by the towering trees. Silvery mane drifting behind like a cloak, she weaved and ducked her way towards the pool, leaping into the air and using a set of stubby wings to carry her over the ice cold water. Hardly slowing, the second form spread great wings as dark as moonlit midnight to carry her over the pool and the first pony. Kicking up a clump of sod as she landed, the second pony spun, a grim laugh rolling from her tongue. “We have thee now, little thief!” she proclaimed, a hoof snapping down to pin the first pony’s tail. Namyra let out a surprised yelp and rolled along the ground, desperate to escape the elder pony’s grasp. Finally she rose to her hooves and let out a soft growl that turned into a squeak as she leapt at her captor. “That wasn’t fair! I was supposed to have two full minutes to hide. You only gave me one!” Luna’s eyes widened at the filly’s assault, and she instinctively rolled onto her back to catch Namyra. They both broke into laughter as they fell into the tall grass. “True enough! But can thou truly blame us? It is depressing being denied the presence of our treasured cousin.” “Why are you talking like that?” Namyra asked as she laid her head against Luna’s side. “Tis the norm in the capitol and among Her Majesty’s court. Queen Palladium taught it to us herself.” Luna pressed a hoof to her chest as she spoke, inflecting her words with a sharp resonance. “I don’t like it.” Namyra pouted, rolling back to her hooves. “Tis important for us to be relatable to the common pony, is it not?” Luna smiled out of the side of her mouth, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. When Namyra didn’t respond and instead sulked towards the pool’s edge, Luna rolled to her hooves. “Come, the others will be waiting for us. We don’t want to keep your mother nor Celestia waiting, do we?” “What’s it like?” Namyra asked as they rounded the side of the manor and entered a terraced patio overlooking a sundial that had been turned into a birdbath. Etched along the rim of the sundial were a two names. One belonged to her father, the other to Luna and Celestia’s. Both ponies had been dead almost two hundred years. They possessed no gravesite, their bodies burned in the traditional unicorn manner, and even the names lovingly etched onto the sundial were beginning to fade. “Life among the mortals, I mean. Don’t you ever get sad or lonely seeing them grow frail and then leave you?” Luna was quiet for several strides, her lips a pensive line. “Sometimes we do feel alone.” Luna’s ears pressed down against her head as she spoke, her voice soft, with none of its former brash playfulness. “Especially during the long winter nights. Few ponies truly appreciate Our night, fearing the monsters that slither out beneath the cover of darkness. We are kept apart from most ponies regardless, doted upon by the priestesses and monopolised by the Queen. She fancies herself Our equal, almost.” Arriving at the patio, Luna caught sight of Celestia sitting on a royal purple cushion at a low, oval table. With her were three other ponies; Tempered Wrath, High Priestess of Iridia; Star Swirl the Bearded, Arch-Magister of the Cabal of the Sun; and his apprentice, Clover, of no House. A placid halla doe, Luna had never seen Tempered riled or stressed. Descended of elk and unicorn bloodlines, halla were rare outside their distant, frosty homeland across the ocean where they lived a tribal, migratory lifestyle, following ancient trails forged by forgotten ancestors. Like all priestesses, her coat was dyed a snowy white, her mane a soft honey yellow, and she wore plain dark brown robes that draped down her sides, a series of strategic slits displaying her soul mark: a lioness on the prowl formed of black lines and sharp curves. From her small antlers hung a series of beads and green ribbons, while around her neck was the heavy pendant denoting her station within the Sisterhood of Spring. Her ability to remain master of her emotions and disguise her inner thoughts had helped guide the young priestess rise rapidly through the sisterhood. It had been her calm nature that made her ideal as Namyra’s guardian and nanny. Under her supervision were the other two dozen halla priestesses that lived at the manor, tending to their Goddess’ needs, and those of her foal. Across from the High Priestess, Star Swirl leaned back in an old wicker chair. His faded hat with its many bells rested on the table in front of him, while a little storm of jingles rose from his stained and filthy robes when he shifted his position to gaze at the maps laid out on the table in front of him. His once stark pink beard had become a vibrant silver reflected in his murky green eyes. Clenched tight in his teeth, a pipe sent up a furious stream of tobacco smoke as his brow wrinkled in thought. A few strained gasps emanated from Clover, the small filly waving a soft-green hoof in an attempt to clear the smoke drifting around her head from her master. She wore the white robes of an initiate within the Solar Cabal, gold thread trimming the hood and cuffs, Celestia’s mark emblazoned across the flanks. Before Celestia, the Solar Cabal had been responsible for assisting Sol, guiding the sun to set during twilight and rise at dawn. Now, the cabal were part wizards and part priestesses, and though it had been close to two centuries since losing dominion of the sun, they still had yet to find a purpose. Luna suspected that, if Celestia would just apply herself, the cabal would fully transform into a religious sect, one utterly devoted to the Goddess of the Sun. It continually baffled Luna why Celestia hadn’t done so already. When they’d been growing up hidden as unicorn nobility in the nearby castle, Celestia had always been the most pious and dedicated. Luna’s ears still rang with the sharp prayers Celestia had made every dusk and dawn. She put the thoughts out of mind as she reached the table, nodding to her sister and ignoring the other ponies. “Auntie and mother are not joining us?” Luna asked with feigned disinterest, an ear flicking towards the manor. Very faint through the thick, enchanted stone, a predictable argument could be heard. “Ah, they are at the halfway point of their little dance, I hear.” “Yes, they started shortly after our arrival,” Celestia confirmed, not looking up from the maps. “Still fretting, Tia?” Luna gave the maps a sideways glance, confirming they were for the northern regions of Namarra, Airagos, and Trotalonia, with Estrotcia near the bottom, and only a sliver of Castile sticking out on the edge. “Perhaps,” Celestia said to herself, “if we move to the west and across Namarra, we’ll be able to enter the Maseta near Bitoria. By moving quickly south, I could reinforce Commander Hurricane’s forces, while Sombra continues to cut off the griffon’s supply lines in Estrotcia.” Celestia traced a line of golden magic along the route proposed, moving west from southern Unicornia and Trotalonia to the coast, then over the easier passes and into the center of the disputed territories. “He’s going to just stir up the local ponies, Tia, while the griffons bring their supplies in through southlands.” Luna punctuated her words with the clink of sugar cubes into the bottom of her cup. “I trust Sombra, Luna.” “He is a kirin. They are not be trusted.” Celestia glanced up with a stern frown, Luna matching the look with ease as she pressed ahead. “They know naught but greed and deceit. Treachery is their way, war their purpose. You erred in bringing him here. Where is the reptile? I’ve not seen his scaled hide since we bid you good-eve last night.” “Gone, along with the rest of the Solar Cabal, on his way to rejoin the Solar Army. Perhaps he sensed your distrust, sister? Kirin are rather perceptive of such things.” Contemplating the map a moment longer, Celestia gave a low groan, resting her head on her hooves. “I wish I were more like you, Lulu. How do you do it? How do you have such confidence that you don’t plan for more than a day before flinging yourself into battle?” “What is there to plan?” Luna scoffed, pouring a cup of tea for herself and Namyra. “The Valla and I require not your armies and campaigns. We will be expunging the griffon nuisances from their island strongholds under cover of my night. All these grand battle plans and soldiers… I don’t see the point when we could destroy Airagos Spires with a thought.” “Not all of us have a group of warrior-stars as retainers. Besides, we’ve been over this, Luna,” Celestia said in a low voice, the ghost of old guilt flickering across her face. “We can’t just destroy them all. What of the slaves? The young stolen from our very lands? We must take care and measure! If we do not… If we get ahead of ourselves again… No! We can’t...” Celestia grew rigid, her wings clenched tight to her frame, her breaths short and haggard while her mane and tail hissed and crackled like a mid-winter fire. “I’m sorry, Tia, my mind left me for a moment. I didn’t mean to remind you of that night.” Luna put on her most apologetic tone, reaching across the table to lay a hoof atop her sister’s. “Of course I won’t flatten the place. Not until it’s empty, that is.” “You both seem to forget that it is not the griffons, nor their strongholds and citadels, nor even winter that we should be concerned with.” Star Swirl gave Luna and Celestia a long stare, teeth clenching the end of his pipe. “The Shadow is our greatest threat. If we could find and drive out the remaining demonic lords then the griffons must withdraw. The Shadow’s power is not to be underestimated. I caution both of you, again, against this course of action. Your mother has never directly confronted a demonic lord, and for good reason.” “Mother fought a demon, once,” piped up Namyra between sips of her tea. “She told me all about it.” Namyra lowered her voice, making it into an odd rough squeak as she recited, “And lo, from the Highest Mount did she hurl Witiko, smiting the Duchess of Malice within the endless forest, and declaring the Disc ever free of the Windigoes’ tyranny. So Spring was returned to Ioka, Witiko’s foul daughters trapped for all time in the crystals beneath the Canterhorn.” “The Book of Spring, chapter four, verse twelve.” Clover piped up. Realizing she’d spoken, the filly turned a dark mulberry beneath her coat and shrunk down until only her ears peeked over the table’s edge. Shooting his apprentice a scathing look, Star Swirl gave his beard a tug. “Indeed. But—” “My sister defeated Hetahtin,” Iridia’s imperious tone cut across the patio. Looking up from her tea, Luna glanced over to her aunt and mother. The pair’s hooves clacked on the polished stone with an angry retort as they approached. Iridia’s honeysuckle mane bounced down the side of her face and neck, highlighting the large gold peytral that hung atop a dark green dress. Shorter than Celestia or Luna, Iridia still stood a good hoof above even the tallest stallion. The corners of her winter blue eyes held a remaining pinch of annoyance from her ‘conversation’ with her younger sister. Although identical in size to her sister, and sharing the same white coat with Iridia and Celestia, Faust was a touch more impressive in Luna’s eyes. Her peytral was long abandoned, left among the ruins of some ancient civilization, in it’s place an elaborate ruby red gown with a high, fanning collar speckled with pearls. Dangling from a sash cinched tight around her waist hung a trio of scrolls on her left side, while on her right were the Sheers and Needle of Fate. Her rust coloured mane danced in a tight weave across the right side of her neck, more pearls shining from pins placed throughout a bun. As with her sister, Faust’s expression was of fading anger. The last vestiges of the argument vanished as Faust laid her sight on Namyra. For a brief moment Luna saw a pang of deep regret and sorrow fall across her mother’s features. It vanished so quickly, Luna wondered if she’d seen it at all, or simply imagined it. “Direct conflict is not my way,” Faust said, picking up the conversation’s thread. “I have my Champions, when I need them.” “We could use some of them now, mother,” Celestia huffed, blowing a stray strand of flowing mane out of her eye. Laughing, the sound lilting and musical, Faust grinned at her eldest. “It is not so simple. It takes just the right ponies to wield Harmony’s might. They must be unassailable within their aspects. Absolute paragons of their particular virtue to avoid the temptation to use the Elements for their own gain.” “Could I wield an Element of Harmony, auntie?” Namyra leaned on the table, an eager grin on her muzzle. “I bet I’d be Loyalty. No, Valour! I’d definitely be Valour.” “Valour isn’t one of the Elements,” snickered Clover. “Laughter, Loyalty, Compassion, Generosity, and Honour are the Elements of Harmony.” “I knew that.” Namyra crossed her hooves and huffed, glowering at the other filly. “But Valour should be an Element. Maybe that is my Domain! If it is, then I could help you kill griffons and push back the Shadow.” Namyra grinned up at Celestia and Luna. “You are many years away from slaying demons, love,” Iridia chided, taking her place between Namyra and Luna. “There is a sixth Element as well,” Faust’s eyes gleamed as she lifted her tea to her lips. “But it is hidden and only revealed with the other five are gathered.” “I bet that one is Valour!” Namyra gave a high pitched laugh, jumping from her chair and running in circles around the table while singing, “Valour is great, valour is strong. To be valorous, never is wrong!” “Tempered, would you mind giving Namyra her bath?” Iridia’s tone left little doubt the question was a command. “Of course, Your Majesty.” With practiced skill, Tempered detached herself from the table, slipped up to Namyra’s side, and whispered something into the filly’s ear. The pair had made it halfway to the manor, when Namyra stopped, dashed back to her mother and gave Iridia a kiss on the cheek and said, “Good-night, mother,” before zipping back to Tempered’s side. As the door clicked shut behind the pair, Faust said, “Sister, I caution you again; The bargain with Ioka must be maintained. I can’t protect her from the tides of Fate any longer.” “I don’t need you to protect my daughter, Namegiver,” Iridia snapped, her muzzle pinched into a dangerous line. Luna winced at the use of her mother’s divine title and glanced towards her sister. Celestia’s head was pulled back in shock while she watched the pair of unicorns at the table. Star Swirls mouth hung open, while Clover had pulled the hood of her robes further down her face to hide her expression. “Need I remind you that this valley is protected, and one of my centers of Power. Few can even reach the manor, not without first being invited, and even if they should; I would destroy such an intruder utterly.” Iridia finished her statement with a stamp of her hoof. “The gravest danger is that which bears a smile and friendly hoof, your Majesty.” Star Swirl gave his head a slow shake, snorting a thick stream of smoke from his nostrils like he were a dragon. “True.” Iridia gave the old wizard a sour glare. To Faust, she said, “I listened when you cautioned me against raising Namyra among my brave halla. But this… This… Dear sister, I draw the line at giving my daughter away to be raised within an other’s House. I have listened to your advice since the time of lost Marelantis. I watched the Lemarians descend into madness and savagery. I stayed idle as your Theulesians withered and decayed until they crumbled to dust. And even with the Unicornians I respect your desires and council. The fate of ponies are your affair, as the halla are mine.” “She’s in great danger, sister,” Faust pressed herself against the table, as if by physical presence she could convince Iridia. “Nésa, you must—” “What ‘great danger’? What is it that you keep cautioning me against? Tell me, sister, plainly, and I may listen. But don’t try to play your games with me. I have grown so weary of them after all these thousands of years.” Luna watched as her mother sagged, as if a terrible weight were dragging down her heart. Downcast, Faust stood slowly. “I can not.” “Or will not?” The question came from Luna herself. Faust gave her youngest a sad half-smile. She didn’t answer, though Luna hardly expected her to, and instead stood. “It will be a long time until we all meet like this again, sadly.” Faust trotted around the table, giving first Celestia then Luna a kiss upon their brows. When she reached Iridia, Faust began to extend a wing as if to take her sister in a hug, hesitated, and then turned away. “These are dark times, and will grow darker still before the warmth of spring,” she said in parting before vanishing in a cloud of dancing aether. “Always with the melodrama, mother,” Celestia sighed, shaking her head. “If I ever get like that, Luna, please, hit me over the head.” “Likewise, sister, likewise.” It was sometime later, after Sol had set, Selene had risen, and the stars were awake to play, that Star Swirl stood, downing the last of his cold tea. Celestia had retired long before, as had Iridia, leaving only the old wizard, his apprentice, and Luna on the patio playing a game of stones together. “I’m afraid we must be off, Your Grace.” “Oh? Can you not stand losing at stones so much, old friend?” Smiling around his pipe, Star Swirl gave his head a shake, bells jangling at the motion. “Has nothing to do with it. Besides, Clover had us both beat a dozen moves ago. She’s just too polite not to press her advantage.” “It didn’t seem right,” Clover muttered as she packed away the board and floated the coloured stone pieces that gave the game its name back into their containers. “No,” Star Swirl continued as if Clover hadn’t spoken, “We must be off to the south. To Marelencia.” “Marelencia? Why there?” Luna’s tone contained a hint of suspicion as to the answer, but she waited patiently for Star Swirl to respond. Taking up his staff and adjusting the scabbard holding his sword, Star Swirl said, “I spoke to a hemmravn not two Solsdays ago that indicated a growing foulness settling among the villages and towns of the region. I fear that in his desire to impress and serve your sister, my successor has erred and created an opening for the Shadow to ply their wicked trade. Sombra means well, as does the rest of the Solar Cabal, but good intentions, Tartarus, and all that, Your Grace. I mean to uncover the truth of the matter before meeting up with Celestia and Sombra in Airagos.” “Impress my sister? Hardly.” Luna gave a harsh snort, her eyes darkening with anger. “He is a kirin. Covetous and treacherous. Celestia gives him too much of a leash.” Star Swirl gave a soft sigh, shaking his head sadly. “You do yourself a disservice, Your Grace, with such statements. What of Saint Juniper the Just? She was a kirin as well, and lived a long life of dignity and quiet contemplation.” “As I recall, she also lived in a time of relative peace and security hundreds of years before my birth. I judge not from tales passed down through the centuries, Star Swirl, but with what I have seen with my own eyes, and those of Selene. And though there may be the odd exception, the overwhelming majority have been cruel, greedy, and prone to violence and insanity.” “And that is why any that show such signs are drowned by their mothers before reaching majority,” Star Swirl retorted with a sharp clack of his staff on the flagstones. “A despicable practice I can not believe is retained.” “I find it hard to fathom why kirin are still created,” Luna countered. “With my Valla and I… and Celestia as well, there isn’t the need for such abominations anymore.” “Explain that to the Queens struggling to hold back the griffons. Or the Houses vying for power.” Star Swirl adjusted his hat and shook his beard again. “Kirin are not a necessity anymore, I will grant you, Your Grace. A kirin born of love is a very powerful being, but so many are made of deals and treaties, with daughters sold like common harlots to dragons for breeding. I can defend this practice no more than I can condon your blanket hatred for all their kind. That I am concerned is not because of Sombra’s pedigree, but because of his actions.” “Why not warn Celestia now?” Luna tapped a pensive hoof on the flagstones. “If you are so suspicious.” “It may be nothing, and she has greater worries already on her withers.” He shook his head a final time and began to head towards the manor gates, Clover in his shadow. “I must be certain. A wizard can not afford to be wrong.” Luna just smiled at Star Swirl, and when he was out of earshot, whispered, “Ever her Most Faithful Student, old one. Very well, I will let you play your game, but not without taking precautions.”