In retrospect, Cobblestone thought, she should have seen it coming.
The ring around her horn itched, and the shackles, while padded, were quite firm around her hooves. She was flanked by two guards to her front, and her rear was guarded by another of them, their expressions uniformly bored as they faced forward silently. The two in front were suspending her via magic, cradling her in a warm-ish, almost stifling cocoon of energy as they all trotted down the hall to her appointment.
After she had won her fight with the colt on the track, Cobblestone had entertained vague hopes that she might be deemed unfit to begin counseling, but the decision had apparently been made to allow her to go ahead with her meeting. Only now, she would be doing it in chains. Cobblestone was getting tired of the chains. She’d never been a big fan of jewelry before her capture, and her experiences so far all but guaranteed that the young thief would never voluntarily wear a necklace or bracelet again for any reason.
The trio of guards stopped, and so too did Cobblestone, the slight lurch forward causing her to lose her train of thought. They were in front of an old wood door, one that was well-polished and gleamed with health. If Cobblestone didn’t know better, she would have said the thing was made of live wood. It unnerved her.
One of the stallions knocked on the door respectfully, and after a brief moment, it opened silently on well-oiled hinges, swinging wide to reveal a well-lit room colored in warm yellows and greens, and covered in shelves on which were displayed a number of odd instruments and books, some of them familiar and others mystifying.
“Leave her by the couch!” a feminine voice called, “I’ll be right with her!”
The guards did as told. Cobblestone hovered forward, through the door, and stopped near the couch. She noticed with a pang of worry that the guards who had been so determined to stay close to her had, in fact, refused to enter the room, and their faces looked the slightest bit worried behind the stoic masks they usually wore. The door swung shut once more, leaving Cobblestone standing rather stiffly by the couch.
With a clatter, the restraints fell away from her legs, though the ring remained on her horn. Cobblestone examined her legs on reflex, checking them over for injuries and such, before she decided to take stock of her situation.
The unicorn who had called for the door to be shut was standing behind a desk, putting a stack of papers away and leaving the surface of her desk, made of the same shining wood, pristine save for a blotter and inkpot. Her coat was a neutral gray, and her mane a slightly darker shade of black. Her eyes, in comparison, were a shade of riotous gold, and everything about them demanded attention from the casual observer.
“Good morning, Cobblestone,” she said, her voice calm and welcoming, like she was greeting an old friend, “How are you doing?”
Cobblestone shrugged noncommittally. “Fine, I suppose,” she said.
“My name is Brandywine,” the unicorn said. “I’m this facility’s resident Cleric and head counselor. Please” she said, indicating the couch, “Have a seat.”
Cobblestone sat, not wanting to appear uncooperative. Perhaps if she was compliant enough, she could leave this place early. It was already putting her on edge. It was too pleasant, like it was some kind of magical ideal of what a counselor’s office should be like. She was feeling right at home, and she’d hardly been in here for more than a minute.
Cobblestone’s brow wrinkled suspiciously. Remembering the lessons Hob had given her, she visualized walls going up in her head. Focusing on them, she turned her magic inward, what little she could muster, and with a bit of effort, she managed to shield her thoughts. Immediately she noticed that she was much more on edge, and that she could feel the distinct presence of somepony in her head that was not her.
“Stop that,” she said, her eyes screwed up tight. “And get out of my head.”
Brandywine’s eyes widened. “My apologies,” she said. “And I mean that sincerely. Here.” She closed her eyes, and Cobblestone felt the pressure on her head lessen immediately. “I’m so used to letting my natural abilities flow that I often forget that I have them on.”
Cobblestone opened her eyes, and noted that the room felt much less familiar to her, which she took to be a good sign. She looked at Brandywine. “What do you mean, ‘natural abilities’?” she asked.
“I’m a Cleric, dear,” she said. “Do you know what that means?”
Cobblestone shook her head no.
“I use the emotions and thoughts of ponies to help with the healing process,” she said. “I specifically am known as a Strummer. I make a psychic connection with others and use my own emotions to help bring about certain emotional states.”
“It’s not as wicked as you might think!” she exclaimed hurriedly, seeing the look on Cobblestone’s face. “For one, the more I influence your own emotions, the more yours influence me. And I can’t make you feel anything you aren’t already feeling, at least a little. I don’t put feelings into you. I just…encourage the ones that are already there.”
“So…you were trying to make me feel at home?” Cobblestone asked.
Brandywine nodded. “That’s why I’ve painted this room to be a more pleasant color than the rest of the facility, and keep it well lit. It puts ponies at ease, and lets me help them relax. Life in confinement is stressful. I consider it a bit of a kindness I can offer to ponies. I can usually get a feel for their moods when they enter my office. I do my best to help them with that.”
“Do they know what you’re doing to them?” Cobblestone asked.
The other unicorn’s lips curled in a little moue of distaste. “Not in as many words, no,” she said. “To be perfectly honest, I oftentimes don’t realize I’m doing it. It just sort of…comes naturally.”
She shook her head. “But enough about me, Cob. Let’s talk about you! I’d heard you had some trouble in the exercise yard today.”
Cobblestone nodded slowly. “I guess you could say that,” she said, once more on edge. Was this the part where she got peeled apart?
“Tell me what happened,” Brandywine said kindly. “I’m here to listen.”
So Cob recounted the tale of her morning, from the waking up and shuffling downstairs, her faint twinge of pride at being out of bed on time, her desire to get a good run in, all of it. She left out the part where she felt afraid she was going soft, and tried to gloss over the details of a fight as best she could.
“And why did you feel the need to whisper to the colt?” Brandywine asked. “The fight was over, wasn’t it?”
Cobblestone shook her head. “That fight was. I won the next fight by letting him know I was willing and ready to go again if he tried anything.”
“And do you think it worked?”
Cobblestone thought about that for a minute. If she knew ponies like she thought she did, the answer was obvious. “It depends on if he’s been in a lot of fights before.”
Brandywine cocked her head. “How do you mean?”
Cobblestone took a moment to figure out how to explain to this clearly upper-class pony the principles of a street fight and the culture that surrounded each engagement. “Where I come from, ponies respect strength,” she said. “If you’re strong, you can basically do whatever you want to the ones weaker than you. So you need to go out of your way to make sure you come across as strong, so ponies don’t try to start something you don’t want any part of. Like a fight.”
“So you have to fight, sometimes,” she said, “And when you do, you need to let the ones who challenged you know that you’re willing to fight again if you win.”
“And if you don’t win?” Brandywine inquired politely.
“Then you have something to prove,” Cobblestone said. “You have to prove you can handle yourself in a fight.”
“So you’ll be challenged again?”
Cobblestone shook her head. “No. If he’s smart, he’ll find somepony he can beat in a fight to prove he’s still not one to be crossed. If I’ve beat him before, he won’t want to fight me again, at least not until he’s regained some confidence.”
Brandywine nodded slowly. “You seem to have a remarkable grasp of how pones think,” she said.
“Not really,” Cobblestone replied. “I just know how to fight, is all. I hope he does, too. Then he won’t bother me again for a while.”
Brandywine chuckled. “I see,” she said. “You look thirsty. Would you like some water?”
Cobblestone nodded, accepting a glass poured from the Cleric, which she cradled in her hooves. She waited on the counselor to drink from her own glass before doing the same to her own. If the counselor recognized her suspicion, she showed no signs of it.
“So when are we going to start counseling?” Cobblestone asked. “Not that I don’t like talking with you, but I thought we only had a bit of time.”
The unicorn arched an elegant eyebrow. “Tell me, Cobblestone,” she said, “What is it that you think a counselor does?”
“Isn’t it you job to figure out what ponies are doing wrong?” Cobblestone asked, “So you can ‘fix’ it?”
Brandywine shook her head. “No, Cobblestone,” she said. “I don’t find you what’s ‘wrong’ with you, nor do I try to ‘fix it’. That’s not my job. My job is to help you come to terms with who you are. The best way to do that is by talking with you, about you. Once you know who you are, you can find what parts of you that you don’t like, and take steps to fix them. I’ll be there to help you.”
“That sounds too good to be true,” Cobblestone said skeptically. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch,” Brandywine said.
“Bullshit.” Cobblestone’s tone became hard. “There’s always a catch. What is it?”
“I’d have thought you knew the ‘catch’ already,” Brandywine said. “You’re here in the mornings for an hour each day, unless you’re sick. If you don’t want to talk during the session, I’ll have to reschedule you for another time slot during your free time. Aside from that, there’s not catch.”
“So you and I have to talk each day for an hour?” Cobblestone asked.
Brandywine nodded. “Usually about you. If we run into trouble discussing something, I have ways to make that easier for you, too.”
“Like what?” Cobblestone asked. What Brandywine was saying sounded an awful lot like “We have ways of making you talk.”
“Well, I’m trained in mental magic, but that’s a last resort,” the Cleric said, “So I know a number of ways to make things easier for you. Approaching fears slowly, using rewards to help you negate feelings of unpleasantness attached to certain events, that sort of thing. I’ve had great success with using tea as a reward.”
“Tea?” Cobblestone said doubtfully. “How does that qualify as a reward?”
“You’ve never had my tea,” Brandywine said mischievously, a twinkle in her eye. “Maybe later on, you and I can share a pot. Suffice it to say, we’ll find ways to help you come to know yourself. And I say we, because my job is to help you along that journey. It’s my calling.”
“What do you mean, ‘calling’?” Cobblestone asked. “If you don’t mind my asking, that is,” she said, feeling as if she might be crossing a line.
Brandywine shrugged her shoulders simply. “I was trained by a master in the Celestial Empire,” she said. “He himself was Imperial. Much of my training was focused on me finding the calling that spoke loudest to me, the thing I felt I could do the best. I’d always liked ponies, so helping them seemed like a natural step.”
“You were in the Empire?” Cobblestone asked. “Is it true that they have Pegasi pushing the clouds around?”
Brandywine nodded. “It was a sight to see, to be sure! But it’s true that things there aren’t as unstructured as we are used to. Still, it’s good to be back in my home country.”
There was a moment of brief silence, as Brandywine appeared to reminisce about her days in the Empire. Cobblestone considered her counselor seriously, wondering about what else she might have learned there, and how she could have made it back. All the stories she had heard involved being dragged away by gangs of ponies with no faces and being tossed in a bonfire if you tried to leave Celestia’s lands.
“But that’s enough of that,” Brandywine said, jolting Cobblestone out of her own thoughts, “I’d like to get to know you a little better. Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”
“What do you want to know?” Cobblestone asked.
“Whatever you feel comfortable telling me,” Brandywine said. “Start wherever you like.”
Cobblestone thought. Should she tell her about herself before she got to Starfall? Or would this stranger like to hear more about why she was in prison? Would it be proper to discuss how she still felt an almost burning need to have another cup of Kiss? Or how she felt like she was waiting on a promise made to her by a pony who had no need to keep it, and might not even have the authority to keep it if she wanted to? The fact was that Cobblestone had quite a lot to talk about, and she had almost no time to talk about it.
She flicked through her memories, and realized that no matter what she talked about, that the pony in front of her would be a constant companion for the next six years. She shivered. Six years was a long time. If she was going to be here for that long, she might as well get something out of it, and Brandywine seemed to be trustworthy, at least as far as she could tell. She took a deep breath, and decided on a topic.
“I guess…do you want to hear about the first time I stole something?” she asked.
Brandywine nodded silently, her magic fetching a pad of paper and a pencil. “Do you mind if I write this down?” she asked. “I find keeping notes helps me in my work, but I don’t need it if you don’t want me to.”
“That’s fine,” Cobblestone said, “Are you ready?”
Brandywine nodded, her pad at the ready.
“So,” she began, “When you’re one of the youngest in a gang, you start out as a lookout while other ponies rob houses and that kind of thing. So after Mum died, I had nowhere else to go. I joined up with the West River Gang, the one she had worked with. You don’t get a free meal there, but you did get work and shelter. So I became a lookout.”
“I did that for about a year without anything going wrong,” she said. “And then we went to go and rob this house that was upriver a ways, one we’d been scouting out for about a week…”
“So that’s when she said we’d meet next week, and I ended up leaving,” Cobblestone said, climbing into her bed.
Fascinating, Hob said drily from his customary place on her desk. And will you be taking tea with her, too? Maybe learning new tricks? I’ve heard the best rewards come from rolling over and speaking on command.
“You’re one to talk,” Cobblestone said. “You’ve hardly said a dozen words to me this week unless you wanted me to sneak you food. Which isn’t easy, by the way.”
Oh yes, Hob said. The champion thief is having trouble sneaking out scraps. I would weep for your incompetence if I weren’t so used to it by this point.
“If you’ve got a problem with the way I do things, then go ahead and leave!” Cobblestone said. “Find another pony willing to tolerate a talking cat and good riddance!”
I chose you, child, Hob said. And whether or not you realize it, that means Something.
Cobblestone snorted. “You’re infuriating.”
The feeling is quite mutual, I assure you, Hob said, But perhaps you are right. I have been remiss in speaking to you, child. The fault is mine. I allowed the mood of this place to overcome me. It is…oppressive.
Cobblestone frowned. She didn’t like the atmosphere here, but it didn’t feel that bad. Not bad enough to warrant Hob’s silence for the better part of a week.
“Do you…do you want to talk about it?” she asked. “How do you mean, ‘oppressive’?”
Can’t you feel it, child? Hob asked. The dull uniformity of this place, the quiet monotony. It seeps into my bones and stifles my heart in its pumping. I’m choking on the dying dreams of the ponies surrounding you, like the stench of rotting fruit. What’s worse, it’s starting to cling to you, too.
Cobblestone thought to herself. Hob was right, in a way. The prison still terrified her in many ways, but she could almost feel that terror giving way to a dull acceptance, and from there into complacence. Hadn’t she been bemoaning the loss of her abilities just that morning?
Neither you nor I are meant to rot in a cell, Cobblestone, Hob said, his dry voice gaining the tiniest hint of passion. To see you slipping into the role of a quiet prisoner is something almost profane. And since you and I are, for the moment, together, I would have little choice but to follow you into that complacency.
“What do you mean?” Cobblestone said. “Why can’t you just leave?”
Because I chose you, Hob said, exasperated. Daft girl, must I explain everything? I have been sent to aid you. I could no more stray far from your side than you could separate yourself from your horn.
He leapt from his spot near the desk, bounding exactly once across the floor before landing in the bed where Cobblestone lay, The mare flinched for a moment before relaxing. His coat was remarkably soft and warm. The tomcat curled up next to her.
Besides, he said, You can be quite entertaining at times. I watched you in the exercise yard. You fought like a disreputable bitch. I approve.
Cobblestone chuckled, allowing Hob to lie against her, feeling his soft breaths against her coat. “I learned from the best. So if we can’t stay for long, and if I’m supposed to take Dis’s advice and not ally myself with anyone, what’s our best option?”
Hob gave an irritated flick of his ear. That meddlesome idiot never told you to avoid allying yourself, Cobblestone. He warned you to be careful. Putting your trust in the Evening Court already led to your incarceration here, so I wouldn’t recommend doing it again.
“Serale told me to hold on and she’d get me out soon,” Cobblestone murmured. The lights in the cell block went out, and a hush even greater than the one that had presided over the space before fell across the cells. She held still, waiting on her eyes to adjust to the darkness. A single slat of moonlight spilled into her window. It would remain for perhaps an hour before the heavenly body left her for the evening. The time it spent in her window was growing shorter, as well. Winter was on its way, and with it came the rotation of the heavens.
That may be. But do you really want to rest your freedom on Serale Everstar’s mercy? Or her ability? A unicorn who cannot do magic is a poor excuse for a unicorn indeed.
“I might not trust her mother, but I trust her,” Cobblestone said. “I suppose you’re right, though. Maybe she won’t be able to get me out. That leaves me with two options. The first would be attempting to contact Lady Hedera.”
Hob growled deep in his throat. I’d sooner stay here than see you in her service, he said. She does not bode well for you, Cobblestone. But yes, she is an option. One I would suggest you not take.
“So the second,” Cobblestone said, her voice contemplative, “Would be for me to make my own way. Wait for an opportunity to get out, and take it.”
Spoken like a true wildcat. I approve.
Would that really be the best course of action? Cobblestone didn’t know. Even if she did escape, a dubious proposition in and of itself, where would she go? She couldn’t stay here, clearly. Hiding under the nose of Lady Everstar was an exercise in foolishness, but she had nothing to her name, not money or connections. She didn’t even have her cloak. If she procured transportation, would she really want to return to Crescent City?
And if she did, how would she make her living? She had no skills other than her thieving, and she knew all of the raw magical talent in the world wouldn’t make a difference if she couldn’t find a teacher. Perhaps it would be better to flee the other way, towards the Celestial Kingdom. She could sneak across the border; find her own way to a better life for herself. Maybe, if she was very lucky, she would be able to find a teacher.
She discarded the idea almost immediately. She would fare no better there than she would were she to stay here, and as an added burden, she would be trapped in a place that was rumored to be almost akin to Tartarus manifested.
Cobblestone groaned. There were no good options available to her.
Might I offer a suggestion? Hob asked. Simply wait for an opportune moment, and when it comes, be ready to take it.
“Easy for you to say,” she grumbled. “You’re the all-powerful cat. A guard can walk right by this cell and not notice you sunning yourself on the window. I’m watched every day and night, because new prisoners are considered dangerous here.”
The wardens of this place are wise to fear you, Hob said. But for reasons even you are not aware of. Dis would not have chosen you if you were not extraordinary, child. Nor would I have.
“Please,” Cobblestone groused, settling into bed. “If I were so ‘extraordinary’, I’d probably be able to think of a way out. Or force a way out. Or something.”
Hob, without warning, turned his head and nipped her sharply on the flank.
“Ouch!” Cobblestone exclaimed, squirming away from the cat, which was still once more, as if nothing had happened. “What was that for?”
Hob opened one eye, which glowed yellow in the dim light. You were being self-pitying, which has not once helped anyone accomplish anything.
Cobblestone picked Hob up with her magic, lifting him out of her bed and setting him back on his table against his yowls of protest. “You’re not sleeping with me tonight, you little fiend. That hurt.”
Better to be angry than morose, I think, Hob said, curling up on the desk. At the very least, it makes you more interesting.
“Goodnight, Hob,” Cobblestone said grouchily, and then she raised her mental defenses, blocking the cat out.
Hob closed his eyes, and Cobblestone settled in with the vain hope of falling asleep soon. She wouldn’t get much rest that night, her head filled with the thoughts of what to do next, how to facilitate her removal from prison, and all of the options available to her. As the last shimmering beam of moonlight began to vanish from her cell, Cobblestone’s eyes began to flutter shut. It may have only been a dream, or it might not have been, but before she fell into an uneasy slumber, Cobblestone could have sworn that she saw the face of a young mare peeking through the bars of her window, watching her closely.
The Prancing Pony was one of those establishments that straddled the line between seedy and well-kept, its location by the river near the gates attracting a healthy mix of pilgrims and locals, and its excellent ale keeping the gold flowing into its coffers with ease. It also never hurt that the barmares were pretty, the food more than decent, and the entertainment was usually of high quality.
More often than not, the pub could be counted on to be open and rollicking with good cheer well into the night, and the ones that lived near and might be kept awake…well, they were certainly welcome to air grievances with the proprietor, and he usually did an excellent job of keeping on their good side. A well-placed gift of food to a hungry family, or a lengthy chat with a new father over a mug of the Pony’s best brown nut ale never went awry.
The Prancing Pony was almost always a place of good cheer, but inevitably, there would be a point in time where it was anything but. Tonight was one of those rare nights where everything went wrong, and the bar’s owner, Hops, blamed it on the fact that the fiddler they had hired for tonight had shown up sodden with drink and with a tuneless fiddle. He had lasted for perhaps fifteen minutes onstage, before a well-thrown pewter mug collided quite violently with his head, thrown by one of the patrons with more discerning musical taste and fewer scruples than their peers.
“Stupid idiot,” Hops growled, sliding another mug down the bar to its waiting recipient, a Gryphon who caught it eagerly and drained it dry before grabbing his kit and polearm from the wall and heading into the night. He never worried about drunken Gryphons, the massive bastards managed to hold twice the amount of ale as the best of drinkers, and even if they did get tipsy, they almost always chose to collapse in a corner, rather than smash up his furniture.
A table in the corner began to speak in raised voices, and the experienced ears of the barkeep pricked forward in order to catch the possibility of a fight before it started. Thankfully, the voices crescendoed in a laugh rather than blows, and a crisis was avoided. Hops wiped his brow nervously, and knew it was only a matter of time. Food and drink drew in his customers, but without something to occupy them, this packed house would surely begin to find other ways to entertain itself.
Hops’ eyes flicked across the bar to the bouncer by the door, an old ranger by the name of Twiggy. Twiggy was a certain misnomer, seeing as the stallion in question was roughly the size of a barge. Even Twiggy looked to be unnerved by the crowd, and Twiggy never looked unnerved by anything. It was going to be a bad night, he could just tell…
“Pardon, sirrah?”
Hops blinked, his gaze meeting that of a young mare whose face was possessed of very fine features, dominated by deep green eyes and framed by a mess of frizzy red curls. She smiled at him, and Hops could have sworn there were fangs in her smile before she tossed a lock of hair out of her eyes, distracting him. When he looked again, they were gone.
“I was passing by, and noticed thy lovely tavern, quiet as a grave save only for the babble of thine erstwhile patrons. Such a house as this shouldn’t suffer so without music. Wert thou in need of one, perhaps?” she said, her voice a rolling brogue as clear and beautiful as a stream of fresh water.
Hops noticed the satchel slung over her back, marking her as a traveler. “Can you sing or something?” he asked. “Our performer for tonight showed up drunk and can’t play a note on that fiddle of his.”
The young mare inclined her head. “I possess a passing familiarity with the fiddle, goodsir. And I would fain exhibit what modest skill I doth possess with my voice as well. Would that suffice?”
Hops felt his spirits lift. He might not replace any furniture tonight after all! “Girl, if you can play a fiddle and sing, you’ll have whatever you want for your work!”
The young mare shivered. “An…intriguing proposal, sirrah. I accept. And my name is Leanan du Feinan, if it please you.”
“Please me or don’t!” Hops said, grabbing the fiddle from the slumped over “musician” who was currently curled up against the side of the bar. “Just get up there and play!”
The young mare nodded, grasping the fiddle with her magic before making her steady way through the crowd, to the raised platform that passed for a stage. Shrugging her pack off to the side, she seized the fiddle in her hooves, balancing on her hind legs, much to the approval of the crowd. There weren’t many unicorns who used the old styles of playing anymore.
She drew her bow across the strings, releasing an evil-sounding hiss, before her brows furrowed and she tweaked a few strings, tuning the instrument. She tuned and plinked, plinked and tuned, before finally she was satisfied. Another draw of the bow released a low, warm sound, rich as honey and twice as sweet.
The inn fell silent, hanging on the anticipation of the next note, and the strange young mare grinned a wicked grin before drawing it across the strings in a sharp, stiletto pattern that caused the pulses of the assembled drinkers to race and jump while their ears set themselves on edge all at once. The pattern resolved itself into a complex whirlwind of notes that seemed to be reaching out to the crowd, begging them to rise from their seats and begin to dance, to follow the tune where it might lead them. Indeed, a few of the more wine-touched patrons did just that ,taking to the dance floor and kicking up their hooves.
And then she began to sing.
Her voice was a pleasant alto, lilting and sweet, the sort of sweetness that wormed its way into your dreams and drove you mad with wanting. This alone would have sent the patrons into a frenzy, but it was what she was singing that turned them all wild. Words flowed from her mouth like a font of foreign wine, intoxicating and tantalizing all at once, almost familiar but maddeningly alien. Though they were foreign words, their meaning was very clear.
Let me take you away, they said. Abandon your cares and dance awhile with me, dance until you cannot anymore. The night is young, and so are you.
When the authorities arrived later that night, in response to reports of a disturbance, howls and screams unlike any the neighbors had heard, they were baffled to find The Prancing Pony completely empty. Not a scrap of evidence remained that anypony had been in trouble, save for a few spilled mugs of ale and a couple of overturned chairs. Aside from that, though, there was nary a clue to be found.
Noted in their report was the fact that there was a very fine fiddle left behind, resting neatly next to a discarded apple core.