3. In the Shadow of Giants: Part 3. The Prince of Canterlot
The black night blanketed over the entire city, the warm flames of candles providing the only flickering light. From the clouds above a light snow came to touch the surfaces of roofs and cobblestone roads. Adorning doors and street corners were wreaths, boughs of holly, and bouquets of poinsettias, their leaves as green as an April meadow after a cool rain. Tall pine trees stood imposing, decorated with tassels and ornaments made from wood, glass, and precious metals. Silver bells hung from the branches, ringing softly in the gentle breezes of night.
Ponies trudged along the cold streets, articles of clothing wrapped around them to hopefully banish at least some of the chill. Most activity had stopped for the day, the few left out in the snow so there by choice; tonight nopony was allowed to be without a warm hearth and good company. Even the Town Watch atop the city walls was huddled beside fires, telling stories and making merriment to the chagrin of their officers.
Looking at the dimly-glowing windows, she spotted dark silhouettes laughing and drinking, their raucous enjoyment faint and distant outside. Leaving a trail of shoe-prints in the snow in her wake, the alicorn let loose a steamy breath and continued on the street. She wasn't particularly cold―the brutal winters of her homeland being far worse. On the valley floor drifts were never very deep, while up here in the mountain it was a little more severe. But nothing she couldn't handle. Even so, a roaring fireplace and a hot meal did sound rather appealing.
She had stayed in Canterlot for about one season so far, catching a glimpse of her favorite time of year. The leaves of the trees had turned a very vibrant array of reds and oranges this year, and the Wintermail spent hours one day sitting under the woods a few miles from the city gates. In Equestria, ponies had the strangest traditions: in autumn they held a race through the forest, and the massive shaking of hoof-stomps caused all the leaves to be jostled off their branches. Wintermail knew about the custom, but never remained static long enough to experience it. This year was the first Running of the Leaves she had attended.
Truly an ancient tradition, dating back millennia according to some ponies present there. It rounded the season off nicely for her, and she promptly returned to her furnace to resume her craft. For much of autumn the mare spent her time forging weapons for the City Guard and private customers. Wintermail quickly acquired a reputation for a robust quality in her work, if not the greatest elegance.
Her trade made her a few acquaintances who eventually greeted the pony once every so often. They’d pass by her shop, giving a simple wave and smile and send word to their friends of a tall unicorn who made a solid dagger. Ever thankful for the good word of mouth, Wintermail tried her best to offer hospitality to these passersby, but everypony seemed to always be in a hurry.
Still, as the months whittled by, her fellow tenants and other inhabitants of the district became increasingly friendly with her. Once or twice she’d shared a drink with them at the local tavern, winning some wonderful company. But the Wintermail remained rather reclusive and soft-spoken, never really talking about herself. Years of wandering had instilled a sense of caution and acute paranoia; you never knew what intentions strange ponies held until a knife was lined against your throat.
As if these ponies were going to try something like that! Maybe tonight she’d be able to put those qualms to rest. Greymane, ever the gracious stallion, had invited all his tenants into his home to share a feast of epic proportions. Tonight, in the very dead of winter, the ponies of Equestria celebrated a holiday they called “Hearth’s Warming”. From what everypony had said all month today was a commemoration of harmony, friendship, and goodwill for one another. Old hostilities and hurt feelings were to be placed aside; tonight everypony belonged to one family.
A tinge of nervousness found the mare as she strode through the snow to the mansion of her landlord. He was a fairly busy stallion and could only spare time to see the mare once a month for the rent. They said during his famous Hearth's Warming feasts he sat at a table set with dishes from around the world, served on the finest plates by the most talented cooks in Equestria. They said he entertained lords and ladies, princes, and even kings. At the end, guests would receive prizes of gold and silver.
Such opulence seemed a work of fiction to her, but she smirked anyway. “I suppose I shall find out sooner or later,” she jested, coming up to the front door. Before knocking she took a moment to adjust herself. This was a gathering for respectable ponies, not street rabble or sooty smiths. Wintermail dusted off her legs and shook excess snow from her cloak; presentable enough. At least she was no longer bruised. Her cuts had healed and left very faint scares, with one exception. Even her horn was recovering; the old stub having since fallen off, revealing a brand new sharp one.
It did look a bit odd being so short, however.
Satisfied with her appearance, the mare walked up the steps and knocked on the heavy oaken door. The sound of ponies talking echoed out into the cold still air, bringing life into the dark dormant night. The ambient noise was then overshadowed by the clank of the latch and the creaking of old hinges. The pony behind the door stood dignified and eyed the guest for a moment. The house servant wore a red silken vest adorned with a silver brooch, hammered into the shape of his master’s cutie mark.
“Ah yes, Miss Wintermail is it?” he asked courteously, stepping aside to the let the mare through, “Master Greymane has been awaiting your arrival. Do come in.” The alicorn obliged, coming into the foyer, now filled to bursting with ponies. They were mainly of the lower class, like herself. “To the left you’ll find a spread of the most delicious foods as well as numerous kegs. Take your pick; the Master has taken great care to provide every sort of brew and vintage,” the Majordomo then bowed and disappeared back into the crowd.
Putting on a smile, Wintermail threw herself into the party. For a few hours, she stood by the gigantic wooden table. Every so often she’d take a small loaf of bread or a ruby-red apple and a cup of light beer. Several ponies gave her company, scarfing down plates of food. Some may have been so poor that they had never seen so much to eat. Others were drunkards who quite early into the night flopped down and began shouting inebriated curses.
Even so, most were all in a fantastic mood, tonight being one of the dearest holidays of the year. Carolers slung hooves around one another and sang loudly, often off-key. Burly stallions playfully chased pretty mares, giggling all the way. Smiths, farmers, and workers laughed at the top of their lungs at jokes Wintermail would not repeat.
Mugs clanked on the tables as their owners roared a hearty shanty and took big gulps of hard black ale. Servants were kept busy constantly replacing the platters and tapping new kegs. Every now and then, Wintermail managed to not laugh long enough to notice the Majordomo. He kept grumbling under his breath, complaining about the astronomical cost of this party. He even suggested to himself that a detachment of the City Watch be employed to bring order.
Well meaning, but these ponies were simply enjoying themselves. And when Wintermail had enough merriment for the time being, she stepped into another giant room to check on the noble and wealthy her host was entertaining. Turns out she was not the only pony to have that idea.
Standing within the thresholds and just beyond the Master’s Table, commoners did much the same as in the main room, occasionally taking time to serve a drink or meal to an aristocrat in hopes of currying favor. The upper crust was content with remaining oblivious to them. But in all fairness, the gentry was sufficiently distracted. The table they all sat at was a slab made from no less than ten trees, coated in enamel and gold. In the center was a spire of hundreds of fruits and vegetables, some not even Wintermail had ever seen. Fine silver platters and gravy boats shuffled about. Bejeweled and gilded goblets never seemed to empty with the finest spiced wines.
Most of the elites wore silken and velvet robes, gold and pearls sewn into them. Earrings and tiaras of sapphires, rubies, emeralds…every gem found within the earth completed their ensembles. Some wore elaborate crowns, signifying their status as landed lords. But at the head of the table was an elderly silver stallion, looking a great deal different from when Wintermail had first met him.
He wore the same red vest as his head servant, but this one was adorned with more gems and pearls and gold thread than could be counted. A glistening emerald pendant hung from his neck, a chain of electrum securing it. More emeralds studded his own brooch, again similar to his Majordomo's. He drank from the most beautiful cup Wintermail had ever laid eyes on, and the stallion never seemed to lose his smile.
It was difficult to hear them over the clamor of the other ponies in the room, but one thing she did pick up made her blush a bit. “…And if I had mare like that, you wouldn't ever see me around town, and maybe I’d still be married!” he guffawed and banged his hoof on the table, the nobles and merchants joining in as loud as they could. Many laughed so hard they spilled wine all over their fancy clothes.
Their joy brought a smile to Wintermail’s face. "Nobles may be a bit snobbish and condescending," she thought, "but they still deserved to have fun." Even all the hounds they brought with them barked and yelped happily, gladly taking any offerings of food.
When the alicorn returned back to the general festivities, the moon was already high in the sky and well past midnight. Ponies around were dancing and singing still. Shrugging, the mare took the biggest and tallest mug she could find and filled it to the brim with the hardest ale in the room. Frothing and dark, the drink leaked its foam down the sides. Licking her lips, Wintermail was about to take a drink when a large stallion stopped her. “’Oi! ‘See ya got a big cup! Sure it ain’t too much for ya, li’l mare?” he chided, the ponies around laughing. The stallion took his own mug and filled it, “I bet you’ll be on da ground before ya finish your first glass!”
Wintermail got a devious grin, “You’re on!” And so began the contest. The stallion swigged down his cup, gulping loudly and then messily wiping his mouth. Everypony cheered. Not to be deterred, the tall mare copied his action, letting the last drop fall onto her tongue. “You know…,” she said, smacking her lips. “This isn't quite strong enough.”
A collective “Oooooo!” sounded from the crowd. The stallion frowned and found a servant, “What’s the ‘eaviest brew ya got?”
The servant tried to talk them both out of this foolishness, but neither would have it. He left for the cellar and soon brought up a large barrel. Rolling it into the room, the servant then tapped it and poured a cup for the stallion. All warnings were ignored, and the stallion took a sniff of the drink.
This was an extremely potent drink called Zebrican Honey Wine. The pure scent of alcohol emanated from the foam, stinging the drunkard’s nose. The wine was incredibly sweet, almost sinfully so. But it was also incredibly strong; more than most could handle. Zebras used it in various rituals and rites of passage, and not even they were up to the challenge.
Wiping a bead of sweat from his brow, the stallion gulped and tried to remain composed. “I’ve ‘ad worse for breakfast!” he boasted. Hesitating for a moment, the earth pony brought the cup to his mouth and swallowed the whole drink. The mead stung his throat and almost caused him to spit it out, but he forced himself to drink; he would not be bested by this mare.
He slammed down the mug, gasping loudly and almost conceding. Smirking at his opponent, he let her have the keg. She poured her own glass and smelled it, the aroma overpowering yet still sweet, “My, isn't that a pleasant scent? Is this what you’re afraid of?” Giggling Wintermail downed the whole cup in mere seconds. Everypony was shocked and cheered when she filled it again.
The sweetness was enough to drive her insane. The drink was so powerful she felt like she’d been hit in the head; now that was a kick she wanted in a drink. “After you,” she taunted her adversary as she slung a mug to him. The stallion nodded and obliged, drinking it slower this time.
The contest kept going on for a little while longer. Maybe after four or five glasses, the earth pony finally tapped out, declaring, “No more!” He could barely keep his eyes open or a stable stance. Waddling over to the mare, he took her foreleg and raised it high, naming her the winner.
Wintermail laughed and celebrated her victory by finishing her latest cup. The stallion swung his hoof around her neck and pulled the mare in close, “I ain't…ne…never been defeated…now…’ere’s a pony ‘oo’s earned…my respect!” He squeezed so hard he could have choked her. It also didn't help he had become too drunk to stand easily, and was now hanging onto her.
But she found it charming well enough. Chortling, the stallion opened his mouth again. “Da fire of Friendship lives in our ‘earts!” he belted out, singing terribly but with all his might, “C’mon, everypony! Ya know da words!” And all the ponies around joined in the song, the carol perhaps the most famous of them all. The room’s timbers reverberated with noise before the song was finished. But during, one pegasus accidentally spilled another’s drink. The two took to fighting, grappling each other in a headlock.
Some punches were thrown and two snouts undoubtedly broken. Ears were bitten and feathers yanked out. Yet when the dust settled the two stallions eyed each other for a few seconds…and then just laughed and embraced one another as though they had been brothers. The defeated earth pony praised their show of physical prowess and stomped his hooves. “This pony just seems to always be in a good mood―probably the ale,” Wintermail thought.
When the stallion had his fill of drink, he turned to his new-found friend. With slurred words and erratic movements, he asked Wintermail to perform a song, as the winner of the contest. She shied away, assuring him she did not know any carols. “Ya got someffing; out wif it, ya bloody giant!” he urged, the crowd cheering her on. Left with no choice, the mare thought for a few seconds, trying to recall a song―any song.
The crowds anticipatory stares bared down on her mercilessly, and she sighed a relief when the alicorn found a joyful tune. Clearing her throat, Wintermail put down her cup and took a deep breath. The melody she started to hum was very dear to her, an old alicorn ballad her late father had sung to her many nights. A tragic tale of loss and mourning, eventually blossoming into a crescendo of praise and hope. The lyrics were all in that ancient language, and Wintermail sung them with a fierce passion. The ponies around her understood not a single word, but shed tears of happiness all the same.
Amidst the crowd, two ponies in particular caught notice of the singing, and perked up their ears. One stood nearly a full head higher than the rest, and took great care to remain inconspicuous and uninteresting. A lavender unicorn, her mane a sweet light blue color. The mare’s deep violet eyes intently narrowed at the sight of a white pony over by the drink barrels. She stroked her chin as though she’d happened upon something quite important.
The other was a simple pegasus of average height and a rusty red coat. He too found the mare, and admired her mellifluous singing. But the nature of the song was what aroused his interest the most. A cocky smiled curl onto his lips, signifying a mission successful.
Wintermail would never know these two ponies had been at that party, nor would she learn that they took notice of her. And the alicorn would especially never find out these two unrelated individuals perfectly understood the words she had sung.
But when she was finished with her song, Wintermail did realize the reception it got. All the ponies cheered and stomped their hooves. Laughing and whistling, shouts of praise and joy sounded around the room. That earth pony wiped a few tears from his eyes. “I’ve ‘eared the voice of an angel…now I can die ‘appy,” he rose a toast to the white pony, and when he had finished the last sip from his mug, the drunken stallion collapsed to the floor. Wintermail giggled and shook her head as a couple ponies came to carry the sot off to home.
Sunrise was a few hours away when she finally stumbled out of Greymane’s mansion, a belly full of sweet pastries and enough alcohol to kill lesser ponies. Lazy-eyed and poorly coordinated the mare felt her way back to her apartment. She slipped on ice more than once and probably busted her nose, but happily she rose back up and found the door.
Producing her key, she fumbled to open the lock, dropped the key, giggled, and managed to get inside on the third or fourth try. Struggling up her stairs, it was a miracle the mare did not manage to break her neck. At last in her bedroom, Wintermail loomed over her large bed and gave out, flopping heavily onto the mattress. Out cold, she’d sleep well tonight…and suffer on the morrow. But at least she’d have pleasant dreams, putting all her worries to rest.
Blissfully unaware of what exactly she had done in singing that song.
*――――――――――S――――――――――*
The next few days progressed very much like before, Wintermail whittling away the hours in her shop. She was growing better at producing a signature flavor to her works, leaving her swords and daggers a little less generic. The rack behind her was filled with over a dozen blades, each possessing a distinctive leaf-like shape. The alicorn thought it made them look elegant and more unique, perhaps convincing a wealthy patron to purchase one.
She kept them well-oiled and well-polished, wanting to see her reflection on the steel at all times. She made more typical blades of course, being cheaper and less personalized, but no less effective at killing. Wintermail chuckled, remarking how many wore elaborate scabbards and swords, maybe forgetting exactly what a bladed weapon was meant to do. Well, it was their money; they can buy whatever gaudy things they like.
Sweating over her fiery forge, Wintermail pounded out a longsword ordered by a gruff officer of the Canterlot Guard. He stipulated a blade inlaid with gold and rich ornamentations on the hilt. She was no jeweler; she hired one across the street to decorate the hilt once she managed to fit it onto the finished steel.
And as she was thinking about that sergeant, the distinctive sound of clanking metal and marching echoed from the cobblestone road. Out the left side of her shop Wintermail saw a troop of about fifteen guards trotting through the ice and slush upon the ground. Their iron sabatons and crested helms rattled with each step, and the spears they wielding sometimes knocked into one another. At the head of the group was its commander, a deep blue unicorn mare who bore scars down her eye and snout.
They wore little else beside a solid steel barding plate over their backs and a coat of chainmail. Soft woolen cloth underneath prevented chaffing. Their helmets covered the tops and sides of their heads, but the face was left exposed. Each also carried a dagger and sword as sidearms. Wintermail smiled when she noticed a scabbard bearing her mark: the very same symbol that adorned her necklace.
Ponies around the road were cheering and tossing fruits and bread to the soldiers in gratitude. Some came up to try and sell their other wares, but the guard was in a hurry. Their stoic commander simply nodded in appreciation and shouted orders to keep up the pace. The Canterlot Guard had been busy the past few weeks, galloping out to deal with the raiders and bandits plaguing the Princedom’s borders.
Whoever they fought was cut down, and whoever they captured was questioned and more often than not executed. The heads of ponies, diamond dogs, even estranged mustangs rotted on pikes over the city walls. Wintermail got a dark sense of catharsis when she looked upon them.
The troop was gone as quickly as they had arrived, off to some location to deal with whatever problems their Prince saw fit. Resuming her craft, Wintermail labored for a few more hours before the next event of the day reared its head. Stepping off the street, a middle-aged stallion of clear noble birth approached the shop. He wore a dark vest, sewn with simple cloth thread and bearing the embroidered coat of arms for Canterlot on his chest. Atop his head was a like-colored velvet cap with an upturned brim.
The unicorn flashed a smile and admired the weapons behind the mare. Wintermail returned his courtesy and shifted her eyes back to the anvil.
“A quaint establishment you have here. I hope you make good business,” he said in a cheery voice.
Yet Wintermail couldn't help but feel a little suspicious. He certainly was an agent of the castle; a prime candidate for corruption. “I make enough. You aren't hoping to receive a cut, are you? It is not wise to threaten a bladesmith.”
“I’ve my own livelihood, Miss. Rest assured; I’ve no designs on your shop,” he scuffed a hoof and brought it up to the smith’s view, “My shoes are rusting right beneath my hooves. It’s the snow―wet this year. Can I bother for a reshoe?”
“There’s a farrier across the street; she’ll get you what you need,” she looked up and studied the stallion, “I’ll tack them if you like: two bits.”
“That’s rather generous of you.”
Wintermail smirked, “I didn't say I was good at it; I use longer tacks than most―might tap your foot.” The mare expected the official to leave and go bother the farrier, but he would not.
Instead the unicorn just stood and watched the white pony hammer away and then place the metal back into the fire. Growing impatient, Wintermail finally set her mallet down and leaned towards the stallion. “Is there something I can help you with?” she asked with just a hint of annoyance slipping through.
“Actually yes. My liege has selected you for a very important task. Here:” he took a scroll from his pocket and placed it on the bench. It was sealed with white wax, marked with the symbol of the city. Her eyes widened. The Prince himself had drafted a letter just for her!
Even so, she still could not read it. Feigning disinterest, she looked back at the official, “Is this roll supposed to mean something to me?”
The stallion laughed softly, “It’s what written inside the roll that matters. May I?” Wintermail nodded and the unicorn levitated a knife off the shelf. Cutting open the seal the pony then returned the knife and unrolled the paper. He cleared his throat and magically held out the note, “’I, Petrafyrm of the House Mountainkeeper, Prince of Canterlot, Viceroy and Regent of the Kingdom of Equestria, Warden of the Sun and Moon, do officially order a dagger specially made for my son and heir, Lord Vale. I hereby grant my loyal retainer, Lord Siresworn, to locate the smith most qualified to accept this task.’ You are that smith.” he then rolled the paper back up and stuffed it into his pocket.
“’Petrafyrm’? Is that what we’re calling the Prince?” Wintermail thought. She however did not speak, instead waiting for this Siresworn to finish. He did not disappoint, “His Princeship has bade me to tell you he wants a dagger of the highest quality metal available, the hilt gilded and set with gems and the scabbard uniquely made for the Heir. Here; I believe this will cover the expenses,” he placed a fat sack of gold bits on the table, the top almost overflowing, “The Heir is a mere colt, so make him feel he has a real sword. Once you have completed this weapon, posthaste you are requested at the castle. Stand before the gate and tell the guards you have the Heir’s weapon. My Liege grants one week.”
“I suppose there’s no hope for refusal,” Wintermail playfully said.
“You just won’t get the money, but this also would not be the last time you see me,” The stallion smiled and bowed, “I trust you can take care of the rest,” he started to leave before he remembered something crucial, “Oh and…if you possess a weapon of your own, a special one with a unique…quality or construction…maybe a family heirloom, the Prince shall be thrilled to see it. He’s a bit of an enthusiast for rare weapons,” he tipped his hat and went on his merry way.
“What sort of game are they playing at?” she asked under her breath when the stallion was gone. Nevertheless, she shifted her efforts to this dagger for some small noble lordling. She couldn’t be too upset; she’d made the biggest sale of her short career. Bringing back the sturdiest and purest ingots from market, she threw them into the fire and waited. “Maybe I’ll make a living yet.”
And she put the money to good use, enlisting the aid of that jeweler to complete the dagger. He commanded a high price for silver and gold and gems of all sorts, but the quality of the finished product was all the better for it. Wintermail completed the longsword along the way, creating a truly impeccable piece. Placing aside the sword, she took a shorter blade from a shelf, well-maintained and shining brilliantly. The tang was of course full, and she pounded the hilt on with a cloth-covered mallet. The jeweler had taken great care to ensure the pin melded seamlessly with the rest of the hilt, and she carefully hammered that into place too.
What emerged from all this labor was an ornamental dagger, constructed for full and brutal combat. It was only sharpened on one side, but to such a fine point a pony could shave the backside of a fly. The hilt was haft of wood, but glossed with white enamel. A meticulous replica of Canterlot’s seal rested on the crossguard, wrought of gold, silver, and electrum. A large amethyst sat in the center. The pommel was set with diamonds and rubies, forming an abstract pattern of great beauty. The alicorn placed it inside the scabbard and admired the work of its sheath.
Similarly adorned with precious metals and stones, Wintermail finally burned her mark into the wood and had the jeweler fill it. The Prince’s son would love his new dagger, no matter how ungrateful he could be.
It had been five days since she received the order, and as soon as the dagger was finished, she ran inside of her home and prepared to set out for the castle. She fetched her saddlebags and placed the dagger inside and then girt up the longsword. It’d be easier to carry around her waist than anywhere else. But then she remembered what that official had asked her to bring. Frowning a bit, she turned to a dresser and opened the top drawer. Among some other items, there was a very long wooden box with a hinged lid. Lifting it up, she stared down at the giant sword she had placed there when she first arrived at Canterlot. Pulling the blade out of the box, she shut the drawer and held the sword for a moment.
A smile of sentiment arose, and she strapped it around her waist. It felt strangely familiar to be wearing to two swords, something she had not done since her old one was shattered. Donning her cloak, she stepped back down the stairs and left through the door, placing anything worth stealing into the room below the house. Locking the door, Wintermail stepped onto the stone road and looked over the tops of buildings to locate the castle.
This was no difficult task, and soon the tall white spires of the mountain keep made itself known. Pleased, the mare headed down the way and passed by the numerous buildings and stalls along the path. Any other day she’d take a moment to sample the produce and speak to the ponies selling them, but right now she had a very important mission. This was her one chance to win over a Prince with her work, and there was a significant part of her that was thrilled to see the castle from the inside.
Unless they took the weapons and shooed her away from the gate; hopefully not.
About half an hour later, after meandering herself around the Canterlot streets, Wintermail came to the gatehouse of the inner city wall. Atop the structure were naturally a cadre of guards, diligently patrolling the wall with their spears and steely glares. Unlike the outer wall, the heavy iron gate of the castle was usually down, even during the day.
The commanding officer spotted the mare far below, standing awestruck and dazed. “Excuse me, Miss!” he shouted, “Have you business within these walls?”
“Yes sir!” she yelled back, “My name is Wintermail. I am a bladesmith, and I have the dagger bidden for Lord Vale. Allow me to enter and present it before his Highness, and I shall be on my way.”
The guard looked down expressionless, and then turned back, presumably to let the mare through. The intimidating iron teeth that hung from the marble maw that was the inner gate cranked up. The portcullis mechanically receded into its home, leaving a large hole for Wintermail to enter. The impressive size of the gate stunned her for a moment before the guard shouted again, urging her to hurry and pass through; he could not keep the gate up all day.
She obliged, and emerged within the next wonder Canterlot Castle had to offer: its lush gardens. Wintermail had heard tales from customers who had accompanied dignitaries and the like into the courtyard. The perfectly-maintained topiaries and lawn shined a verdant green seen nowhere else. The gardeners tended the hedges and flowerbeds with a care few ever dedicated to their craft. Not a single blade of grass or leaf was out of place or noticeable; everything was as it should be.
Stone fountains spouted water all day and night, their calm sounds lending a peaceful ambience secluded from the bustle of the city outside the wall. Unicorns and pegasi and earth ponies were the statues of choice, but other creatures dotted the landscape. Rumors of a winged unicorn were certainly not unfounded. In times of great celebration the Prince would have the entire courtyard decorated and catered by servants.
The Canterlot Gardens were another pride the white city could add to its repertoire; a veritable wonder of Equestria. But unfortunately right now, in the height of winter, the mare saw all the awesome statuary and vegetation blanketed in fresh snow. It was still beautiful, just not…as she had hoped. “Maybe someday…,” she sadly thought, still honored to see it at all.
Trotting along a trail of hoofprints in the snow, Wintermail approached the gate to the castle proper, which was usually raised. The guards remained motionless, and did not stop the alicorn. Keeping a quick pace, the mare stepped into the main hall, the glorious architecture showing itself. Massive marble pillars supported an imposing vaulted ceiling, which held painted murals of clouds and pegasi and what looked like alicorns. The paint had faded somewhat, probably because of its extreme age; few things in the castle were younger than two-thousand years.
Lining the walls were stained glass windows, each depicting events long in the past. Wintermail thought she could not understand what they meant, but then at the far end were the oldest windows. Ancient, pasty, and uneven, the pictures they painted were strangely familiar.
The furthest was a scene of alicorns―no mistaking it. They bowed before Tulicëai, and the next…they offered the white alicorn a crown. And he refused…only to be seated on the throne in the next.
“Lórian Almighty,” she gawked, the memories all flooding back to her. The events of that day replayed in her mind a thousand times, and…even her father’s death made itself agonizingly apparent again. Wintermail stared at that white stallion with the red hair, “Who are you?”
The next image was apparently the construction of Canterlot, cranes lifting up large marble blocks and placing into the fortress. The one after was a siege, a small unicorn outlined in brilliant yellow glass. Perhaps the siege’s commander? The next windows probably carried on the city’s history, of which Wintermail was ignorant.
Breaking into a cold sweat, the mare decided to press on, feeling increasingly uncomfortable within this hall. The corridor eventually bled into a roundabout that branched into different paths, leading to various parts of the castle. But right ahead were the largest doors Wintermail had ever seen. Held in place by shiny steel fastenings, the oaken doors probably required several trees to make. Two guards stood watch on either side―they seemed to come in pairs at every threshold.
The unicorns must have been notified of a white pony coming to meet the Prince today, because without a word they each took a handle in their magic glow and powered the doors opened. These were strong ponies, but even they had a bit of difficulty in moving the wooden monstrosities.
And there it was…the Throne Room. This seat of Canterlot’s presiding sovereign, ever the subject of awe and envy the country over, was a long and lofty white room, the floor a marble so polished and flawless, Wintermail could not see a better reflection in a mirror. Titanic pillars bore the weight of the rest of the castle, their tops ringed with gold patterns. More stained glass windows bathed the throne room in light, iron frames depicting the heavens and earth and beauty of the most abstract form. Armored ponies and princely retainers stood around the chamber, all eyes turning to the newest entrant.
A bit uncomfortable, Wintermail nevertheless proceeded down the deep crimson carpet that stretched from the doors all the way to the large gilded foundation of the throne itself. Brass fittings and painted decorations lined the bottom, and water even flowed from small faucets into a basin on either side of the steps. The first deck possessed two wings, where yet two more guards stood, bearing their spears proudly. The second deck contained wings for advisers of the crown. And up against the wall was the tallest chair perhaps anywhere.
Brass and gold, with iron swirls and lines completing the opulence, the top of the throne was tipped with a twinkling golden star reaching for the heavens. The carpet extended up to the throne, melding with the crimson cushions of the softest velvet. And the pony blessed to sit this powerful chair was a large unicorn stallion. His coat was a pale blue, his mane a medium grey. Violet eyes stared down at Wintermail, and she recoiled at his gaze. Bands of wealth and nobility adorned his legs, a rich satin vest encrusted with stones and pearls displaying the true power of this individual. A velvet red cloak rested on his shoulders, the edge lined by white and black down. A gold chain clasped the drape to him.
Sitting with his hooves in golden bejeweled slippers, the stallion wore a necklace of even greater beauty than Greymane had during Hearth’s Warming. But curiously enough, the very same symbol Wintermail kept around her necklace hung from the unicorn’s as well. His large masculine horn was adorned with a band of gold, and finally atop his head sat a rich gilded steel crown. Metal spires rose from the band like the towers of the city itself, and set before the central medallion was a shining star amethyst as large as a pony’s eye.
Unworthy, awed, overwhelmed, Wintermail dropped to her knees and offered her respect to the Prince of Canterlot.
“We have patiently awaited your arrival,” he spoke, a voice as authoritative as it was kind. He raised a long scepter, another amethyst topping it, “Rise, noble bladesmith,” she could do nothing but obey.
A dull red unicorn stood beside the Prince, whispering into his ear as he nodded. On the other side of him a bright blue colt sat on a small cushion, smiling and simply excited. The Prince gestured a hoof at the colt, convincing him to settle down. He then leaned back and looked intently at the mare, “I am Petrafyrm of the House Mountainkeeper, Prince of Canterlot, Viceroy and Regent of the Kingdom of Equestria, Warden of the Sun and Moon,” he smirked, softening his glare, “My people have taken to calling me ‘Prince Peter’. You have come to present my son’s dagger, I trust.”
Heart beating fiercely, Wintermail bowed her head as quick as she could; she did not wish to waste the Prince’s time, “Yes, Your Majesty!”
“’Lord’; Lord shall suffice,” he then turned to face his son, “Go and receive your weapon.”
The little lordling smiled brightly and trotted down the steps. Soon the tiny colt was staring straight up at Wintermail, “Wow! You’re the tallest pony I’ve ever seen!”
The crowd within the throne room could not help but laugh, including the white mare herself. “I get that a lot,” she said. Expertly she fetched the dagger from her bag without exposing her wings, and then presented it to the Heir. He happily took it and stared at the scabbard before anxiously drawing it.
“Such breathtaking detail,” the Prince said, admiring the ornate hilt.
“I cannot take full credit for this piece, my Lord,” Wintermail bowed again, “My jeweler neighbor prepared the hilt and scabbard. I merely created the bases. But you have my word as an honest smith the blade is of the utmost quality.”
“I shall take special care to thank this jeweler,” the Lord of Canterlot said. Yet while the white mare had retrieved the item, he did notice the long points of two swords hanging down from each of her haunches. “Perhaps you have something else that burdens you…a sword maybe?”
Wintermail’s eyes widened. How aware were these ponies? “Yes, Lord. A longsword for Sergeant Direhoof. He had wished to come by my shop and pick it up once it was complete.”
“Leave it here and I shall ensure he receives it. He is a fine officer, and he’ll no doubt be pleased with your work.”
“Many thanks, my Lord,” she then tried to excuse herself from court, only to be stopped by the Prince’s loud voice.
“Stay; there are things I wish to ask you. Shall you indulge your Prince?”
Stunned, Wintermail wasn't quite sure what to do. “Er…of course. Forgive my rudeness.”
“You've done no wrong, my dear,” he assured before standing up from his throne, “Everypony but my honored guest and councilors shall depart the throne chamber!”
Most of the retainers and guards obliged, but the two standing beside the throne turned to the Prince and objected, “Lord, are we to trust…her with you?”
The Prince shifted back and frowned, “You are to do as I command; Marshal Helmraed will see to my defense. But I feel our smith is too respectable for such a need. Out.”
The guards reluctantly obeyed and exited the chambers as the rest did. The little Lord Vale’s nanny escorted him back to his own room to await lessons with a sword master. About a minute later, only five other ponies remained beside the Prince. One was that unicorn who had originally given Wintermail the order.
Satisfied that only a select few were allow to see what transpired within the Throne Room, the Prince leaned from his chair and looked at the mare. She was rugged, blanketed in a dark cloak. Her pink mane was short and largely messy, but still maintained as best as was expected for a peasant. She used it to cover her right eye and her horn was new-looking, short and thin.
With her full attention, the sovereign resumed his speech, “What is your name, bladesmith?”
Gulping, the mare stood her long neck up and gave her liege a visage of respect, “Wintermail, my Lord, of the North.”
Yet the Prince was clearly frustrated by this answer. He frowned and tightened his gaze, “Shai roneä dhenë meviln?(What is your name?)”
Wintermail was stunned hearing the words of her heritage for the first time in decades. She blinked a few times, every word she tried to speak dying on her tongue. Visibly annoyed, the aged Marshal Helmraed, iron and dull like armor, spoke out. He was stern but not rude, “Your Prince has asked you a question.”
The white mare looked at the earth pony and then back at the Prince, “I am Winter―“
“tam-Valedion. Durno dhenëy rondulno der lé-umbona , lé-mitë nor-Lórian vadeäm. Shai rondulno?(Do not be afraid. Your parents named you in a stream, in the view of Lórian above. What did they call you?)” the Lord of Canterlot interrupted, bearing the full weight of his authority.
Then it hit her; she was tired of running and hiding―the ruse had been seen through. The Prince knew exactly what he was speaking to. The saddest part was however that Wintermail had to think for a moment. What did they call her?
Oh yes. Her name, her true name…no matter what aliases and titles she would go by in a hundred years, this name would forever remain hers. Confident, she stood before the Prince’s seat and declared aloud who this white alicorn was.
“Nikóleva Maiëlindirnasí nor-Solárindilbainuir!” the mare spoke clear and forceful, presenting herself as more than a simple peasant, “Céba meviln shaideni héim-mor mevilë, Calar vysë.(This is who I am, great Prince.)”
The lord could not believe his ears…had he heard it right? His heart nearly skipped a beat and he leaned back with giant eyes. Recomposing himself, the Prince gestured to one of his councilors, “Have my squire fetch my great sword,” one bowed and left. The Prince then returned to his guest, “Remove your cloak, alicorn. Bear yourself proudly.”
Wintermail…or was it Nikóleva, felt different somehow: less concerned for her secrecy, and indeed a bit prideful for the heritage she’d been forced to conceal all this time. She happily unclasped her cloak from around her neck and threw the garment down on the floor. Now nopony in the room could miss the giant sword she girt about her.
Spreading out her wings, Nikóleva stood tall and mighty, a sight that brought a tear to the Prince’s eye. This white warrior looked as the ancient alicorns of old: tall, lean, bearing a massive sword only they could wield. Noble and strong, she seemed every bit the mythical highborn race of legendary power and even greater hubris. Regal, even.
Before long, the Prince’s squire returned with a huge implement, easily one of the largest swords Nikóleva had ever seen. He bore it to the base of the throne, and for the first time since this meeting took place his Princeship stepped down from his chair. Summoning a vigorous violet aura he took hold of the blade, and he drew the mighty great sword from its scabbard.
Nikóleva took a few steps closer to get a better view of the weapon. The hilt was ivory white, haft of some unknown and extinct substance. Lines of inlaid gold and silver slithered and coalesced into delicate shapes and patterns. Amethysts studded the pommel in a star-shaped arrangement, while the crossguard was almost as long as the hilt itself. The two large steel prongs were bisected with a large grey circle, lustrous as any trinket. Set inside that circle was another amethyst, bigger than the crown jewel atop the Prince’s head. And this jewel was cut into the shape of a six-pointed star.
The blade itself was as long as the Prince himself―few ponies could ever comfortably wield it. In fact, it looked like it had been forged for a pony of Nikóleva’s size, as her own sword was. The steel was unique, though; she’d never seen anything like it. Swirls crept up the entire length of the blade, catching the light in a thousand different ways. And strangely enough, Nikoleva could feel a faint magical presence emanating from the steel.
“This is Ailéránen. It has been in my family since before we became Princes of Canterlot…since before there was a Canterlot. I use it for ceremonial purposes and sometimes…executions. It is simply too large for me to use in battle. Ailéránen is forged of a metal that cannot be found in any foundry or shop: Alicorn Steel. You will never find a material better for the crafting of weapons. Unfortunately, nopony alive knows how to make it.”
The Prince returned his giant sword to its sheath and bade his squire leave. He then eyed the richly-decorated hilt of Nikóleva’s sword, “Might I?”
“Of course,” the mare said, and quickly undid the straps. She gave it to the Prince and he happily pulled it from its scabbard.
“Here we have a weapon so similar the two might as well have been forged by the same smith. Elegantly imbued with a passion I feel was lost a long time ago. And what’s on the crossguard here?” he inspected the hilt further, and saw a blazing sun of gold. Shocked, he turned the blade over and found exactly what he expected to: a cool silver moon. Next he took a look at the blade. Black steel, almost too dark to make out the characteristic swirl, yet sure enough it was there.
And most shockingly, ancient symbols had been engraved along the blade’s length, spelling out a famous message. This was it.
“I…I never thought in all my life…in all the days I’ve been seeing old swords…I would have the immense pleasure of…just encountering this one. Eónadin, is it not?” Nikóleva nodded, “How did you acquire this?”
The alicorn tried her best not to look indignant; she did not steal if that is what the Prince wished to imply, “It belonged to my father, and his father before him, and perhaps up to the very beginning of our family, my Lord.”
The Prince shook his head and returned Eónadin to its home. Nikóleva became puzzled as the lord dismissed his councilors and bade the alicorn to follow him. The two walked down the length of carpet and left through the massive doors. Next the Prince led his guest over to another hallway, and further down there was another door.
“I should be very honored to have you stay as my guest. We have an apartment prepared for such company,” the Prince offered.
Nikóleva hesitated, distracted by the thought of actually going deeper into this beautiful castle, “Er…you’re too kind, Lord, but I’ve my own home―“
“Worry not, Nikóleva; I shall dispatch servants to fetch anything you need and ensure nopony steals anything in your absence. Please I insist!”
“Well…,” she thought it over for a moment, “As you will, my Lord.”
The Prince smiled and finally brought the mare before a smaller door. The fastenings and wood were identical to the throne room doors, if a great deal smaller. The Prince then bowed before the tall alicorn, “I must attend to various duties, but I shall see you again come dinner. The Librarian will teach you what you need to know, and we shall discuss more about the future in time,” he rose back up and smiled, “You've done us a great service here; the finest of hospitality will be yours.”
Finished speaking, the Prince left down the hall, and disappeared behind its marble walls. Nikóleva thought for a moment, “Why is this stallion so cryptic?” Shrugging she put a hoof on the handle and gently pulled open the door. Inside was a very tall chamber, every available space along the walls lined with shelves. Each shelf was packed with books, and wheeled ladders hung from the very tops, apparently allowing those not blessed with wings to reach the towering shelves.
The sound of a roaring fire echoed in the room, which was otherwise completely silent. Candles resting on wall fixtures lightly flickered. There were a couple tables and chairs, all stacked with books and scrolls. And in the center of the room, a giant tome wrapped in his magical aura, a very tall pony was reading.
His coat was beige, simple and plain. He heard the door open and he shifted his deep red eyes to the intruder. The stallion possessed the longest horn she’d ever seen, and a flowing light grey mane. Hanging from his lip and chin was a full grey beard. Streaks of darker colors could be found, implying his hair had lightened with age. He wore a simple cloth vest.
More stunningly, however, was the fact her wore a black cord holding the very same symbol Nikóleva and the Prince wore, only it was a thick piece of wood instead of metal. But above all else, this stallion was tall, almost as tall as her, and wore folded wings at his side. He was no mere Tulicë, but an alicorn, through and through. From what little Nikoleva knew about her kind, she knew enough to realized a greying alicorn must have been ancient.
He shut the tome and placed it on a table. He cocked a large bushy eyebrow and studied the mare from head to hoof. The librarian stepped closer and sighed, “I see His Princeship brought me another one.”