3. In the Shadow of Giants: Part 5. The Ways of the Sword and Quill
“This is ridiculous…,” a tall white alicorn huffed, walking through the ancient and magnanimous halls of Canterlot Castle. Wearing a foolish pout and a crinkled brow, Nikóleva muttered to herself, lamented the grave injustice His Princeship had subjected her to: mandated sword lessons.
For the few days following her momentous stay at Canterlot Castle, the white alicorn did in fact return to her shop to resume her new profession. But every day envoys and councilors were sent from court to treat the mare to meals and discuss various things. Over the course of about a week it had been decided that Nikóleva would travel to the castle once a day after work and receive an education from the Librarian. She was a bit apprehensive at first, fearing how much this commitment would interfere with her craft. But, swallowing her anxiety, Nikóleva humbly accepted the offer and graciously thanked the Prince.
He gave his warm smile and then sat back on his lofty throne. With perfect gravitas he soon gave another command, one that made Nikóleva’s ears droop. She was to do a lot more than simply read some old books. At important affairs of state, festivals, celebrations, and diplomatic meetings Nikóleva was expected to accompany the Prince as part of his retinue. Such a responsibility was quite a bit to take on, but on top of that the white mare was made to take instruction from some swordmaster she’d never met telling her how to fight. Besides, she’d had her fill of the lonely life of a “mercenary”.
Coming up to one of the large rooms within the castle, Nikóleva opened the tall doors and trotted inside to find an almost empty room. Whatever furniture was inside had been placed against the walls, leaving a large open space of tiled floor. Standing within the morning light of the stained-glass windows was an older-looking earth pony, his dull brown coat a bit coarse. Looking on at the mare with an anticipatory expression, the stallion crept forwards, balancing two long wooden training swords on his back. He then waved a hoof over his chest and bowed before the mare.
“Good morning, Miss Nikóleva. I hope you slept well; you’ll need your strength today,” he greeted, a playfully snide smile on his face. He then tossed the mare one of his swords and took the other in his hoof, “First we shall work on your stance.”
Nikóleva smirked in kind and rolled her eyes, “I think there’s been a mistake, Sir…”
“Bretteur, but during our sessions, I shall ask that you refer to me as ‘Master’. Time’s wasting; pick up your sword.”
Nikóleva just looked at the wooden “weapon” lying on the ground, “As I said, I’m not sure these lessons are for me. I’ve been handling a sword for the better part of five decades. So forgive my rudeness, but I have work to do—“
“Then whatever teacher you had must’ve been poor indeed,” the master teased.
The white alicorn’s heart skipped a beat, a deep and personal rage building inside her. She would not let anypony speak ill of her old “teacher”. She took the training sword and immediately slashed at the earth pony. The swordmaster however met her blow with perfect reflexes and used his own sword for leverage to disarm the mare. Nikóleva recoiled in shock…only one other had managed to that to her…
“And I see you’ve locked up; what’s your next move?” he taunted, taking another stance.
Again Nikóleva took her prop and this time opted for a stabbing maneuver. Unfortunately the stallion answered with an upward parry, leaving the mare wide open. He then quickly hit the alicorn hard on the shoulder with the flat of his blade. Nikóleva winced and started rubbing her shoulder.
“My sword only left you with a bruise; had it been made of steel, you’d be dead,” he said matter-of-factly. “The Prince has told me a couple things about you, how you use a blade that cuts through others like paper. Well this quality is of little use if your opponent manages to avoid the edge.”
Beaten into submission, Nikóleva allowed herself to continue listening to Bretteur, but she still kept her fierce glower. The master simply admired the inner fire this mare possessed. “Hehe your great height and strength has served you well, and with a little practice and direction you might make a good fighter. We wouldn’t ever wish to repeat your run-in with that Minotaur.”
Nikóleva’s eyes widened and she stared down at the floor, finally surrendering to her fate. “He told you about that, huh?” she said, remembering the one lunch she’d been able to share with his Princeship that ended in a couple things being discussed. He proved himself to be very trustworthy, and his disposition was too courteous and optimistic to deny.
“With my instruction, perhaps you can make good on that. I’m not your enemy, Miss Nikóleva, and if you just let me, I can show you great things,” the pony said, smiling as he gave her back the sword.
“Thank you for your kindness, Bretteur, but I’ve…decided for myself to put away my sword…for good,” Nikóleva meekly admitted. It had been a difficult thing for her to do, but that way of life had run its course with her.
“With all due respect, I’m not doing this as a kindness; His Princeship personally requested that I instruct you. And as for you, whether you stay out of trouble or not, a fight will come rearing its ugly head; best be prepared. Now are we through feeling sorry for ourselves?” he giggled, cocking an eyebrow.
Nikóleva took a moment to think and reflect upon the swordmaster’s words. She was born of greatness, born to a proud lineage. Her father never would have shirked from such hospitality as the Prince had granted, nor a fight to protect those in need. And certainly neither would this Solárindil. Shaking herself from this creeping and crippling self-doubt, Nikóleva raised her head and gave a firm nod. Taking the training blade, the alicorn readied for her first lesson.
Overjoyed, Bretteur commenced with the session in all eagerness, “Yes! Now first thing’s first; we must learn our stances. Do as I do,” he commanded, moving his feet to the perfect position for quick and deliberate movement.
Nikóleva tried her best to imitate the stance, but Bretteur’s look of dissatisfaction told her it was all wrong. “No no no,” he derided, “Your legs are too far apart; you’ll fall straight down! And bend your knees!” He then swung the wooden sword at the mare, striking her with an audible smack. The mare fell over.
“Ouch! What possessed you to do that!?” Nikóleva shouted, her side aching.
“A static target is a dead target. You should have dodged that, which you could have had your stance not been so terrible! Again!” Bretteur yelled, allowing the mare to recompose herself. He then swung the blade again, this time meeting only air.
The alicorn had actually moved out of the way. “This one does learn, I see,” the earth pony remarked, readying himself for another stance. “You’ll get old drilling these, but you’ll thank me for it.”
*――――――――――S――――――――――*
Every week Nikóleva went to those lessons, and every time she returned home she knew a little more about the art of sword fighting. Daily in her leisure time she’d practice her stances and stations, repeating the swings and slashes and thrusts until they passed into memory and then into instinct. Her progress was well noted and admired by Bretteur, and she grew more and more confident in herself. Nikóleva certainly couldn’t defeat him in a duel quite yet, though. Maybe someday.
When spring came, and the snow began to melt and birds returned from their migrations, and the calm sweet breezes once again blew through the quaint meadows in the vale beneath Canterlot, the tall white mare rested lazily by the banks of the river, delighting in the beauty of her new home. Nothing, nothing at all could despoil her joy.
Or so she had thought.
The Prince decided that in late March she would begin her formal schooling. There were objections to this, usually along the lines of, “Why must I while away the fair hours of the day inside a castle, on pretty springs days like this no less?” The Prince would always show his “authoritative face” and glare, replying with cool level-headedness, “This is an opportunity many dream of, and few will ever have.” And Nikóleva begrudgingly accepted this.
The chosen venue of class was, naturally enough, Delbedasir’s library. The ancient alicorn crept into the room, finding his new student admiring the illustrations in all the books messily opened on the tables. He cleared his throat to get the mare’s attention, who hastily closed the books as though she’d stumbled upon some arcane secret. Delbedasir narrow his eyes and glanced at a desk placed before a large slate hanging from the wall. Nikóleva took one look at the seat and scowled, knowing full well it was meant for a pony half her size.
The Librarian chuckled and turned to the board, taking a bit of chalk in his red aura. After a few minutes, the alicorn scrawled out the Equestrian alphabet on the chalkboard.
“Now, the most basic unit of Equestrian writing is of course the ‘letter’,” he began, “Each letter represents a distinct sound in the language, and we can string together the various sounds to create ‘words’. Writing is our primary means of recording and sharing information when personal interactions are either impossible or impractical.”
The Librarian then went over each glyph individually, explaining the sound it represented. He encouraged the white alicorn to duplicate the letter on her own slate, trying her best in the absence of magic. Unfortunately, Nikóleva had neglected to make several letters distinct enough from one another. This lack of attention earned a startling swat on her desk from the Librarian’s measuring stick.
“No no no! You want to be understood. I do not tolerate ambiguities in my students’ writing!” he chastised, thoroughly disappointed, “Again!”
Nikóleva’s protests and pleas for clemency were simply ignored, and the Librarian’s stern commands were all but to be obeyed. She must have rewritten each letter a dozen or so times before the old alicorn gave his tacit nod of approval. But even when satisfied, or as satisfied as a cranky stallion pushing three-hundred could be, Delbedasir continued in his unrelenting drills of academia; a draconian curriculum from which Nikóleva had no reprieve.
As the day progressed, Nikóleva was taught the different sounds each glyph stood for, and soon enough they were stringed into words. Delbedasir told the mare to write her own name, her full name, and she obliged. When that final letter had been etched onto the slate, Nikóleva quietly giggled like a small filly, proud she had completed a task so basic as writing her own name.
Her giddy expression was noticed well by the Librarian, and the mare couldn’t help but feel a slight of warmness when he gave a smirk. Excited and feeling like she’d gotten the hang of this writing business, Nikóleva eagerly awaited whatever exercises her teacher threw at her. He followed through, and she did her best, needing to be corrected less and less the more she practiced. Nikóleva’s writing became more personalized as the lessons went on, evolving into an elegant style the Librarian had first demonstrated.
And somewhere during all these sessions cooped up in a giant library while the Spring whiled away, Nikóleva rediscovered something that had been damaged ever since that fateful meeting with a minotaur; her confidence. Every question she answered correctly, every tool or weapon she’d sell in her shop, every blow she managed to deflect from her swordmaster; they all restored her feelings of self-worth.
Nikóleva could feel herself growing wiser, quicker, stronger. More comfortable in speech, in movement, in work. As she became better at reading, she began asking Delbedasir to borrow some books from the library. He was all too excited to go on and on about the multitude of texts within the room, and Nikóleva often had to come up with an excuse to break off from the old alicorn.
But she’d be eternally grateful to the stallion for introducing her to a whole other world contained in dusty and yellow pages written ages before anypony alive could have met the authors. Whatever the Librarian didn’t have time or care to teach in class Nikóleva could find in some book resting on one of the hundreds of shelves. Ancient battle accounts, recipes for new and exotic dishes, and even a manual for bladesmiths; it was all in there in some form or another.
Standing beside her forge, unoccupied with any other task, Nikóleva would open a book and explore what secrets it held. In addition, her talent with money improved drastically, ensuring nopony ever cheated her in transactions. Gold never became an issue again, and she even grew bold enough to invest her burdensome horde in some projects around Canterlot, in exchange for a cut of the profits, of course.
Nothing could stop the white mare now. Tall, confident, and ready, she took on any challenge that was presented to her. Demanding customers, common thieves, difficult quizzes; she faced these trials and more, remembering who she was and her heritage. She was the daughter of a stallion who’d do no less than his very best; oh if only he could see his little girl now.
It became hard to imagine when she first started her schooling how she whined about the frequency of lessons.
“Why must I come here every day? Everypony needs a break,” she had complained, like a spoiled little filly.
“You’ve been bidden to receive years’ worth of education in a short amount of time. We simply cannot afford any protracted breaks,” the Librarian responded, staring down an aloof alicorn that only wanted to return to her shop. “Now get back to your seat, Nikóleva! You’ve actually done well in your studies, and I cannot in good conscious let you return to the world a fool!” and this, strange as might have sounded to others, was the Librarian’s odd way of giving a complement. Nikóleva couldn’t help but smirk at that behind his back.
He had kept his gruff look as he drew up the next lesson, “If you truly are the blood of the Kings of old, then you should have no problem continuing at this pace. In fact, I daresay you could not do otherwise.” And this struck a long-forgotten and dear chord with her. Suddenly she was transported back to the day her father brought her to the ruins of the Alicorn city and gave her his sword. He saw great promise and ability in his daughter, and now Delbedasir saw that very same potential.
Immediately her attitude changed, and things came to look better than they had in a very long time. From then on, every challenge was an opportunity to prove herself and her will. Why should she let some little setback bring her down?
The Librarian lectured her on matters of theology, something she’d ruminated on very seldom. And during his teachings he listed a series of virtues and values, chief among them six that formed the foundation of friendship. Nikóleva thought about the mare she had been, wandering the wild lands of the Earth, and what sort of character she’d possessed. Arrogant at times, maybe reckless and vainglorious, that mare almost got herself killed.
But Nikóleva would learn from these mistakes, and learn from the good deeds she’d done. The smiling faces and shows of gratitude from ponies she had aided did nothing but warm her heart; was this merely selfish ego-boosting, or the true and pure touch of virtue? Those books she read caused her to raise questions like this.
The pendant that hung from her neck stood for something, a concept she only now began to understand. Virtue, love, courage, faith…did these all drive her actions, or were they the simple realizations of personal wants for affection and praise? Nikóleva did not know, but she decided for herself who she’d grow into should be virtuous and toiling to realize the ideal Delbedasir and those books talked about. Nopony could truly become this perfect individual, but she settled easily with the thought that Lórian above would know her heart.
Thus did Nikóleva set about for herself a new path, a new way of life. But the library was only where she learned about ideas and concepts. The Prince’s throne room, however, was where the true test would be. For intermixed with her lessons and time spent at her shop, Nikóleva was meant to stand as a member of the Prince’s retinue.
But Delbedasir had taught her to find a lesson everywhere, and things could definitely be learned amongst the strange and wonderful characters that found themselves within the Canterlot Throne Room.
*――――――――――S――――――――――*
Dignitaries, envoys, courtiers, officials, nobles…anypony of any political significance flocked every day into the Throne Room of Canterlot Castle. Armed with pleas for help from their lords, treaties from the various princes of Equestria, or grievances throughout the realm, these ponies certainly kept his Princeship busy. Surrounded by all these nuisances, the Prince still managed to hold himself as a calm, collected, and dignant sovereign, never betraying whatever internal feelings of anger or annoyance he held.
As things stood on this particular day, during the pleasant months of spring, several diplomats sent from the free merchant republics debated amongst themselves and the Prince. Each one wished to secure exclusive rights to the lucrative riverine trade route that fed Canterlot with exotic spices and other goods, while in turn providing those cities with much-needed grain. Manehattan’s Dogaressa had sought for a long time to establish a monopoly over this route, while her greatest rival the First Lord of Trotterdam wished to undermine Manehattan’s every move.
The ruthless politics of these city-states carried with them extremely high stakes, and when the personal fortunes of the merchant lords intertwined with statecraft, wars to maintain this wealth were all too common. Each city or city league held considerable power, their economic might far surpassing whatever strength they could draw from the land, as the feudatories of the Old Kingdom had for the last thousand years. The Prince knew granting rights to one city would effectively make Canterlot dependent on it, so he wisely dismissed the matter entirely. Each emissary contested the motion hotly, to whom all the Prince replied cleverly. No single city could possibly make up the lost revenue booting out the others would cause, and he preferred to maintain his policy of free trade.
“So I decree, by the authority vested in me as Prince of Canterlot, for equal and fair customs all traders, be they members of the republics or otherwise, may sell their wares in this realm,” he proclaimed, pounding his scepter on the base of the throne. The echo compelled the chamber to fall silent, and he motioned to an official.
The official drafted several formal responses to the ponies who had sent these diplomats, each refusing their offers of gold and gifts in exchange for monopolies. The diplomats took the scrolls and all walked out in a huff, glaring at one another. Afforded a moment to breathe, the Prince sulked into his throne.
Off to his right was a tall alicorn, fur as white as snow and a mane colored a lovely shade of pink. The mare was wearing a fine sky blue courtier’s vest, a small iron broach pinned to her chest. Much to the Prince’s frustration, she was leaning against the tall throne, faintly snoring and her eyes closed. Several of the other courtiers were giggling to themselves, amused by such an uncouth pony.
Raising his scepter, the irritated noble lightly bopped the mare on the head. “You fell asleep?! What’s the matter with you?” he chastised, his voice quiet and soft.
“Ouch!” Nikóleva cried, rubbing her head with a hoof before checking for blood, “Was that necessary?”
“As a matter of fact, it was,” the Prince replied, his countenance returning to its former nobility, “Of all the rude things you could possibly do, falling asleep is one of rudest. You’re lucky those dignitaries were too focused on their own affairs to notice you.”
Nikóleva first tried to argue her case, but then drooped her ears when she saw the truth in her liege’s words. “…Forgive me, my Lord. But I must confess all this talk about trade and politics, and indeed all these matters of state…they don’t really capture my attention. I’ve been standing here listening to ponies gripe for hours—if I may be so bold.”
The Prince sighed and remained silent for a moment before replying. “You may,” he said flatly before gaining a slight smirk, “It seems palace life isn’t all getting pampered and waited on. There’s more to the job than sentencing and wars. This is the business side of ruling; what a leader is supposed to do. You’re here to learn what it means to sit on this throne, so that you may take your rightful place as Queen.”
Queen. That word had been uttered to Nikóleva several times, and each time it made her stomach knot up. The Prince was fixated on the idea that the great savior of Equestria had descended upon Canterlot to deliver the Kingdom from its ceaseless age of darkness and confusion. But the alicorn herself didn’t think at all she could fill that role, regardless of her purported heritage.
“My Lord, if I may be frank, it has been a great honor standing beside you in your time of court, but I’m not so sure I belong here…,” the mare confided, trying to avoid eye contact.
With a face that showed neither disappointment nor anger, the Prince turned toward the rest of the court and stood up from his throne. “I shall need time away from all Princely affairs. Tell everypony awaiting an audience…they’ll have to wait a bit longer,” he declared before descending down the throne’s steps, the white alicorn following suit. The courtiers did as they were bid, and the peasant who was next to speak with his Princeship could do little more than simply wait.
The Prince of Canterlot brought the mare to one of the breathtaking balconies around the castle, this one overlooking the valley and pristine waterfalls. Staring out over the verdant hills, he took a deep breath before speaking again.
“Then who shall be our sovereign?” the Prince asked, his voice slow and deliberate.
“My Lord…,” Nikóleva weakly intoned, uncertain if he really desired an answer or not.
“Do you understand why my family and I live within this castle?”
“Um…because it’s safe and luxurious?”
The Prince chuckled, “Well…yes. But that’s not all of it. It’s a symbol of our strength and wealth; it makes ponies feel a sense of security that their rulers are so very well protected,” he teased before shaking his head, “Or that’s just what we nobles tell ourselves so that we feel better about living in grand palaces while many…waste away in the streets…
“Things like my crown and jewels, and the fine silks I wear, and the grand banquets I throw, and the tapestries that hang from the ceiling…all these contribute a sense that the realm is prospering. When ponies see their leader, they like to think that when I’m wealthy and grand, that they too shall be. Sounds rather jaded, doesn’t it? Like I’m living in my towers insulated from the suffering of my people.
“But in truth the matter runs a bit deeper than that. A leader, a true leader, serves as something more than a simple liege you pay taxes and homage to. We are the symbols of our states, our realms…and ponies want to see them calm and strong. They do not wish to feel like their leaders are anxious about something…like it’s all about to fall apart. If the country is strong and peaceful, and the arbiter of justice honest and good, the enterprise of ponies is allowed to blossom and grow. If the leader is craven or unstable, ponies will begin to fear for their families and homes—not a good environment for peace and prosperity.”
Nikóleva looked at the Prince’s face, seeing nothing but a sincere stallion aching over the lives of thousands. “I love my people…I truly do,” he confessed, looking on at several ships traveling up the river, “And all my life I was raised to be a kind, generous, temperate, yet firm Prince. My father used to tell me ‘In all other realms let there be chaos and sin, but here there will be law and order.’ And those words have been the guiding light for me during my tenure. A constant vigilance over corruption and invasion wears a stallion’s strength; mine is not a position for the faint of heart.
“But my Lord, you have ministers and officials to do some of the work for you.”
The Prince grinned widely, as though Nikóleva had discovered a hidden secret, “Exactly. I can delegate to capable ponies, and in turn each task will be done better and quicker. Trust is a large part of leadership…at least for me. But even so, I am still the symbol of Canterlot, the symbol of constancy and mediation. So long as I remain, and so long as I rule as a virtuous stallion, ponies have no reason to fear or worry. When I am gone, and whosoever my successor is takes my place, there will inevitably be a period of distrust or slight panic. But my endeavor is to provide my successor with the necessary knowledge to quell doubt and restore a semblance of stability,” the Prince then turned his head to Nikóleva, “Do you understand?”
The alicorn nodded, “Of course, my Lord. But…how does this all concern me? I understand I’m the so-called ‘heir’, but…well I’m not the right pony…”
The Prince placed a hoof on her shoulder, “It is a complicated matter; bloodlines matter quite a bit in Equestria, and you are the only pony known to carry the heritage of the Last King.”
“But…I wasn’t born a noble or to great wealth. My father was little more than a vagabond who kept a homestead far from any musings of lords or kings. Surely there must be somepony amongst the princes of Equestria that is more deserving of the title—You!”
“Hehehe, I’m afraid not. Though centuries have passed, the prestige of the Alicorn line has not diminished, and though there certainly are better-qualified individuals for the Crown, this matter also has more depth. Yládiril, an alicorn noble, was elected by the Princes to replace his distant relative Vasílion after his slaying. Yládiril was a strong warrior and a just ruler, but unfortunately his blood wasn’t considered of the correct line. Driven by earnest devotion to the main line of Solárindil, or by cynical opportunism, the Princes of the realm broke away from the already shrunken Kingdom, until the country all but fell apart under the weight of invasion and discord.
“Perhaps there is somepony out there who deserves to be King or Queen, but there is the all-too-important factor of the Shénydoral(bloodline), and you have it. Ministers can be appointed to govern the vast kingdom, and generals to wage wars—as they have been trained to, but a Queen is more than a simple administrator. With a Queen, Equestria has somepony to march behind or see as a symbol of their country. The dynasty that stood for two millennia was struck down, and the people lost heart. Yládiril could do little to salvage their hope.”
Lost in thought, Nikóleva slowly stepped to the edge of the balcony, absorbing all the words the Prince had just told her, “I’ve watched you, my Lord…and I must admit I see little of myself in the way you govern; I may have been born to rule, but I was not meant for it.”
“Doubt besets you, as only it should. I’m not going to lie to you, Nikóleva: you have many flaws. You are not perfect, nor are you the Queen my people deserve,” the mare looked up, incredibly confused, “But, I see in you the qualities that would forge a mighty sovereign indeed. There is an inner fire with which you could rally all of Equestria and lead us to a greater future. I have seen many such ponies, all who have traveled down paths of vice and ruthless ambition. But you understand the value of power, and the price of defeat.
“These petty lords all too often grow up without knowing what a life is worth…many see their people simply as…pawns to manipulate and satisfy their own lusts for power. Yet with you, there is a certain purity. You’re not angelic, in fact you can be stubborn, boorish, hot-blooded, and clumsy; especially when you’re drunk.” Nikóleva blushed, unsure whether to be embarrassed or slightly flattered, “But underneath it all beats a good heart; you are a good pony, regardless of whatever mistakes you have made, which in over five decades I imagine is a lot.”
Nikóleva then felt a mixed sense of sadness, joy, and anxiety. She gave a nervous smile before bowing, “I wish to be in some capacity worthy of such an honor.”
But the Prince gently placed his hoof under the alicorn’s chin and raised her long neck, “You are not a Queen yet, but I will do everything in my power as Canterlot’s Prince to ensure you possess all the qualities a ruler must, and endow you with a sense of love for people and country and of adherence to the pillars of good governance. This I swear, with Lórian as my witness, so that when the time comes,”
He himself bowed before the white heir, summoning a violet magical aura. The Prince then lifted his crown of his own head and placed it upon the pink mane of Nikóleva. He then gave her his scepter, cementing the image of a fair ruler, adorned with the regalia fit for the Equestrian sovereign.
“When the crown is placed upon your head and you say your vows of Regal Duty in view of God and Ponies, you will be worthy to be named, and I honored to call you, ‘Our Queen’.”
The Queen-to-be blinked a few times in awe, stunned by the faux ceremony the Prince had just conducted. Even though it was fake and simply served to prove a point, there was no doubt the stallion was treating it as though it were real. The alicorn took off the crown and sighed, having lived out her fantasy but ultimately returning to reality. “I’ve never seen anypony be so loyal to another they've only just meant, my Lord—and a tradespony no less,” Nikóleva giggled, returning the crown and scepter.
“Maybe, but you’re not a total stranger. I however shall continue to be so long as you refer to me by my title. My name is Petrafyrm,” the Prince blushed, “It’s a silly name, an archaic way to say ‘rock steady’. Close associates like to call me Peter, as I’m sure you’ve heard around town and the castle. I prefer you call me this whilst we are not in court.” The Prince, or “Peter”, gave a nod and switched back to his normal stoic visage, “Now, might we return to the Throne Room?”
Nikóleva bowed before her liege, and in a playfully foalish defiance, acquiesced, “As you wish, my Lord.”
*――――――――――S――――――――――*
“’In the Everfree…you…will find a mul…mul…multitude of strange phen…’,” Nikóleva looked up from the page, thoroughly annoyed with the difficulty of the passage Delbedasir had chosen. “What language is this?” she exclaimed pointing her hoof at the script in question, “It’s spelled nothing like how its pronounced!”
The gruff stallion shook his head and muttered something under his breath. “It is spelled that way because when this account on the Everfree Forest was drafted, Equestrian was pronounced that way. A thousand or so years will change a language, even if pains are taken to preserve it. Go on; if you can read this, you can read anything; then you’ll finally be of use to the Prince,” he said sardonically.
“Nikóleva rolled her eyes and sighed, returning back to the paper, “’…pheno…mena that are largely absent…from…the civilized regions of Equestria,’” the mare then paused, a thought popping up in her head. “If this is Equestrian from a thousand years ago, does that mean…our Alicorn language sounded differently from…well whenever we were ‘strong’ or ‘plenty’, as the Prince likes to say?”
Meeting the mare’s gaze with sarcastic eyes, Delbedasir clicked his tongue, “Not quite. I’ve spent the better part of my life down here in Canterlot, but I did grow up far to the north, as of course you did and as most alicorns do. How is it up there by the way? I haven’t seen it…in ages.”
Nikóleva smiled, remembering her old home. Even now, so long estranged from it, she recalled all the wonderful beauties of nature in what Equestrians referred to as the “last unspoiled expanse of land east of the High Mountains”. “Still cold, wet, and wild,” she said, laughing.
And then the Librarian actually cracked a smile, however fleeting it was. “But it was our home. There formed the Alicorn territory, where our kind was meant to grow and hopefully recover. As I’m sure you know, that wasn’t quite the case. There were many dialects of the Alicorn language, even among the immigrants here. King Solárindil’s personal tongue formed the basis for a new version, consolidated in the Alicorn March, resembling but remaining distinct from the language that was spoken at the Royal Alicorn Court.
“It quickly became important for our kind that we not lose our heritage, a language being one of the most visible aspects of it. What resulted was a tongue that persisted in prayer and select conversation and managed to change very little. With the dispersal of the Triple-Kin throughout the land, our speech should have changed, but miraculously it closely resembles the original dialect of the first Alicorns that settled here.”
Nikóleva stared at the page, wondering about those first pioneers, optimistic and hardy, looking for a place to call “home”. Little hints had been dropped in conversation during her time spent at the castle, but the so-called “Heir of Solárindil” knew very little about the race she supposedly was meant to rule.
“What drove them here? The Alicorns, I mean. What became of their original homeland?”
Again the old beige alicorn shook his head, “Oh bless your little heart, you don’t know the story…”
“Story? You told me it was rather complex, and that I could read it once I knew how. I wish to take a break from studies and read about my people.”
“I can’t refuse ‘Her Majesty’,” he teased before placing a hoof under his chin, “Now…where is that book?”
Spreading his long feathery wings, the stallion soared up to the top shelves. Straining his fading memory, Delbedasir soon found the tome he was looking for. Summoning his red aura, he pulled a thick dark brown book out from its place on the shelf. Heaving, he sent the dust that had collected over the years on its cover into the air. “I should really have a maid come in here and clean up a bit…,” he murmured.
Floating down, he set the great codex on Nikóleva’s desk. Along its edges was gold trim, still as shiny and brilliant as the day it was set on the cover. Beautifully painted in silver ink was a stylized figure in the shape of an alicorn, a small jewel forming its eye. In the same ink delicate calligraphy surrounded the image, making intricate abstract designs.
The unbelievable beauty of the tome touched Nikóleva, and she gently placed her hoof on the cover, admiring the work as nothing short of divinely-inspired. And there, glittering underneath the artwork, was the book’s title written in the graceful script of the ancient Alicorn race.
“Ydaruribó nor-Verë Solárindil(The Complete Works of King Solárindil),” she said aloud, letting the title resonate for a few seconds.
“His Majesty was quite the author. In his leisure he enjoyed writing poetry and short tales—you can actually read about it in his memoirs; also in here. But I think what will most interest you is the first section: his account of the Alicorns and their downfall. It is our most complete and reliable primary source on the matter.”
Nikóleva lifted the cover and flipped to the first page. On it was nothing but a small invocation to Lórian, surrounded by an outline of inked vines and flowers. Above the text was a simple reproduction of the same symbol both alicorns wore around their necks. “Amazing that after thousands of years this tome still looks as wonderful as it did the day it was written!” the mare shouted with a filly-like giddiness.
“I’d really hate to ruin your wonderment, but that book looks as good as it does because it’s only about two-hundred years old. A preservation spell works like a charm, but will only stave of age for so long. The original disintegrated long ago, but I’ve made a great effort to transcribe everything exactly as it was before.
The false miracle of the codex’s longevity was a minor disappointment, but Nikóleva could never stop admiring the skill and passion that went into the designs. “I never took you for an artist,” she smirked, turning to the next page.
Delbedasir blushed, clearing his throat, “I take pride in my work,” he then turned back to his gruff and irascible self, “Now read it. I’ve taught you the Alicorn script well enough; you should have little trouble, only a few archaic or uncommon words here and there. Everything you’d want to know about our people is contained in that book.
The Librarian then went off to another part of the room, needing to catch up on all the work the castle staff deferred to him. “If you need anything, ehhhh…don’t bother me,” he flatly said.
Nikóleva just chuckled and placed the tip of her hoof on the first word, more ready than ever to finally have this great story within her reach. Written in bold black ink, the Alicorn calligraphy was perfect and clear, well-suited for a mare who had limited practice reading the language. Starting with a giant and pretentious glyph, Nikóleva began her discovery of an ancient ancestor and his life so long ago:
Nówin eytariléd céba , Alícëai misha coltapiln lé-adana nor-Dulicor. Meviln cadimion nambilnoc rhagdulyréda lé-mór subë.