//------------------------------// // Chapter 2: The Prince // Story: Land of the Blind // by Cold in Gardez //------------------------------// Prince Hyperion sometimes felt like a stranger in his own home. To call the palace of Queen Platinum anypony’s home stretched the meaning of the word beyond its normal bounds. Ponies inhabited the palace. They lived within its walls. Some, like Prince Hyperion and his sisters and nieces and nephews, were born and raised inside it. They shared it with hundreds of retainers, servants, guards, gardeners, aides, scribes, cooks and cleaners. The palace was a city in miniature, and a pony could live comfortably in its miles of corridors and countless rooms without ever missing the outside world. But to call the palace a home – Prince Hyperion sometimes had trouble doing that. Only one pony had truly called the palace home and meant it. Queen Platinum, the first of her name, dead now for centuries but remembered in the innumerable paintings and sculptures and stained-glass windows that populated the palace like a thousand ghosts. She had overseen the construction of the palace, and no detail was too small for her eye. The very shapes of the bricks were subject to her whims. Every wing, every tower, every vaulted arch that rose so high over their heads that one might be forgiven for thinking a pegasus architect had designed them, every one was stamped with her intent. Once, on a whim, Hyperion decided to walk down every corridor, pathway and hall in the palace. He started outside the door to his chambers and began walking, and when he reached the first intersection he turned left. He did this again and again. When he grew hungry, servants brought him food. When he was tired, they set cushions down on the marble floors for him to sleep. He spent three days in the gardens alone, walking every path in the topiary gardens and finding the shortest path through the hedge maze. He was the first noble in a generation to walk through the servants quarters and the guards’ barracks. His sisters paced beside him when he walked through their wing, laughing at his silly quest, and his mother stopped him for tea when he passed by her door. Three weeks elapsed before he returned to his room. It seemed smaller than he remembered. His sisters were more at ease in the palace. Or, at least, they had never confided similar feelings to him. Even his twin, Electrum, had disagreed – where else but a palace should unicorn royalty live? He found he had no answer to that. * * * Not counting its towers, some of which rose a thousand feet into the air, the palace had over a dozen levels, both above and below ground. Each had hundreds of rooms, ranging from the size of a broom closet to courts that spread more than an acre. The indoor gardens on the ground floor were the largest enclosed space in all the known world – the ceiling so high that, on humid days, Hyperion could barely see the frescoes carved upon it through the haze. Of those countless rooms, there were perhaps a dozen he was forbidden to enter. All but one belonged to his sisters, and the prohibition was ruthlessly enforced by shrieks and flung pillows whenever he tried to stick his head past their doors. He only knew what the inside of their quarters looked like because Electrum let him into hers. As for the final forbidden room, he hadn’t known it existed until two weeks ago. He stood in it now, surveying the damage, hoping to spot some clue that had evaded him during his last search. Little remained of his mother’s laboratory. He could guess that the cold cinders scattered near the wall were the ashes of shelves, along with whatever books they once held. Tall black shadows seared into the walls supported that hypothesis. The center of the room still burned. Ghostly azure flames licked at the bare stone floor inside a pentagram he and his sisters had frantically carved following the accident. Accident – that’s what they called it, as though dabbling in forbidden arts and losing control of dark magic was as casual and faultless as an overturned carriage. None of them dared say the obvious, that had anypony other than their mother done this, they would have been hanged on the spot. But Queen Platinum VII was not anypony. She was the anchor that kept the tribes from spinning apart. She was the bulwark against the dark times that had preceded unification, and for this her children could overlook a sin that was, surely, borne of desperation. She knew, better than anypony alive, how thin the knife was that pony civilization balanced upon. Aside from the stone floor and walls, no solid matter inside the laboratory had survived the accident. There was no door – the only entrance was an extra-dimensional portal that passed through seven feet of solid rock into a specially designed antechamber, where Hyperion had discovered the queen after the initial explosion rattled the palace. She had enough time to escape the laboratory, but not before whatever dark instrument she was toying with had brushed her soul and left her screaming in pain. There was a door now – or, rather, there was a physical passage. Three of Hyperion’s sisters bored a tunnel through the rock to reach the hidden room and the out-of-control spell. The burst of pent-up magic when they breached the chamber shattered windows for miles around. His ears still rang at night. Hyperion had already scoured the laboratory from top to bottom. He could draw it from memory, though to be fair, there was so little left in it to draw. Black crystals grew between the cracks in the stones beneath his hooves. They reflected the light of the fire, turning the floor into a bleak, shifting galaxy. A large peice of the ceiling was simply missing, melted away by the flames and reduced to frozen rivulets and rocky icicles. The room smelled of ash and bones and burning hair. And, of course, there was the fire. He stared at it, lost in thought, ignoring the sting in his retinas. The sound of glass crunching under somepony’s hooves broke him from his reverie, and he turned to see Electrum stepping lightly over the crystals. She squinted and raised one leg to shadow her eyes from the light of the fire. “I don’t understand how you can look at that,” she mumbled. She stopped beside him and pressed her cheek against his neck, and for a moment her scent took him back to their childhood. “It hurts my eyes just being in the same room.” “You get used to it. It’s like staring at the sun.” He glanced away from the flames to give her forelock a friendly lick, and then he turned back. “After a while, you forget it’s supposed to hurt.” “Until it leaves you blind, anyway.” He shrugged. “I keep wondering if there’s some clue in there, some hint of what she was doing. Something that might help us find a cure.” “It’s just flames, Pear.” The usual warmth in her voice when she used his nickname was gone. “Just fire.” He snorted but made no other reply. In time she left, and he was alone once more. * * * Electrum hadn’t gone far, it turned out. She was in the antechamber beyond the stone passage and was leaning against the wall with some book – a journal, by the look of it – floating in the air before her. She wasn’t reading it. Her head hung low, eyes closed, and if he listened closely he could hear faint snores above the crackle of flames from the chamber behind him. Asleep on her feet. Again. “Rum. Wake up, Rum.” He gave her shoulder a gentle push with his muzzle. Electrum woke with a start. The faint gold light surrounding the book flickered and went out, and he barely caught it with his own magic before it hit the floor. “Sorry, sorry.” She shook herself, took a deep breath, and reclaimed the book, sliding it into the embroidered saddlebags draped over her barrel. “Must’ve dozed off, there.” He gave her a longer look. Now that his eyes weren’t filled with the azure fire’s light, he could see how her muscles sagged beneath her white coat, and the way her mane and tail hung in limp golden strands. Her yellow eyes were puffy, weary, exhausted. “When was the last time you slept?” “Just now?” She shook her head before he could reply. “I don’t know. A few days? What about you?” “The same, I think.” That was not an entirely truthful answer. He certainly didn’t feel as tired as his sister looked, but neither could he remember sleeping more than a few hours in the past week. By all rights he should have collapsed long ago. A strange energy filled him. It buzzed within him, burning like a fuse. He felt it in his shaking breath, in the tremor of his heart, in his dry, stinging eyes. It drove him, banishing his exhaustion and leaving in its place a brittle core that would never stop, not until he found his answer or he shattered into pieces. “You don’t look too tired,” she said. “What’s your secret?” “Just younger, I guess.” She stung his flank with a flick of her tail. “By all of five minutes.” It was an old joke of theirs, almost a ritual, though one that had slowly turned to his advantage as they passed into adulthood and youth became more prized than maturity. They walked together up from the palace depths, leaving behind the cursed chamber and its flames. As they climbed to the surface, the oppressive weight on his soul seemed to lift, until he reached sunlight and it vanished entirely. Almost entirely – a shadow remained, a sliver lodged in his mind. He let the sun wash over him, and in time even that small piece of darkness seemed to fade. “That’s better,” Electrum mumbled. She stretched her head up toward the sky, eyes closed, letting the sunlight that filled this small courtyard bathe her in its rays. Despite the grime and weariness that clung to her, she was as beautiful as he remembered. “Yeah.” He held a hoof over his forehead, shading his eyes. “Bright, though.” “You’ve been down there too long. You’re going to turn into a bat.” “I don’t think that’s where bats come from.” He stepped over to the shade of an orange tree, its limbs low and gravid with fruit, and took a seat against its trunk. “So, how is she?” Electrum took her time before answering. She let out a quiet breath and lay down beside him, shifting her saddlebags so their coats could press against each other. “No change.” He grunted. “The curse?” “Still growing. Argentium thinks the crystals have reached her spine. If so, they’ll start spreading faster.” They were quiet after that. A gentle zephyr set the heavy branches swaying like pendulums and filled the silence with the the gentle rustle of dry summer leaves. “How long?” he whispered. It seemed obscene to speak of Mother’s death in normal tones. He’d only been gone four days, searching for the Panacea, but it seemed like the whole world had turned upside-down. “A few weeks, maybe less. Argentium said she’s only found a few similar cases, and they all ended poorly.” Argentium had taken the lead in fighting back the curse, and the fact that their mother hadn’t died within hours of the accident was entirely due to her. She was the youngest of his seven siblings by over a decade, and she came as something of a surprise to their mother. By the time she was born the rest of them had already carved out roles and aspirations, little fiefdoms to fight over, and rather than compete she chose the life of an academic. Hyperion had thought her choice a waste at the time, but the past ten days had forced him to reevaluate the worth of knowledge for knowledge’s sake.  “Does she have any ideas?” Electrum shook her head slowly. “She said to start making plans. And to say our goodbyes.” Hyperion tried to swallow, but found his mouth dry. “The others?” “Platinum wants to talk with you before she makes any decisions,” Electrum said. The family’s eldest daughter was always named Platinum, now at the eighth in this generation. “She’s more scared than she lets on. Corinthium and Titanium agree with Argentium. Sterling still hasn’t spoken yet.” “How is Sterling?” “Better. You should visit her.” Sterling had been at the head of the trio who broke into the laboratory, and she caught the brunt of the runaway spell. The shield she managed to erect around the remains of their mother’s experiment, even as her coat burned away, lasted long enough for the others to carve a permanent ward in the floor. She had, in a very real sense, saved all their lives. “I will.” “Good. Bring some strawberries from the kitchen, too. She’s eating solid foods.” “I might steal some of those for myself.” How long had it been since he’d tasted a strawberry? Or any fresh food? The memory escaped him, and he shook his head. “What about Quicksilver?” Electrum shrugged. “Depends what time it is. I can never get a straight answer from her.” “Typical.” He licked his lips. “And what about you?” His sister dug at the loose soil beneath them with a hoof. “I’m with Argentium.” A cold frisson ran down his back. He stared down at her, but she wouldn’t meet his gaze. “You… you’d just let her die?” “She’s already dead, Pear.” Electrum closed her eyes. “She was the moment that spell went awry. All we can do is prolong her suffering.” He wanted to scream. To shout. But he forced his mouth shut. Four of them – Argentium, Corinthium, Titanium and Electrum, his beloved Rum – were ready to let their mother die. Of the remaining four, Quicksilver could change her mind in the time it took a drop of water to fall from the gutter to the ground, Platinum was apparently undecided, and Sterling was silent in her recovery. He was alone. He was the only one still fighting for their mother’s life. “It’s not like that,” Electrum said. She turned to press her face against his shoulder, and he realized he had spoken that last thought aloud. “We want her to live, but we have to face the facts. She was using dark magic—” “She was just trying to help us. To help us all.” “Dark magic, Hyperion.” She opened her eyes and stared up at him. “This is what happens to ponies who use it. Every time. Every single time, and if they’re lucky, they’re the only one who dies. We should be thanking the stars Sterling survived and move on.” Now it was he who couldn’t meet her gaze. He turned away, focusing on the shifting patches of darkness and sunlight beyond the orange tree’s shadow. “She wanted to help.” “I know, I know.” She nuzzled his shoulder again. “And we still love her. But there’s nothing more we can do.” Nothing more we can do. The words echoed in his mind, and he closed his eyes to banish the cheerful, comforting sight of the courtyard garden in the summer sun, too beautiful to taint with these thoughts. “What if there was?” he asked. * * * The next three days were busy for Hyperion. Favors were called in. Secrets were exchanged. A significant amount of gold from his personal reserves was spent to keep ponies quiet. He was, he reminded himself in every silent moment, doing the right thing. He was saving his mother’s life. He was saving the kingdom. He was making the hard choices that sometimes befell rulers in the course of their duties. By the third sunset he was done. He went to his chambers, shed the silk vest he wore for decorum’s sake and collapsed onto his bed. And there he lay, for hours, awake. The fuse still burned within him. When he closed his eyes he saw its sparks, the same vile azure as the flames in the laboratory far below. It filled his chest with frantic energy and chased away any hope of sleep. In time the sun rose, brightening his room, and he crawled out of bed. His exhaustion and numbness and pain he squeezed into a ball and trapped in the back of his mind. Today was going to be important – he could feel it, the way his sister Corinthium sometimes got premonitions about the future. Today was one of the hinges upon which the fate of the kingdom would turn. But before then, he had something else to do. Something he had neglected for too long. On the way to it, he stopped by the kitchen and picked up a plate of fresh strawberries. Sterling lay asleep in her bed when he entered her quarters. A nurse stood by her bedside with a tray of clean bandages, and as Hyperion watched she slowly unwrapped the old linens from around Sterling’s neck and chest. His sister mumbled something in her sleep as the nurse carefully slathered a silvery cream on the ugly blisters beneath her charred coat. They wept a clear, yellowish fluid, and he turned away. He focused on his breathing for a while, until a quietly voiced “I’m done, prince,” came from the bedside. He turned to see the nurse packing up her tools, and on the bed a newly bandaged Sterling, still asleep. He swallowed. “How is she?” “Much better. Doctor Spindle is confident she’ll make a full recovery.” The nurse, a pale beige unicorn he recognized from his time with the Guard, stopped beside him to speak. “Her coat might be a bit patchy over the worst of the burns, but there doesn’t seem to be any loss of function. Her lungs are fine, which was our biggest worry.” “Right, that was my worry, too.” In fact, he hadn’t even considered her lungs. All he could think of when they mentioned Sterling’s name was the sight of her screaming, wrapped in the azure flames that poured from the hole in the stone wall. They were bright, almost blinding, but through them he could see the silver light around her horn as she warded the rest of them from the sudden blast of dark magic. Her lungs had sounded fine, then. But to be fair, the same explosion had nearly deafened him. “Feel free to stay with her as long as you like,” the nurse continued, oblivious to his distraction. “If she wakes, she can have those strawberries, but try not to distress her. I wouldn’t mention the, ah…” Right. Their mother. “I won’t. Don’t worry.” She nodded. “I’ll be outside if you need me.” She paused for a moment, then darted in to press her neck against his. It was a rather familiar gesture for a lowly nurse to share with a prince, but he must have looked like he needed the contact. She gave him a tiny, abashed smile and trotted out the door, closing it quietly behind her. He took a deep breath. The room smelled of Sterling and her beloved perfumes, but also the antiseptic sting of countless creams and potions. Beneath them all lurked the salt-and-iron scent of blood, and he shook his head to rid his nose of it. Enough stalling. He snorted and walked over to his sister’s bed. A cushion sat beside it, probably meant for a doctor or nurse, but he found it suited his rump just as well. The tray of strawberries he carefully set on her bedside table, next to a row of healing potions that might well have come from Foxglove’s shop. He stared at them in silence, thinking about the mare and her other-worldly talents, until a quiet sound from the bed caught his ear. Sterling was moving. Her eyes were still closed, but one leg reached tentatively into the air to bat at some dream image. She mumbled something too low for him to understand and settled back into the pillow. “Sterling. Sterling,” he whispered. “I brought you some strawberries.” No reply. After a minute of silence he frowned and looked away. “I’ll be leaving again in a few days,” he said, not sure if he was speaking to her or himself. “I think I found a solution. It’s… it’s not perfect, but it’s good enough. And when I come back, we’ll save Mother.” Still no response. He stole one of the strawberries for himself, savoring the taste and the way it washed the room’s ugly, medicinal scents from his nose. “Anyway,” he continued. “I just wanted you to know that you saved her. And me. And all of us, probably. And I won’t let that be in vain.” Silence fell over them, except for the faint wheeze of her breathing. He felt his throat tighten, and he rushed forward before his courage could abandon him. “And I wanted to tell you I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, and I will make this up to—” Sterling’s ear twitched. Her head jerked, nostrils flaring, and her unbandaged hoof began to paw at the bandages wrapped around her chest. Hyperion stood and was about to stop her when she froze, and her eyes cracked open. “Hey,” he whispered. “Are you awake?” She snorted, and her lips moved. She paused, wetted them with her tongue, and tried again. “I hurt, so I must be.” “How much do you remember?” “Dreams. Just dreams.” She let her head sink back into the pillow, and her voice grew soft and thready. “Even this is a dream, isn’t it? I dreamed of pain, and when I woke, my dream came true.” “It’s not a dream, Sterling. You’re awake and you’re going to be alright.” But he was too slow, and her eyes closed again, and her chest rose and fell in the steady rhythm of sleep. He sat beside her for another hour to see if she would wake again. When the nurse returned, he excused himself and left. * * * Prince Hyperion was coated in sweat and sawdust kicked up from the floor of the salle when the guard found him. The salle was Hyperion’s refuge – the one place he knew none of his sisters or their mother would venture. It was dirty and stank of sweat and unwashed ponies and mud. The wide floor was covered in cedar chips that kept away mold but stained the light coats of his highborn kin. Even Electrum avoided the ring after his attempt to teach her the basics of fencing ended with a bloody nose (his), a wounded ego (also his) and tears (hers). To be fair, they’d both been foals when that happened. He sometimes wondered, when practicing, if it was too soon to invite her back. Today’s chosen blade was the sabre, a brutish sword, heavier than the graceful rapier he prefered, and its primary use was for hacking at enemies in close quarters, crashing through their armor, as much a bludgeon as a blade. It was rather cathartic to use. By tradition, the sabre was held in the mouth, even by unicorns. It was simply too heavy to wield with magic alone – another reason he preferred the rapier, designed for precise, lighting-quick strikes and wielded by horn. The sabre rewarded the strong, the fast and the stubborn, ponies willing to bash and bash and bash against an opponent’s guard until it crumbled. Ponies who wanted to feel the spray of blood on their muzzle when they struck. Earth ponies, in other words. But every officer knew every weapon, and so once a week he picked up the sabre instead of his rapier and used it for the day. His fencing partner was Champron, a one-eyed earth pony sergeant old enough to be Hyperion’s father, his red coat speckled with gray and only a few original teeth still in his jaw. If there was an ounce of fat on his corded, spindly frame, Hyperion couldn’t see it. The iron pauldrons and breastplate he wore had to weigh at least as much as Hyperion’s whole body, but the stallion moved like they were made of clouds. His cutie mark was three crossed swords, which Hyperion assumed represented the sergeant’s special talent of beating young princes into the dirt without breaking a sweat. Champron was in the process of thrashing the prince for the third bout in a row when the guard arrived. The indigo pegasus stopped at the edge of the salle and waited until Champron finished knocking more bruises into Hyperion’s battered body before he spoke. “Your Highness, there’s a mare to see you. An earth pony from Rivervale,” the pegasus said, and Hyperion racked his mind for the fellow’s name. Few pegasi joined the palace guard, and he knew he’d seen this one around before. “Is there?” Hyperion gave Champron a slight bow, then flipped his sabre over and passed it to him handle first. “Does she have a lavender coat and a pink mane, like the inside of a shell?” “I’ve never seen the inside of a shell, sir, but her mane is pink.” Hyperion pulled off his helmet with a pained grunt and checked inside to make sure his ears hadn’t come off with it. “And is her mark a tall stalk of bell-shaped flowers?” “Yes sir. They’re white. The flowers, I mean.” The pegasus turned, perhaps unconsciously, to indicate his own cutie mark as he spoke. It was a small, finch-like bird, perched atop a musical note. That was it. “Very good, Nightingale. Finally, is her name Foxglove?” “So she said, sir. She also said you would know why she was here.” “In fact, I do. Let’s not keep her waiting.” Hyperion finished stripping off his training armor, dropping each piece back in the appropriate bins. “Bring her in. Under escort, please.” Nightingale nodded and darted back out the door, leaving Hyperion with his training partner. Champron racked their practice swords and stopped by the prince’s side. “Expecting trouble, sir?” Champron’s voice was a gravelly whisper, the result of an old wound that would have decapitated lesser ponies. “Want me to stick around?” “If you don’t mind,” Hyperion said. “I expect she’ll be civil, but this discussion might be a bit contentious. And you know mares – they can get emotional sometimes.” “Aye, sir. I wouldn’t say that around your sisters, though.” “Oh, of course. I enjoy not being a gelding.” Their banter might have continued longer, but at that moment the guard returned. He brought a fellow with him, a large earth pony corporal the same color and approximate shape as a brick, and between them was the mare who had stalked his thoughts for the past week. She was angry – he could tell from the stomp of her hooves, from the flare of her nostrils, but most of all from her eyes. Wide, bloodshot, they latched onto him the moment she passed through the door. Champron must have noticed it, too. He took a step forward. Not much, but enough for everypony in the room to see. Everypony except Foxglove, anyway. She tromped up to Hyperion, stopping just feet away. He could smell the rage rising from her body like steam. Her chest trembled as she drew in a breath to speak. “Prince.” She spat the word at him. “Foxglove.” He gave her an easy nod, as if there weren’t two armed guards on either side of her. “Welcome to my home.” For her part, Foxglove didn’t seem to pay the guards any mind either. “My sister. Release her.” Hyperion counted to three before answering. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about. Has something happened to Anise?” “Don’t give me that.” Foxglove took another step forward, stopping only when Champron moved between them. “You think I’m a fool?” “On the contrary, I think you’re brilliant. It’s why I want your help. Now, what’s this about Anise?” Foxglove’s lips drew back in a snarl. “You’re a poor actor, prince, but if that’s your game, fine. She didn’t come home two days ago, and after a frantic night I found her in a cell, arrested by your guards on some nonsense charge of dark magic. She’s an apprentice alchemist, not a sorcerer!” “First off, they’re not my guards. They serve the crown and the kingdom. Second, you yourself said that alchemy walked a fine line with dark magic. Are you so certain you know everything she’s been doing?” “I raised her! I taught her everything she knows! If you suspect anyone of dark magic, then have me arrested, not her!” “Calm down.” The temperature in the room was getting a little high for his liking. The guards and Champron stood on the tips of their hooves, ready to jump into action. “If Anise is innocent, as you say, she’ll receive a fair trial and be acquitted.” “She is innocent!” Foxglove leaned forward until the brick-like earth pony guard pressed his leg against her chest. “Then you have nothing to fear. Of course, if she has been dabbling in the dark arts...” Silence followed, thick enough to choke him. Part of his soul rebelled at this part, at this blatant and cruel exercise of power, but he forced it into the back of his mind along with his exhaustion and worry and fears. He had time for no such things. “Then what?” Foxglove asked, all but whispering. “Finish that sentence, prince.” Hyperion hesitated, his eyes drawn to the saddlebags draped over Foxglove’s barrel. Had the guards searched those? Surely they wouldn’t let her into his presence with a weapon. But her weapons were not arrows or daggers; she would use potions and poisons. Things the guards might not recognize as dangerous. The confidence borne of three armed guards ebbed. It flowed away from him, like wet sand washing out from beneath his hooves, leaving an oily unease in its wake. But it was too late to stop. “Dark magic is a serious crime. If she’s convicted, it wouldn’t end well for her.” The snarl on Foxglove’s face grew, twisting her entire face. “You had her arrested. You set this whole thing up to force me to brew the Panacea. You’re a monster, Prince Hyperion, and I swear if any harm comes to Anise I will kill you—” That was as far as she got. Before Hyperion could stop them, the two guards had Foxglove flattened on the floor beneath their weight, one foreleg twisted behind her back and her saddlebags flung off to the side. Champron darted forward, faster than Hyperion had ever seen him move during their sparring matches, and came to a stop with his hoof against Foxglove’s neck. She choked as he put his weight into it. “Enough,” Hyperion said. “Don’t hurt her.” “Sir?” Champron growled. He let up with his hoof but kept his eyes fixed on Foxglove’s trapped form. “Just hold her.” Hyperion kept his distance, snagging her fallen saddlebags with his magic and dragging them over. Something inside them clinked, and he opened the flap to find a hoofful of glass vials nestled alongside a folded piece of parchment. Curious, he pulled the parchment out. It was what he expected – a list of the charges against Anise, including, among others, the study of dark magic, conspiracy to practice dark magic, and practicing dark magic with the intent to harm other ponies. All serious crimes, but nothing of particular surprise. He had, after all, drafted her arrest warrant himself. “It’s dangerous to threaten a member of the royalty,” he said, placing the parchment back in her saddlebags. “I’m willing to overlook this incident, because I know you are under so much stress right now.” Foxglove gurgled something. From the look she shot him, he guessed it wasn’t an apology. He gave the saddlebag’s contents another cursory inspection. The vials all seemed to be filled with healing potions – he’d seen a lot of those, lately – except for one thick, stout cube of glass with a small space carved out from the center. It was empty, the cork removed, and only a faint smear of green fluid remained. He lifted it to his snout for a sniff and nearly gagged on the bitter, bile scent. “What is this?” Foxglove wheezed out something unintelligible. Champron took the rest of his weight off her neck, and she cleared her throat before speaking again. “Special mixture. Two elixirs.” Her voice was rough, and she coughed. “Oh? Anything I’d recognize?” Hyperion tilted the jar upside down. A single drop ran down the glass walls, beaded at the lip, and finally fell onto the cedar chips at his hooves. “I doubt it. The first is Stoneskin, and it’s made with a cockatrice feather and half the hair from my tail.” She flicked her tail as she spoke, and he saw that it indeed looked thinner and shorter than he remembered. “The second is my own invention, crafted with dragon’s blood, the last acorn to fall from a century-old oak before it died, and a day of starvation. I call it Ogre’s Strength.” An unsettling feeling, like standing on the edge of a high cliff, flooded Hyperion’s gut. The guards tensed, and Champron slowly lifted a hoof to the lip of his breastplate. “Why is it empty?” Silly question, but something demanded he ask it. She grinned at him, a wild, bloodthirsty grin that swallowed her whole face. “Elixirs are slow. I drank it an hour ago.” Champron reacted first. His hoof finished the motion it had already begun, snatching a concealed stiletto from beneath his breastplate and driving it down into Foxglove’s exposed throat. The weapon was simple and ugly, little more than a glorified icepick, but long and needle sharp, and it struck just below her ear with enough force to impale a log. The tip snapped clean off. The remainder of the blade skidded across her throat with a shriek of tortured metal and flash of sparks. Foxglove was already moving. She grunted and stood, never minding the two guards still piled on top of her back, or Champron’s hoof smashing into her face. The blow rattled Hyperion’s teeth from several feet away. It should have killed her. Instead she growled and spun in place, tossing the huge earth pony off her back. Nightengale didn’t even try to hold on – he took to the air as soon as his wings were clear. “Stop her! Stop her!” Hyperion shouted. He clutched the saddlebag against his chest like a shield and stumbled back. The cedar chips beneath his hooves shifted and he stumbled. That was all the opening Foxglove needed. She jumped at him and nearly lost her own footing, but still managed to snag Hyperion’s hoof with her fetlock. Once, when Hyperion was a foal, he snuck out of the palace with Electrum in tow. They were on an adventure, a quest to search the nearby forested lands for bandits and hidden treasure. Their heads were filled with silly myths of their own invention, of sunken castles and gold chests and magical, twilight-haunted glades where forlorn lovers played flutes for lost ghosts. Instead, barely a hundred yards past the treeline, the young prince stepped on an old, forgotten beartrap with his foreleg. The trap was ancient and brittle and barely functioned, but it snapped shut with enough force to break the skin and put a hairline fracture in the bone. His screams were heard all the way back at the palace. Foxglove’s grip was like that trap. Blinding pain shot up his leg, and he let out a strangled shout. He swung the saddlebags at her, spilling the potions all over the salle, and bashed her face with his free hoof. Nothing. He might as well have been blowing kisses. She pulled him closer and wrapped her legs around his barrel, her muzzle inches from his. Her hot breath washed over his face with it the vile, sulfurous scent of the potion flowing through her veins. She growled in his ear, spraying his mane with spittle, and squeezed. Her grasp wasn’t like iron – iron could bend; iron could be broken. Her limbs were steel, and they crushed him as easily as he could crush a grape beneath his hooves. His breath exploded from his lungs and kept flowing away, until nothing remained in his chest. His ribs flexed and began to pop. One gave way with a particularly loud crack, and he would have screamed if he had the air. A red haze settled over the salle, growing darker every moment. Somepony hit him with a sledgehammer. His vision, nearly black, slowly returned along with his hearing, and he looked up to see Foxglove still wrapped around him. Champron stood over them, slamming his hooves into her head. Each strike shook the room and sent cedar chips flying. Foxglove turned to snarl at him and caught the next hoof with her face. It snapped her head back and stunned her. That was enough – Champron hammered her again and again, each time loosening her grip by just a hair, until Nightengale was able to pry Hyperion away from that terrible grip. Air! He gasped, letting it flood back into his lungs. They ached, ached with each breath, like he’d been run over with a wagon, but he didn’t care. All he cared about was breathing. For long seconds he heaved on the floor, torn between the piercing pains in his legs and chest, the wonderful taste of oxygen, and the intense need to vomit. The need to vomit won. He rolled onto his side, spitting the last of the sick from his mouth, and saw the end of the fight. The earth pony guard was down, his jaw folded at an unnatural angle. Nightengale bobbed overhead, though one of his wings was missing several primaries. Foxglove snapped at Champron from the floor, but she seemed woozy and disoriented. Slow. The way Hyperion felt. Champron was not slow. The sergeant reared up to his full height and brought his hooves down on her skull hard enough to crack a boulder. The room shook at the blow, and again and again as he repeated the motion. Finally, he stumbled back, panting, and collapsed onto his haunches. Foxglove didn’t get up. * * * Four healing potions survived the scuffle. Champron turned one down, though he looked like the bad end of a bar fight – face swollen, chin overflowing with blood, patches of coat missing. Nightengale tried to do the same, until Champron ordered him to quaff it. He made a face at the taste and shuddered, his wings flexing and feathers ruffling, as the magic worked through his veins. The earth pony guard wasn’t able to drink his. Apparently Foxglove had clipped his jaw with a hoof while Hyperion was busy passing out, and the entire lower half of his face was a bloody wreck. Broken teeth tumbled out of his mouth, and they had to hold him down to pour the potion between his lips. His struggles slowly faded, and the sickening flow of blood ceased. Within seconds he was asleep on the salle floor, his breathing slow and peaceful. Foxglove hadn’t moved in several minutes, not since Champron put her down. Her right ear hung from a scrap of flesh, almost severed, and the mane beneath it was a sponge filled with blood. Her head formed a slight depression in the earth beneath the wood chips, and if it weren’t for the slow rise and fall of her chest, Hyperion would have assumed her dead. I can fix this. I can still fix this. Hyperion took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Those damn azure sparks, after images of the fire beneath the palace and burned into his mind’s eye, teased him, distracted him. He tried to focus on what was important. On solving all his problems and the kingdom’s problems without— A gentle hoof touched his chin, turning his head to the side. Hyperion opened his eyes to see Champron’s face peering at him from just a few inches away. Inspecting him. “Alright. You too, prince.” He held a healing potion out in his hoof. “Drink up.” “I’m fine.” “Like hell. You look like shit. And that was before she almost killed you.” Champron’s gaze slid over to Foxglove and lingered there. “The queen’ll make me a gelding if she finds out I let you get hurt.” Come to think of it, maybe the potion wasn’t such a bad idea. His ribs hurt every time he inhaled, his head pounded in time with with heartbeat, and his hooves burned with each step. To say nothing of the sting in his eyes, or the heavy blanket of exhaustion dragging him down. He wasn’t tired, not really, but lately it was like somepony had piled a stack of millstones upon his back when he wasn’t looking, and they wore him down with every passing hour. “Fine.” Hyperion snatched the potion away. He bit the wax seal off, spit it onto the floor, and swallowed the thick red fluid in a single gulp. It tasted like strawberries and fresh-cut grass and ever so faintly of blood. The flavor washed away the sharp tang of vomit still lingering on his tongue. The effects were quick, and much more pleasant than experiencing Foxglove’s other concoctions. The potion traced a warm path down his gullet, pooled in his stomach, and quickly spread throughout his body, washing away his aches and pains. The dagger jabbing his lungs with each breath vanished, and for the first time in days the accursed headache dimmed. Even his exhaustion fled, and he stood taller. The colors of the world seemed brighter. “Huh, that’s actually pretty good.” Hyperion looked around the salle with newly invigorated eyes. They still stung, and when he closed them he saw those cursed azure sparks, but otherwise he felt better than any time since the accident. “One left.” Champron peered inside Foxglove’s saddlebag, then back at the fallen mare. “What do you wanna do?” Hyperion took a deep breath. Then another. And a final one, just to be sure, before he spoke. “Get some ropes and bind her. Then pour that thing down her throat.” Perhaps she was ready to talk. * * * Even with the healing potion, it took most of an hour before Foxglove stirred, which was plenty of time for Champron to mummify her with ropes and shackles. A full squadron of palace guards arrived in the interim, alerted to the fight by Nightengale. The same nurse who tended to Sterling came with them, and Hyperion set her to tending Foxglove. The guards he sent away – the salle was getting uncomfortably crowded. An uneasy quiet settled around Hyperion as he waited, seated a few feet away from the nurse, who carefully stitched Foxglove’s ear back onto her head. The healing potion flowing through Foxglove’s veins did most of the work, and every time the nurse pulled her thread taut, the torn edges of skin knit together, leaving only a faint pink scar in their wake. Hyperion was so absorbed in the process that he didn’t notice Champron sitting beside him until the old warrior spoke. “Want some advice, your highness?” “No.” He blew his breath out his nose, trying to rid it of the stink of blood: salt and wet iron and burning lungs. It seemed everywhere he went in the palace – his mother’s laboratory, Sterling’s room, and even here, in this, his sanctuary – he could not escape it. “Fine, yes.” “Whatever plan you’ve got for that mare, forget it. It’s not worth it. Either she’ll kill you, or you’ll kill her, or maybe you’ll both get lucky and kill each other.” “You don’t even know what the plan is.” “Don’t matter. I know a bad bet when I see one. And that,” he pointed a hoof at Foxglove, “is a bad bet.” “Maybe.” Hyperion closed his eyes and tilted his head up, so the rays of the afternoon sun shining into the salle passed through his eyelids, washing away for a moment the azure sparks he couldn’t seem to escape. “But sometimes there’s no choice. Doesn’t matter if you’re a prince or a gutter cleaner. Fate doesn’t care what your station is.” “Doesn’t mean you need to be stupid, though.” “Well, that remains to be seen.” He cleared his throat. “Nurse, how is she?” The nurse waited before answering. She added a few final stitches to Foxglove’s ear, then dabbed at the quickly healing wound with a cotton swab. “Normally I’d be worried for a pony who’s been unconscious this long, but her breathing is fine and there’s no skull fracture. That healing potion you fed her must have been fairly strong.” “She’ll mend properly?” The nurse shrugged as she put away her tools. “Mostly. A few scars. Earth ponies don’t seem to mind those much, though.” “They add character,” Champron said. A few drops of blood fell from his chin as he spoke. “Someday I hope to live in a world with less character, then,” Hyperion said. “Once you’re done, nurse, head back to the infirmary. And take Champron with you.” Champron cleared his throat. “Sir, are you sure that’s a good—” “I’m not sure about anything. But I need her help, and that means I need to take some risks.” He paused. “If you hear screaming, though, feel free to come back.” “Your leadership is as inspiration as ever, your highness. Just be careful – there’s too many royals dying around here as is.” Champron’s hoof slid beneath his breastplate, and emerged with the remains of his stiletto, which he passed hilt-first to Hyperion. The tip and last inch of the blade were gone, and the fine edge dulled from scraping across Foxglove’s stonelike skin, but it was still a serviceable weapon. Or, at least, better than nothing. Hyperion lifted the blade with his magic and left it floating beside him. “What can I say? I learned from the best. Now, go get those scrapes taken care of.” With Champron and the nurse gone, Hyperion found himself alone in the salle with Foxglove. Her breathing was deeper, slower, and the nasty swelling around her ear and other wounds faded as he watched. She seemed to be merely asleep, rather than unconscious, and Hyperion kept his distance, content to wait for her to wake. Only the blood soaking her mane and streaked across her coat remained of the brutal, short skirmish that could have easily killed somepony. “I really hope you’re worth it,” he whispered. Somepony must have told the palace guard not to disturb them, for hours passed in the salle without another soul in sight. The beams of sunlight stabbing through the rafters swept across the floor as the sun descended toward evening. The cedar chips covering the floor did their job, and slowly the scents of the day – stale sweat and blood and vomit – faded, overtaken by sawdust and the sharp tang of the pitch-tarred rafters. Twilight covered the sky when Foxglove woke. Overhead, visible between the wood beams, dark clouds drifted across the darkening heavens. A few faint stars dared to peek out at him from the east. Foxglove groaned, the first real sound he’d heard from her in hours. The metal links in her shackles clinked as she tried to stretch her legs. She struggled with them for  a moment before abruptly growing still. Her eyes shot open, darting across the salle floor before settling on him. They stared at each other in silence. Her ears flicked about madly, and the shackles tinkled like bells as she strained against them. But the monstrous strength that filled her during the fight was long gone, and only a mortal mare remained. An earth pony, yes, but not even the strongest of their tribe could snap cold iron like spiderwebs. “Can we talk like adults, now?” Hyperion asked softly. “You still have Anise.” It was an accusation, but without heat. “How can you expect me to to speak with you calmly? Like we’re bartering over the price of bread?” “Because you have to. Because her welfare depends on your ability to act with restraint and consideration. You love her enough to do that, I think.” Foxglove glared at him. Hyperion cleared his throat. “I’m going to undo those bindings. At that point, you have a few options. You can try to kill me again, and maybe you’ll succeed this time. If you do, Anise will still be imprisoned or hanged for dark magic, and you will hang with her for murder. “Second, you can walk out of this palace, back to your village, and let Anise take her chances. If you do this, I promise you Anise will not be executed. But her sentence will be long, and you will not see her again until you are an old mare.” “I’ll die before I let that happen. Mark me, prince.” “I’m not asking you to die for her, Foxglove. My original offer still stands. Brew the Panacea potion for me, and I will make you the richest earth pony in the kingdom. Anise will go free, and – if you still desire – I will take your hoof in marriage. You will become a princess, along with your daughters and their daughters. There are many ponies who would give up far more for this chance.” Silence again. For a moment, Foxglove’s will seemed to waver. The tips of her ears dipped, and her eyes danced around the salle, unable to meet his. But somewhere inside her heart she must have found another spark, another bit of will to resist, and her glare returned. “You damn unicorns,” she spat. “So assured, so self-righteous. You presume to rule all the tribes, but what did you ever do to earn that throne? You talk about unity and harmony, but where is your sweat and blood? Is this, this ransoming and kidnapping and threat of death, is this all you can offer? You boast of your magic and how it keeps us safe, but all I see is a cruel boy, willing to toss his lessers into the flames if doing so will withhold from him a single day’s worth of suffering.” Such venom. He closed his eyes to it and took a deep breath. “I understand how you feel. I suspect I might feel the same way, were our positions reversed.” He leaned forward, lowering himself until his eyes were level with hers. “I’m going to cut you loose, and then I’m going to show you something. Can I trust you not to attack me until afterward?” She snorted. “Trust me? You ask if you can trust me? One of us, prince, is a unicorn. The other is an honest pony. Yes, you can trust me.” That stung, but no more than he deserved. He did his best to ignore her flinch when he levitated the stiletto up to her neck, set it against the ropes, and began to saw. It took a while to cut off all of Champron’s ropes. The shackles came off more easily – they were magic, and a light tap of his horn against the locks popped them open with a quiet click. Foxglove stumbled to her hooves as he unfastened the last shackle. She tensed, and for a moment he thought she might attack him again, or bolt from the room, but slowly the muscles straining under her coat relaxed, and the tips of her ears stopped shaking. “Well?” she said. “Show me, then.” * * * “How much do you know about dark magic?” “Trick question?” Foxglove seemed torn between keeping her distance from Hyperion and pressing close to his side to avoid the ponies they passed. For some reason, the sight of a bloody, battered prince and an even bloodier earth pony mare walking together down the palace’s back corridors attracted a few odd looks from the staff and guards. “Get me to confess to forbidden knowledge?” “Knowledge isn’t forbidden, only what you do with it,” Hyperion said. They had been walking for nearly twenty minutes, and his injured ribs were starting to ache again. He wondered, briefly, if any of Foxglove’s wounds pained her. “Then why ask?” “It will help explain some of what you’re about to see.” Hyperion stopped at the mouth of a long, dimly lit corridor. A pair of guards stood on either side of the entrance, eyeing him and his companion with undisguised interest. He gave them a small nod and led Foxglove into the shadows beyond. “Unless I’m about to see Anise, I don’t see why I should care about anything you have to say.” “Anise is quite comfortable, I assure you. She has her own room, books to read, and even a tutor to keep her company. As long as you and I continue to cooperate, she won’t be tossed in the dungeon.” “You assume I’m going to cooperate.” Foxglove spoke quietly, but there was a heat in her words, burning just below the surface. “I think you will.” “Really? Have you been right about anything yet today, prince? Your confidence seems to be…” Foxglove trailed off and came to a stop, one leg still held in the air, about to complete its step. Her ears strained forward, twitching, searching. A moment later, Hyperion heard it too. High-pitched and piercing, lasting only a breath at a time before it vanished, leaving only echoes before it sounded again. Screaming. “She’s awake,” he said. “Come on, let’s not keep her waiting.” He stepped down the corridor and stopped after a few steps, looking back. Foxglove hadn’t followed – she stood back at the entrance beside the guards. Her wide eyes stared past him into the darkness. “Come on,” he repeated. “I need you to see this. I need you to understand.” “What…” “Trust me. That’s all I’m asking. Trust me.” She shook her head slowly, but followed him into the corridor. “It’s too late for that, prince. But whatever. Lead on.” The bare stone passage around them was unlike any other in the palace. No paintings or sculptures enlivened its flat stone faces. There was no carpet to soften the hard floor beneath their hooves. Dust gathered in the cracks between the flagstones and swirled into the air as they passed. The only light came from soft blue magelights suspended in place of torches, and their weak glow did little to push back the darkness. Sunlight rarely felt so far away. “Who is that?” Foxglove asked. He strained to hear her over the wail drifting down the corridor. “That’s my mother. A pony who thought she knew more about dark magic than she actually did, and now she’s paying the price.” They kept walking. Ahead, a bright blue spark, like a solitary star in the night sky, signalled the end of the corridor. It stung his eyes, just like the fires in his mother’s workshop, and he turned his gaze down to the floor. “Try not to look at the lights,” he said. “We don’t think they’re harmful, but they can be… well, discomforting.” “What are they?” Foxglove squinted, blinked rapidly, and held a leg up in front of her face. “I can see them with my eyes closed. I can see them through my damn hoof.” “Argentium can explain it better than I can. Just stay by my side, and for harmony’s sake don’t touch anything.” The screaming stopped at some point during their walk. The silence it left was a welcome blessing, but he knew it would return before long. Mother never seemed to sleep more than a few hours at a time. The corridor ended in a massive wood door, banded with black iron and fixed to the wall with hinges the size of his leg. The room beyond had been empty since before he was born, but whatever the original Queen Platinum kept in there must have been very precious or very dangerous. It was far and away the most secure room in the entire palace, and the obvious place to stash his mother after the accident. The blue sparks were brighter now, like fireflies dancing just out of hoof’s reach. Their light shone through the door like the thick oak was nothing more than a lantern’s paper skin. “I can’t stop looking at them,” Foxglove mumbled. He glanced away from the sparks to see her staring forward, eyes wide and watering. Tears flowed down her cheeks. “I know. Just remember, don’t touch anything.” He reached out a hoof to the door. It was keyed to his touch, and swung slowly open. The magelights in the corridor behind them flickered and died, leaving only the cold azure glow pouring out of the room beyond to light their way. The room hadn’t changed much in the week he spent away. Inch-thick iron panels weighing thousands of pounds hung in a circle around the center of the space. In the gaps between them he could see the queen’s bed and the vague shape of her prone form. The azure light cast its rays between the iron panels, dividing the room into blocks of shadow. The scent was the same as he remembered: fire, and cold metal, and blood. Nowhere in the entire damn palace could he escape the smell of blood. A light-green mare, barely older than Anise, sat in the center of a small warding circle. A series of books and chalk slates floated in front of her, bobbing gently in the golden glow of her magic. How she managed to hold the things, much less read them, eluded Hyperion, for wrapped around her head was a thick blindfold with iron plates riveted over the eyes. She turned as the door opened and sniffed at the air. “Hyperion and…” she paused, sniffing again. “A guest? Welcome. Please keep your voices down.” Hyperion stepped over to the mare, followed slowly by Foxglove, who seemed to jump at every little sound and spark to emerge from beyond the iron plates. “Foxglove, this is my sister, Argentium,” Hyperion said in a low voice, once they were huddled together. “Argentium, this is Foxglove. She’s helping me with our problem.” Argentium raised an eyebrow, and the corner of her blindfold glowed as she grabbed it with her magic. She pulled it up, revealing a bright yellow eye that glanced up and down Foxglove’s form. “Your optimism is boundless, brother.” She glanced at Hyperion, then lowered the blindfold, turning back to the queen. “But I think your efforts are misplaced.” “Assuming you’re right, how long does she have?” Argentium’s ear flicked back toward him. “A few weeks, perhaps. You can see the crystals have reached her spine. From what I’ve read, they’ll start spreading more rapidly. It will end very quickly when they reach her heart.” “What do you mean, we can see…” Foxglove mumbled. Her eyes were wide and fixed on the center of the room. The azure light cast dancing reflections in the tears flowing down her cheeks. Hyperion sighed and followed her gaze. Even through the iron plates, he could see the azure sparks emanating from the crystals embedded in his mother’s horn – and now, much further as well. “You see the shape the lights make? You see the long row? That is her horn. The round swell beneath it is her skull. The sparks in a line beyond it? That is her spine.” “The light is coming from inside her?” He waited before answering. The sparks shifted position; his mother twitching in her sleep. He heard a clatter of hooves on stone and turned to see Foxglove’s tail vanishing out the door. The echo of her retreat down the long corridor followed. He sighed again and gave Argentium’s neck a gentle brush with his muzzle. “Do what you can,” he whispered. “And have some faith.” “I don’t need faith. I have these.” The gold glow around her books pulsed. “I hope your own faith isn’t all you’re relying on.” “I have a plan… We have a plan. But I need to make another trip for it.” “Mhm.” Argentium sniffed at his coat again and wrinkled her muzzle. “Blood and vomit. Your plan is off to a wonderful start, big brother.” “There have been a few hitches. We had an… argument, but I think it’s sorted out now. In fact, I’d better go find her.” He turned toward the door. “Wait.” Hyperion froze, one hoof held above the floor. He turned his head back sharply – he wasn’t used to commands from his littlest sister. “Mother wasn’t doing her experiments alone. Somepony was helping her.” Argentium spoke as calmly and mechanically as always. “The traces were faint, but there are definitely two magical signatures in the crystals.” For a moment, Hyperion forgot to breathe. A cold shock roiled up his spine, and his ears folded back involuntarily. Even the blinding azure light spraying out from the queen’s bed seemed to dim at Argentium’s statement. “Are you sure?” His tongue felt two sizes too large for his mouth.  “As sure as I can be without asking Mother.” She held up a hoof to stop him. “To answer your next question, it could be anypony. Logic suggests it’s one of her children, though. She would trust us.” “That’s… no. That’s impossible.” “It’s not just possible but necessary. There are signs in the crystals that could only come from another unicorn’s magic. I’m inclined to believe it can’t be Sterling or Quicksilver. If it were Sterling, she would have been more careful opening Mother’s secret room. And Quicksilver, well…” She finished with a shrug. There was no need to belabor Quicksilver’s flightiness. Not a pony one would trust with dark magic. “And what am I supposed to do with that information? Start a witch hunt?” She shook her head. “I only tell you so you will be careful, Brother. Whoever it was may have deliberately sabotaged the experiment.” “Murdered her, you mean. You think one of us might have murdered her.” “I think it is possible. I’m not inclined to give a pony who employs dark magic the benefit of the doubt.” Hyperion frowned. “That statement includes Mother, of course.” “I know. What she did was foolish, and in many ways she deserved what happened.” Argentium turned her blindfolded eyes toward the queen’s bed, and her shoulders slumped ever so slightly. “But she is still our mother. I could never wish this upon her. I don’t know what to feel anymore, Brother. So please, just be careful. I cannot stand to lose another pony I love.” Argentium had always been the least emotional, least outwardly loving of his siblings. He knew her heart was as full as Electrum’s or Quicksilver’s, but she rarely wore it on her sleeve. As a result, he and his sisters often mistook Argentium’s cool delivery and careful words as the sign of a pony who felt little, who only cared for her books. It was untrue, of course, and moments like this reminded him so. “I’m sorry.” She shook her head. “Don’t be. Go, find Foxglove. Hopefully she’s not too frightened to help us.” “It’s not her fear that worries me.” Hyperion gave his sister a tiny bow, which she returned, and then he stepped back to the door. He was nearly through it when Argentium’s voice caught him again. “How are your eyes, Brother?” Azure sparks. They chased him everywhere – the visible sign of the fuse in his heart that chased away sleep. Nothing except the sun seemed to banish them. “They’re fine,” he said. He waited for some other response, and when none came, left to find Foxglove. * * * Foxglove was all the way back at the corridor’s entrance, shivering in a pool of moonlight cast from a nearby window. The guards didn’t seem to know what to do with her – they had orders to keep unauthorized ponies out of the queen’s room, not in. Their tense postures eased when he finally joined them, stopping by Foxglove’s side. “Walk with me,” he said. He made it several lengths down the hall before he heard the tap of her hooves following him. The silence between them held. Finally, she could take no more. “What did she do?” “An experiment. Something went wrong.” He shrugged. “That’s about all we know.” “Why? She had to know this would happen. It always does.” It was a truism among unicorns that dark magic was invariably fatal. The so-called “sixth circle” of magic was quick and direct, and it offered mages easy access to the sort of power that would otherwise take decades of careful study. But it was also a gamble, and unlike the other circles of magic it did not forgive mistakes. The tiniest error, the most insignificant overlooked detail, would send the whole thing spinning out of control. To play with dark magic was to play with fire in the most literal sense of the term. A unicorn might get away with one spell. They might survive ten, and think they had beaten the odds. That they, alone among all the thousands of others who dabbled the dark arts, had somehow mastered it. They might use it hundreds of times. But it always caught up with them. There was only one cause of death for unicorns who used dark magic, and that was dark magic. So it always was, and would be for their mother. Unless he could beat the odds himself. “I don’t know, and we can’t exactly ask her,” he said. They passed the border between the palace’s administrative and residential wings. The corridors here were smaller, homier, filled with warm colors and simple, tasteful decorations. “But everything she does, every thought she has, is to the purpose of keeping the kingdom together. Without her it will fall apart, and the tribes will return to the old ways. We’ll divide, and all the centuries of unity will be for nothing.” “That has nothing to do with Anise.” “You’re right. She is innocent, and doesn’t deserve what is happening to her. Neither do you. And you can call me a bastard and the queen a bitch who’s just getting what she deserved, and maybe you’re right about that too. But the fact remains that I, and the queen, and the kingdom need your help, and I will compel it if necessary.” Silence again. Distantly, down the hall, he heard the faint echo of guards on their evening patrols. Foxglove’s ears twitched at the sound, but her eyes remained fixed on his. Finally, she looked away. “And if I help you?” It took all of Hyperion’s remaining strength not to collapse in relief. “Anise will go free. She will have every opportunity you want. As for you, riches. Marriage, if you desire.” Her expression soured. “To the stallion who stole everything from me? How generous, prince.” “Then whatever else you want. You will not lack for gratitude, Foxglove.” She closed her eyes. The signs of weariness, so obvious in himself, he now discerned in the set of her shoulders, in the way her ears drooped. The past few days had been just as stressful for her, he realized. “I need to think about it.” He nodded. “Sleep on it. In the morning, tell me what you’ve decided.” But he already knew what her answer would be.