“Milady?”
“Ah, Weatherly.” Celerity looked up from her maps. She was lying on the floor of her tent, the maps spread around her. A candle flickered in the center of the tent, dimly lighting the interior. “Come in.” Her coltservant approached, gingerly proffering a teacup. Celerity accepted, lifting it to her lips with magic.
Weatherly watched his mistress with concern. Her hair was disheveled, her once-carefully groomed mane ruffled and unkempt. Her face was lined with creases of worry. The worst were her eyes. He remembered just a week ago, when they sparkled with vitality and passion. Now, they were dark twinkles hidden deep in sunken pits. She looked… old.
“Thank you, Weatherly. Was there something else?”
“Yes, Milady. The reports from the north have just arrived. I thought I should deliver them to you myself.”
“Ah, so Baron Aubren has finally sent word?” She brightened a little. “Read it to me.” She took another sip of tea, her eyes closed. She looked ready to fall asleep.
Weatherly pulled a scroll from his pouch, and unrolled it with a flick. He laid it down on the table, next to one of the Duchess’s innumerable maps. Taking his reading glasses from another pouch and setting them gently on his nose, he cleared his throat and began. “’To Celerity Augustine Belle, Duchess of Whitetail, Lady of Whitewall City, Daughter of Scarcity Selene Belle, Counci—‘”
“You may skip the titles, Weatherly.” Celerity drank again, rubbing her eyes.
“Of course, Milady. ‘I am pleased to report that our campaign in the north has been a complete success. The province of Easthill is now ours. Though resistance was greater than we initially anticipated, the iron mines have fallen under our control. We were able to capture the mines intact, and should be able to resume production by the end of this week. Once mining starts again, we’ll begin sending iron shipments south to the furnaces in Whitewall. It is my hope that within a month, we will be able to fully outfit all of our troops.”
Celerity smiled, finally opening her eyes. “Excellent news. But what did he mean, ‘resistance was greater than anticipated’?” She tilted her cup to her mouth.
“Um... ah, here we go, Milady. ‘The troops of Easthill were disorganized, but they had unexpected reinforcements from the Capital. It seems the Princess has decided to face us in open conflict. Her troops were no match for ours, I am pleased to report.’ Milady? Is something wrong?”
“N…no, it’s nothing. Please continue.” Celerity sighed to herself. Oh, Celestia. I had hoped… No, she had always known, deep down. The path she’d chosen could only lead to one end.
“‘A number of some four hundred Canterlot troops and two hundred of Easthill’s ponies met us in battle in the hills. They took us by surprise, but they were underequipped and undertrained. We fended them off with minimal casualties. Of the twelve hundred ponies you gave me, nearly eleven hundred are still fit for fighting. I’ve kept four hundred here with me to maintain order, and I have taken the liberty of sending the rest back to Whitewall to reinforce the city.
‘Things go well in the north. Celestia is holed up inside her castle, and the rest of her army remains stationed in the Capital. My assessment is that the Princess is reluctant to move her forces to counter our incursion, for fear of an invasion from Norhart to the west. Blueblood is still gathering his forces, but my scouts report he’s placed Clement, his eldest son, in charge of the Norhart army and intends to march them east to capture the crossroads.’”
Celerity snorted. “Of course. Emmet’s first concern is money; no matter if world burns around him.” She motioned for Weatherly to continue.
“’Of perhaps more interest to you, my lady, is the rumor that has reached my ears regarding the Princess’s personal guard. They say the Firewings have rebelled against the Princess and abandoned the Capital. We have seen no sign of them here in Easthill, but if it is true, then the northern provinces should prove easier pickings than we anticipated.’” Weatherly paused. “Milady…? It sounds almost as if Aubren plans to move troops further north.”
“Indeed he does, Weatherly.” Celerity gazed evenly at her servant. “Once this matter with the griffons is ended, we will need to solidify our holdings against northern incursion. The southern provinces will not bow to Blueblood’s demands or royal incompetency any longer. The time has come for Whitetail and the other southern provinces to unify under one banner. Easthill is just the beginning.”
Weatherly swallowed. “Of… of course, Milady.” He scanned the scroll, blinking away a bead of sweat. His stomach felt ill. “Where… where was I? Ah, yes… ‘Our position in Easthill is now solidified. I request your permission to remove an additional sum of one hundred and twenty thousand bits from our treasury. Count Greenway’s captain of the guard has upped the price. Again. The final decision is yours, of course, but I respectfully remind you that their cooperation would be cheap at three times the cost.’”
Celerity nodded irritably. “Of course. Send Aubren a letter authorizing the transaction.”
“I… yes, Milady.” Weatherly now looked very pale. He kept reading, his voice betraying no sign of his unease. “The letter continues… ‘With the guards’ help, it should be a simple matter to take the road and cut off any trade to the north. Once we secure the bridge in the Lake Country, we’ll have complete control of Equestria’s economy. At this time, I feel it unwise to plan any further until we have formally secured the alliance with Weatherforge.’”
The Duchess’s eyes flashed. “You overstep your authority, Baron,” she murmured to herself. She suddenly snorted, shook her head, and her eyelids drooped again. “Is there any more?”
“Nothing much, Milady. ‘Continuing my proud service in the name of the Lady of Whitetail, I await further orders. Signed, Baron Burnside Aubren, General of Whitetail, etcetera.’ On the reverse of the message are a series of troop numbers and some supply requests. Mostly technical details.”
“I’ll take a look at them later. I need to focus on the griffons for now. Set it over there.” She pointed to a scroll case in the corner of her tent. She turned back to her maps without another word, silently dismissing Weatherly with a wave of her hoof.
He set the scroll in the case, looking sorrowfully at the Duchess. Oh, Celerity. What is happening to you, Milady? He shook his head and left the tent. The warm night of the southern plains welcomed him, a breeze wafting through his mane. Weatherly stood still for a moment, still coming to terms with the implications of the letter. The northern provinces should prove easier pickings than we thought… He was terrified about the path his mistress was walking down. He would follow her as he always had; but Weatherly feared that Celerity was headed for a grand, spectacular, and public self-immolation.
* * *
“They are nearly here, General Shrikefeather. They will arrive on the morrow.”
The general drummed his talons, pleased. “Good. Have the troops been mobilized?”
“They began moving immediately after nightfall, sir. I… Pardon my impertinence, sir, but I still fail to see what good moving most of our troops back south will do.”
Shrikefeather plucked a stray feather, turning it over in his talon. “Tell me, Colonel. Have you ever heard the story of Tyorj?”
The other griffon shook his head uncertainly. “I have not, sir.”
“No, of course you haven’t. No one studies Equestrian history anymore. But it pays to know your enemy’s past, Colonel. History repeats itself.
“Tyorj was an old unicorn city, long ago before the foundation of Equestria. Before even the Gryphan Empire first rose. Far in the north, in the ancestral lands of the ponies, it was a fortress built halfway up the side of a mountain, jutting out from the rock. They say it was the most marvelous city of the era. The unicorns ruled over the other tribes from within their impregnable stronghold. No pegasi or earth pony set claw inside for generations.”
“But what does this have to do with—”
“The unicorns, however, were cruel overlords. They abused the other tribes, forcing them to work as serfs, produce a yearly harvest to feed them, and keep the weather under control, by holding hostage the continuation of the solar and lunar cycles. But then came the never-ending winter. Crops failed. Weather grew wild and untamable. War finally broke out amongst the tribes. The pegasi, led by their chieftain and commander, Hurricane, pushed out the unicorns, and drove them back into their fortresses.
“Eventually, the unicorns followed their brethren, the earth ponies, and fled south to Equestria; abandoning the frigid and barren north for warmer, more fertile lands. But Tyorj remained. The unicorns within refused to surrender their home, swearing to fight to the death to prevent any pegasus from entering the sacred city.
“Hurricane and her pegasi attacked the city again and again. But Tyorj was unbreakable. The walls were stronger than any weapon the other tribes possessed, and the unicorns’ magic was more than a match for the pegasi in open battle. The pegasi laid siege to the city for ten years. Not once did they breach the walls. Finally, after a fruitless decade of throwing away her troops against the city’s defenses, Hurricane abandoned the fight. The pegasi packed up their camps and left the mountainside. Behind them, they left a large, wooden statue of a bowing pegasus, an admission of their defeat.
“The Tyorjans were overjoyed. They brought the statue into the city gates, and the celebration of their victory lasted throughout the day and night. The unicorns slept peacefully for the first time in a decade.
“Then, late in the night, after all the unicorns had fallen silent, a group of pegasi that had hidden inside the statue emerged. They opened the gates from within the city to the outside, where waited the rest of the pegasus army, who had returned from their long flight around the mountain. The pegasi poured inside the city of Tyorj, slaughtering all the unicorns within.”
Shrikefeather sighed as if in admiration for the strategy. “It was a temporary victory, though. Eventually, the ever-colder climate forced the pegasi to follow the unicorns to the south. And so Equestria was founded.”
The Colonel shifted. “But sir, there’s no gate for us to open. I don’t see how a wooden horse is going to help us get control of the bridge.”
“No, Colonel." Shrikefeather sounded disappointed. "You’ve missed the point of the story.”
“And that is?”
Shrikefeather smiled, still twirling the feather. “Sometimes, in order to defeat your opponent, you need to let them think they’ve won.”
* * *
Windstreak looked down lovingly at her son. He was a tiny little foal, barely six months old. Sickly, undersized, and frail, she watched his every move like a hawk. Rye would come to no harm under her care. Today, she’d taken him to the fields outside the city, and was giving him his first flying lesson. The nursepony had expressed doubt that he could ever fly, but Windstreak knew in her heart that she was wrong. Her son would be an excellent flier someday, just like his mother. He had to be.
His wings fluttered at his sides to no avail. “Come on, Rye! I know you can do it!” She cooed constant encouragements. They’d been at this for an hour now, but she wasn’t going to give up so easily. “Come on! It’s not about how big your wings are, it’s how you use them!” She flapped her own in demonstration. The little foal screwed up his mouth in determination and flapped harder. His horn glowed orange. His wings blurred as they moved up and down faster than the eye could follow.
To her delight, his front hooves lifted off of the ground. “You’re doing it! Come on, Rye!” Her son’s face was scrunched in concentration, and slowly he began to float upward. “Great job, Rye! Keep going!” She smiled, feeling a huge weight lift from her chest. Her son was going to be just fine. All the worry of the past few months seemed to melt away in the warm noon light. She couldn’t wait to tell Apricot.
Rye kept rising into the air. She looked around at the grassy field. “Okay, Rye, I think that’s high enough for today. Come on down, now. Just flap gently, you’ll sink slower.” But Rye didn’t flap slower. He kept moving up. “Rye, come down, please.” He showed no signs of slowing. “Rye!”
“Mama?” Rye’s little face widened in confusion. He continued rising. Windstreak was getting concerned, now; he was going pretty high, and he’d never flown before. She flapped her wings.
“Hold on, Rye,” she said calmly. “I’m coming up to get you. Just stay there.” She took off from the ground, flying after her son. He didn’t stop. “Rye, quit going up! You’ll fall!”
Her wings felt like lead. The ground seemed to drop away beneath her. Above, her son began crying. Windstreak flapped harder. Around them, the sky was darkening. The air was thick and stifling.
“Mama!”
“Hold on, Rye, I’m coming!” Windstreak struggled harder. Rye was now shooting away into the sky, his wings flapping like a hummingbird. A distant rumble of thunder warned her that He was far above her. She felt like iron weights were attached to her chest, pulling her back down to the ground. Below her, the earth had fallen deep into an abyssal darkness. She tasted ash. Clouds began to cover the sky, blackening and blotting out the sun. Below her, the chasm yawned.
She flew past a cloud as it flared, and lightning slashed the air. Her son was barely visible, a speck high above. Windstreak swept through another cloud, the moisture clinging to her aching wings. She couldn’t see, the black cloud was everywhere. And then suddenly, it was no longer water, but ash. The cloud was smoke, thick and choking.
Windstreak burst from the smog, narrowly avoiding a huge, fast shape. She turned, startled. It was a large griffon, tangled up with a pegasus. The two were kicking and scratching at each other, leaving bloody gashes. All around her, the sky was filled with warriors, pegasi and griffons alike. They clashed in the air, rending at each other with blades, talons, and hooves. The noise of the fighting threatened to overwhelm her senses, pressing down on her like a smothering blanket.
Windstreak ignored it all, desperately keeping an eye on the faint orange glow of her son’s horn above. The clouds around and above were raining. The raindrops were hot and red, splashing her face. She blinked her eyes, and tasted copper. Thunder and battle roared around her.
Windstreak found herself wearing her golden armor. It was no wonder she felt so weighted down. She didn’t remember putting it on. It seemed to grow heavier the higher she went. The droplets of crimson rain splattered over it, turning the gold black wherever they touched.
The world seemed to somersault. Up was down, and down was up. Now Rye was falling below, rushing through the clouds. The rain poured upwards, lightning flashing around and throwing the scene into sharp relief. She cleared the clouds below to find below a vast lake of flame that stretched to the horizons, like the surface of the sun. Tongues of fire leapt up to snatch griffons and ponies, leaving the smell of burning meat hanging through the air. Rye fell toward the fire.
Windstreak shot after him, dodging airborne skirmishes. He drew nearer to the flames as she approached. She was close, so very close. “Hold on, Rye! I’ve got you!” The fire turned obsidian black, tendrils reaching out to envelop her son. He slid closer to the edge of the blackness. She was only a few meters away.
Rye reached his hooves out eagerly. “Mama!” Windstreak stretched out to grab him.
The darkness bulged outward, engulfing the foal in black. “No!” she screamed, flying frantically after him. She reached the edge and suddenly the gigantic, dead griffon captain burst from the fire, his claws outstretched and his eyes burning bright red inside his naked skull. As his claws ripped into her, the griffon opened his beak and screamed into her ear.
“MAMA!” It was Rye’s voice.
Windstreak snapped upwards from her sleeping pallet. She was shaking, a cold sweat lingering on her skin. She hung her head, taking a shuddering breath. Her tent flap pulled open. Bergeron’s head poked inside.
“Captain? Are you alright? We heard screaming—”
“I’m fine, Bergeron.” Windstreak shivered. “I… I need to… what time is it?”
“It’s three ‘o-clock, Captain. Three hours till sunrise, if the Princess is on schedule.”
Windstreak gave a curt nod. “Thank you, Bergeron. I’m fine, really.”
“Very well, Captain. I’ll put breakfast on the fire.” Her second-in-command bowed out, still looking concerned.
Windstreak waited a moment to make sure he was gone. Then she fell into her pillow and cried.
* * *
Windstreak emerged from her tent some time later, looking rather the worse for wear. The camp was starting to wake up. Soldiers were already gathering around the campfires for the morning meal. She sat down beside the nearest fire, looking into the pot.
“Vegetable soup again?”
Bergeron, sitting across the fire gave a dry laugh. “You would prefer meat?”
Windstreak grimaced. “No, thanks, I’m not a griffon.” Bergeron’s laugh abruptly died, and he coughed. They’d all heard the stories about what horrible fates awaited the griffon’s conquered enemies. The lucky ones ended up as slaves. The unlucky ones…
She took a decisive bite of carrot from the pot. “The soup’s not so bad, I suppose. I’m afraid my husband has spoiled me when it comes to breakfast, though.” She munched reflectively. “He makes the most wonderful pancakes…” She reached a tentative hoof up to her ear. A small earring dangled from the tip, a band in the shape of two interwoven olive branches. She normally left Apricot’s wedding present behind when she went into battle, but today she felt she needed the comfort of the small reminder of home. “I miss the food already.”
Wheatie, the youngest of the Firewings, sat down beside their fire. “Ah, the famous Strudel bakery. I used to bring mother a loaf every day, back before I joined the ‘Wings.” His youthful face was bright and happy, with faint laugh lines creasing his cheeks. His white, speckled coat and auburn mane gave him the appearance of an old hero from the ancient tales, but his flippant attitude tended to ruin the image.
Amused, Windstreak leaned back and looked at him. “I remember, Wheatie. I also remember that you’d forget to pay for the loaf half the time.”
Wheatie cleared his throat, embarrassed. “Well, I always brought extra money the next day if I forgot.”
“That you did.” Windstreak smiled as she finished her soup. Turning to Bergeron, she set the bowl aside with a hoof. “So, what are we expecting today?”
“More of the same, I think.” Her Lieutenant wiped his lips. The gash across his muzzle had faded, and was no longer a gory streak, but he would wear the scar for the rest of his life. He was still adjusting, masking the occasional twitch of pain as he moved his face. “The griffons didn’t push very hard yesterday or Saturday, compared to last week. The Duchess thinks they’re getting tired. I’m not so sure. I think they’re planning something big. They were making a huge racket all last night and into the morning. Sounded like the entire army was marching back and forth.”
Around them, the army was suiting up for the day. Earth ponies latched their armor into place, helping each other affix the metal plates properly along their backs. The pegasi stretched out, running their pre-flight exercises in preparation for another long day of flying. The unicorns were dressed in nothing but their robes, as usual. They rested, saving their magic for the battles to come.
The Firewings readied themselves. Windstreak cinched the clasp of Bergeron’s breastplate shut, tapping it with a hoof to make certain it was secure. He returned the favor, buckling the rear haunch-plate that she couldn’t reach. Windstreak was wearing borrowed armor; her own had been lost after being warped in the heat of the fires in Friday’s battle. The Firewing she’d taken it from would no longer need it. Sergeant Thornbeam was expected to live, but her fighting days were over. Her broken wing had been improperly set, and had begun to heal badly. It was a horrifying fate for any pegasus, to be trapped on the ground. Though she might recover flight in time, Thornbeam would never be able to keep pace with her comrades-in-arms. Windstreak suppressed a shiver of pity.
Her armor secured, she placed her helmet onto her head. Peering out through the eyeholes, Windstreak felt a vague sense of comforting familiarity. Though the bakery was far away, she carried a small piece of home with her in her heart. She reached up to her ear and touched her wedding band. She smiled privately. Let today bring what it may. She would be ready.
“Wheatie,” she said, drawing the young stallion’s attention. “Tell Sergeant Mossdown to take red flight to the west of the bridge today, once we take off. I don’t want any more commando raids getting through to the camp.”
“You think they’ll try that again, Captain? They took some major losses last time.”
“Shrikefeather never tries the same trick twice. Except when he does, just to be unpredictable. Just have them make sure no griffons get through.”
“Aye, ma’am.”
In the distance, the sun was peeking over the horizon. Windstreak looked out at the faint light and whispered “Good morning, Princess.”
There was a loud shout. Windstreak turned her head to find the cause of the commotion. One of the Whitetail spearponies was running at a full gallop through the camp, knocking aside pots and pans and raising an enormous ruckus. He was headed straight toward the Firewings’ encampment. She stood more sharply as the pony approached, still shouting hoarsely. He finally reached her, panting for breath.
“Captain Strudel!”
With the Duchess spending more and more time sequestered inside her tent, Windstreak had become the de-facto commander of the military forces arrayed at Trellow. The pony before her was one she recognized. He was a spearpony on the bridge line, and he was supposed to be on duty.
“Soldier,” she said with a warning tone. “Why aren’t you at your post?”
“The griffons, Captain! They’re—”
* * *
“Gone!” Windstreak burst into the Duchess’s tent, knocking over a case filled with maps and scrolls. “Duchess Belle! They’re gone!”
The unicorn was fast asleep on the floor, her head lying on a detailed map of the Grumar River. Her mouth was hanging open, the parchment beneath it slightly damp. She snored softly. Windstreak shook the Duchess gently, trying to rouse her. Celerity’s eyes blinked fuzzily, then rapidly. She sat up, pulling her mane out of her face.
“Captain Strudel! What warranted this interrup—what time is it?”
“Celerity! The griffons are gone!”
”What?” Celerity’s eyes shot open. She leaned forward, stamping her hooves urgently on the ground. “Are you certain?”
“All but a scant few hundred have turned back to the south. There’s no sign of them. They left during the night.”
“I don’t—” Celerity paused, taking this in. Stunned, she grinned. “How many are left, you said?”
“Perhaps seven hundred? A token force left behind to cover their retreat. All infantry. Their entire aerial attack force has up and vanished.”
The Duchess paced, bubbling with nervous energy. “It might be a trick. They could have gone far ‘round us during the night. Perhaps they’re trying to bypass the army and attack Equestria directly with their air forces.”
Windstreak shook her head. “Unless they went all the way west to Rivermeet, they didn’t slip past our scouts. And if Shrikefeather thinks he can get his infantry through that marshland before winter sets in, he’s sorely mistaken. No, Duchess, I think they’ve retreated. Honest-to-Sisters turned around and left.”
Celerity, overcome, had to sit down. “I can scarcely believe it.” Her head was spinning, but she felt happier than she had in months. “We’ll need to keep the bridge line intact until the rest of their army moves out, of course.”
“Naturally. I expect them to start clearing by the end of the day.”
“This is… this is wonderful. I’ll need to… I’m sorry, Captain. If you’ll excuse me, I need to attend to some logistical matters. If we really have stopped the invasion, then I’m going to have my hooves full for the next few days sorting out our next steps.”
“As you wish, Duchess.” Windstreak bowed respectfully, and left the tent, humming with uncontainable happiness. Celerity sat back on her haunches, still reeling from the news.
We did it. Though she’d told herself from the start that this plan would succeed, she had always harbored a small seed of doubt that a mere four thousand troops could hold the bridge against the full might of the Gryphan horde. But now, Shrikefeather was pulling his troops back. In removing his aerial fighters from the battlefield, he was all but waving the white flag.
The griffons had devoted an obscene amount of resources to this invasion. Their kingdom had barely a shadow of the former glory it once held as the Gryphan Empire. They could not afford another effort like this. Not in her lifetime, perhaps never again. She’d beaten them. She’d beaten Shrikefeather.
Celerity allowed herself a moment of pride. For over a decade, now, her troops stationed in Sel-Paloth had fought off Shrikefeather’s troops and raiding parties. The military she’d built had kept all the southern provinces safe for years, and the culmination of her efforts had finally borne fruit. She and Shrikefeather had long fought at a great distance, testing each other, determining the strength of their enemy. But when push came to shove, when the cards were all laid down, Celerity had proven the better leader.
Hubris was a flaw, she’d been told. Celerity pushed away the self-congratulations for another day. She had more important matters deserving of her attention right now. With the griffons gone, her timetable had just been majorly stepped up. She’d expected another week at least to gain footholds in Greenway and the Lake Country. But now it looked as though the northern campaign was upon her already.
Easthill was only the first of many vital components in her planned campaign. Soon, Greenway would give her much-needed access to the Capital, and the heart of Equestria’s trade network in the Great Crossroads. More important than the military victories, however, would be unifying the provinces under her guiding hoof. Never again would Equestria be threatened by outside influences or internal disputes. Her ponies would be safe in her care.
Weatherforge and Westermin had pledged allegiance to her cause already, in fighting the griffons. It would take little convincing to bring them more firmly under her control. She needed Weatherforge’s pegasi, especially, to keep order in her new realm.
Speaking of which, what was she to call this new alliance of the southern provinces? The Belle Kingdom? No, it sounded too authoritarian. She didn’t want to be a Queen. Celerity would be more than happy having power in truth rather than name. The Confederacy of Whitetail? She mulled the name around in her mouth. It rolled nicely from the tongue. The Confederacy they would be, then, united under her banner. It would take quite a lot of convincing, but thanks to the griffon invasion, she was already halfway there.
Nothing brings ponies together like a good old-fashioned common enemy. With Westermin and Weatherforge at her back, Breton and Rivermeet would fall in line easily enough. The Delta and Lake Country were still claiming loyalty to Canterlot, but they would change their tune once an army of Whitetail soldiers marched into their capital cities. And once Baron Aubren took control of Greenway, she could begin solidifying her power base to fight her real enemy: Duke Emmet Blueblood.
She considered the separate problem of Celestia. Most of her opponents in this game were easy to play against: Blueblood was her chief political rival and her most hated foe; she would feel no regret at destroying his armies, slaying his heirs, and permanently ending his line. The other Dukes and Lords were just pawns to be used, pieces she would move and sacrifice without regret. Even Shrikefeather was purely a professional enemy, and despite their continuous conflict Celerity held a certain grudging respect for the griffon.
Her relationship with Celestia was… different.
She still remembered the first time she’d seen the Sun Castle as a tiny foal not yet a year old. Her father, the inestimable Duke Fendrake Belle the Third, had taken her with him to her first council meeting. Already training his only daughter to one day take his place, her father had brought her inside the council chambers while the Equestrian nobility debated. She had watched, wide-eyed, and taken in everything: the way the nobles danced around each other in the delicate game of power, the way they wielded their words like weapons. When the session had concluded, and most of the other councilors had left, her father had introduced her to the Princess herself.
She had been overawed by the great alicorn, prostrating herself before the Princess. Celestia had laughed that tinkling laugh she would grow to know so well, and asked her name. The young filly had been too shy of the Princess’s beauty to speak.
When did I lose that sense of wonder?
Might it have been the death of her father? She had still been so young, barely four years old, when her father took sick with the wasting disease. It had struck so suddenly, so decisively, and so conveniently—right before the major trade summit regarding Norhart that her father had publicly opposed—that she remained convinced to this day that it had been poison. Nothing could be proven, however. With her mother long dead, and her father newly passed, the young Celerity was forced to step into the horseshoes of the Duke and take up his mantle.
Her advisors and steward promised to keep her duchy safe for her until she came of age, but Celerity knew that they wanted to hold the real power and that she must be ready to take it back when the time came. Power was the only way to accomplish anything, and the only way to keep safe in Equestrian politics. But she needed a mentor. She had no one to rely on, no teacher. No friends. And so she turned to the one pony she knew she could trust implicitly.
Celestia, deeply sympathetic to her plight, immediately agreed to help train the young mare in the ways of the royal court. Under her tutelage, Celerity’s reputation as a political mastermind and military genius grew rapidly. But they were closer than simply student and teacher. They went everywhere together, spent long hours talking every day and night. The Princess even confided to her about Princess Luna, and Celestia’s long-held regrets regarding her fallen sister. In return, Celerity shared all her suspicions about the truth of her father’s end, and the fears of betrayal from her power-hungry steward. She had called the Princess “Aunt Celestia” until reaching her majority at age seven.
She had taken back power from the steward on her seventh birthday, receiving the traditional tiara of the duchy during the interminably long ceremony. The steward, now her chief advisor, made it clear through implication that he expected to maintain a hold over his young ward, and to continue ruling the duchy as he had for the past three years. But Celestia’s protégé was not so easily controlled. Celerity had real power, now, and she put it to full use to bring about her own ends and strengthen her lands. She fortified the fortress of Sel-Paloth, cleared the more dangerous sections of the Whitetail forest, and helped the Princess lead the council to the right decisions to better Equestria.
But as the years passed, Celerity gradually began to lose her childlike faith in the Princess. Her work as a council member put her in close proximity to Celestia while she went about the difficult process of running the kingdom. She was constantly present to watch the Princess’s every decision. Every mistake. Discovering that her mentor was not infallible was a long, unpleasant process that took her years to come to terms with. Increasingly, she found herself and the Princess moving at cross-purposes.
The Princess was willing to sacrifice much to keep order, up to and including her own sister. But slowly Celerity had come to the conclusion that the act of banishing her only kin had somehow… damaged the Princess. She was too wary, too fearful of offending the nobles. Too passive. Emmet Blueblood was a consistent thorn in Celerity’s side, doing his best to drag Equestria back into the dark ages. But the Princess never quashed his insane ideas, always giving him a platform to spew his nonsense. And so Equestria was weakened.
Celerity would make it strong again. The Confederacy of Whitetail would suffer no such foolishness. Her word would be the final say on any matter of military or political significance. It would be an unbreakable nation, a solid rock standing between its ponies and the vicious outside world. No griffons would invade on her watch. Security. Peace. And Celerity would have all the power she needed to make sure her vision came true.
Except… the Princess now stood in her way. Her contribution to the defense of Easthill was an unmistakable statement: “I will not support you.” The Capital itself was of little strategic importance: out of the way, far from the nearest trade hub, and it possessed a very weak military. But leaving Celestia alone was no longer an option. In order to prevent an alliance of desperation between the Capital and Norhart, she would be forced to take Canterlot. And she knew that if she set hoof in the city that she would have to face the Princess and justify herself. Celerity forcefully ignored the painful mental image, and turned to more purely strategic matters.
The Firewings might be on her side in this scuffle against the griffons, but she doubted they would so easily turn on their Princess. Perhaps it would be simpler to eliminate them right here, right now, while they were all together in one spot. But she couldn’t afford yet to rob herself of the critical advantage they gave her in the air. Celerity sighed. If only they could all have died gloriously in battle against the griffons like heroes. It would have saved her a world of trouble down the line.
She moved back to her maps, beginning to plan. She would need to move fast.