//------------------------------//
// The Patience of Stones (or, "Daring Do Works Alone") 
// Story: I'm Afraid of Changeling (and other short stories) 
// by Cold in Gardez 
//------------------------------//

Daring Do froze as soon as she heard the stone click.

Traps were an occupational hazard for treasure hunters, and over the years she’d encountered every trap imaginable by pony, zebra or griffon mind. Spike pits, blow darts, crushing blocks, ceiling crocodiles – some were devious, some were simple, and all were deadly.

And when you encountered a trap, the first rule, the only rule, was not to panic.

“Don’t move,” she whispered. Behind her, she heard a sudden inrush of breath from her assistant, Pumpernickel. “If it was going to kill us, it would have already.”

They stood like statues for several long minutes, still as the ancient tunnel around them. She tested each of her hooves, but the stones beneath her were solid and unmoving. There were no tripwires she could see. 

So, it probably wasn’t her. She turned with exaggerated slowness to face her assistant, who stood frozen a few steps behind her. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple and splashed onto the dusty flagstones.

“What happened?” she asked.

“The stone beneath my left leg moved.” He swallowed audibly. “A trap?”

Daring Do frowned and leaned forward for a closer look. The stone beneath his hoof had sunk almost imperceptibly, no more than the width of a hair. Beneath it, she already knew, a complex assembly of levers and springs and gears had transferred Pumpernickel’s weight into tension, and as soon as he moved again that tension would be released.

And that is how they would die, unless she could figure a way out. She licked her suddenly dry lips.

“I told you to follow my hoofsteps,” she said.

“I thought I did.” His voice shook, and his scarlet coat glistened with sweat. “I’m sorry. I must have missed one.”

“It’s fine.” It wasn’t fine, actually – it was anything but fine – but she needed him to stay calm. “Don’t move.”

She reached out with her wing and lightly touched the flagstone with a long primary feather. Gently at first, as though she were brushing away snowflakes, and then with more pressure, she pushed down on the stone until she felt the faintest hint of vibration from within.

The tunnel rumbled around them. The stone blocks in the ceiling shifted, and dust fell like rain on their backs. It filled the tunnel with the scent of millennia past, and she desperately fought back the urge to sneeze.

“Okay,” she said, when the dust finally settled. “It’s a springplate. Any significant change in pressure will set it off.”

His eyes darted up at the ceiling, then back to her. “What d-do we do?”

“You stay put. I’m going to fly back out and fill a bag with sand, and we’ll use it to fool the trap.”

Daring gave him a little pat on the shoulder, then started back up the long passage to the surface. She’d barely made it ten steps when the tunnel grumbled again.

“Daring!” he cried. “You’re, you’re… you’re coming back, right?”

He was trembling, she saw. His whole body shook, and with each tremor the flagstone beneath his hoof sank a bit deeper. The stone blocks above his head bled streams of dust.

She walked back carefully, ignoring the dust and sand. Pumpernickel calmed as she drew closer, until she could press her shoulder against him. Carefully, gently, she put her hoof on the flagstone next to his.

“Lift your hoof very slowly,” she said. 

He did, and as he took the weight off his hoof, she pressed down. The flagstone shivered beneath her, complaining, on the edge of activating, but it held. 

She let out a long breath, careful not to shift her weight. Pumpernickel stumbled away and slumped against the wall.

“Okay, okay. We’re fine.” She closed her eyes and collected her thoughts. “Pumpernickel, listen to me. I need you to go back to the surface, fill a bag with about forty pounds of sand, and return. Can you do that?”

He stood, his eyes wide and shining in the lantern light. He stared at her, then up at the stone blocks hanging just above their heads, and then back at her.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He edged away carefully, and soon she heard the rapid beat of his hooves on the stone, running.

He’s a good stallion. Have faith. Daring Do willed her heartbeat to slow, her breathing to ease. She could be patient.

Of course, she knew, traps could be patient, too.