//------------------------------// // Wherein Our Heroine Visits a Library // Story: Treasures // by Carabas //------------------------------// “Miss, if I may —” “En-garde!” Thwap. “My apologies if I startled, though I must —” “Have at you!” Thwip. “May I at least have the honour of knowing your na—?” “Would you just be solid already?” Thwop. Daring’s saddlebags, as it turned out, weren’t an optimal weapon for dealing with deer-skeleton-ghost-spectre-whatevers. Every swipe she’d thrown in the last few moments had just phased harmlessly through the apparition's bemused face with a soft thwp sound. No matter. She pressed the attack. If it startled her in the midst of a creepy old ruin just after she’d been fought by other Antlertean weirdness, it was as fair game as you could get. Basic adventuring rules. “Miss?” said the apparition once more. Its tone was mild and light, hard to peg as either male or female. Thwip, went the saddlebags through its face. “I don’t come to offer hostility, and I would fain not receive it. Please cease assailing me so I can offer you Lord Fallow’s hospitality.” She should have brought along a set of Dad’s spurs or heavy shoes — except no, they obviously wouldn’t fit. Would normal spurs or shoes even hurt deer-skeleton-ghost-spectre-whatevers? The Thunderstorm legends had their heroine pick up a set of enchanted shoes in one adventure, and what Daring wouldn’t give for those right now. But no sense dwelling on those. She’d have to come up with something else, something clever, and she thought as she fought. “Intangibility is cheating!” “Miss, I commend your language proficiency, but —” “Don’t patronise me!” Thwap. ”As you will, Miss. I don’t commend your language proficiency. Regardless —” “Aaargh!” snarled Daring, and lashed out once more. “Why is everything in this ruin a smart-alec?” “I can scarcely fathom why, Miss.” Thwop went the bag through the apparition’s face. With what sounded like a ghostly intake of breath, the pale blue magic that seethed around its antlers blazed anew. A blue aura seized around Daring’s saddlebags, freezing them mid-air no matter how much she pulled. “Let go!” “Miss,” said the apparation sharply. “Please observe that I have your weapon frozen, and that I am not exploiting this in any hostile manner. I would greatly prefer to not have to teleport you off the premises for disorderly conduct. Please comport yourself and make a proper introduction.” Daring kept her foreleg firmly hooked around the bags’ strap and bit down firmly on it as well as she heaved back with all her might. The bags remained frozen in the air, as if they had been fixed in concrete, and as she pulled, she bit down as if she was trying to bite through a steel bar. “‘Ek go, ‘oo —!” The strap snapped, and Daring tumbled right onto her back, her planned torrent of unkind demands turning instead to a breathless squeak as the floor drove the air out of her. Between wheezes, she managed, her mind red-hot with anger, “You — you broke my saddlebags! They were from Dad! I’ll — I’ll —” Kicked-up swirls of dust broke her down into coughing. “I’ll — blarck! — I’ll get out the — klaach! — I’ll — ” Her mind raced through all the items remaining in her saddlebags, just out of reach, and through all of their possible unfortunate intersections with the apparition's form. As she struggled to decide which option to vocalise in between hacking coughs, the aura surrounding the bag shifted and became softer. The apparition lifted it up into the air, blue eye-lights studying the dangling straps and picking them up in their own smaller auras. A series of flashes passed up through their horns, like musical notes travelling along a page, and the individual threads of the broken strap ends splayed out and were smoothly pulled forward to meet in mid-air. Another susurration of magic and the mingling threads tightly twined together. Another flex of the strap, an experimental tug from the apparition’s magic, and one smoothing pass later, the bag bobbed in the air, as whole as if it’d been made that moment. The first motions of their magic had stolen Daring’s words, and she’d only watched as the apparition had done its work. They offered the bag strap-first and said, “Pax, Miss?” Daring looked up at the fixed saddlebags, her dust-smeared cutie mark still bright on their sides, and at the steady blue eye-lights regarding her past them. The anger that had been blazing red-hot lines through her mind had faded clean away, and Daring felt very silly. She turned her gaze away from the apparition’s. “Pax,” she bit out after a moment’s silence. Words from Dad came to her then, and words from every other hero in the books, and they reminded she owed this creature more than that. “Sorry. I got creeped out. I shouldn’t have tried to smack your face off.” “No hard feelings retained, Miss, and I apologise for my sudden appearance there. My mien must disconcert more than is ideal.” The apparition sketched a neat bow in the air, and a sweep of its magic scooped up the scattered ball-bearings around their hooves. “Rest assured, I offer no ill intent to those who bear none. I am but the buckservant for this place. May I have the honour of knowing your name, Miss?” “Daring —,” started Daring, and then hesitated. Was it wise to give this creature her name? There were a few old stories about heroes getting into trouble when they recklessly gave away their true names to arcane evildoers. Thunderstorm had made that mistake, and she’d spent ages suffering all sorts of embarrassing curses sent her way by a goat warlock until she’d cunningly convinced the warlock’s wife to name their firstborn after her. Thunderstorm could sometimes be a bit of a jerk like that, but at least it’d worked. There was a soft flash of magic, and the ball-bearings were dropped back into her saddlebag by the apparition’s magic. On further thought, true name magic only happened in old stories, so she’d been told. And if that wasn’t true, she could at least get a fair exchange. “—Do. I’m Daring Do. What’s your name?” “I am the buckservant for this place, Miss Daring,” the apparition replied smoothly. Daring nodded, and then frowned. “That’s a job. Not a name.” “Perhaps. But it is what I am, so it seems the only fitting moniker.” “But it isn’t a name.” The plaque beneath the fire-spitting sentry came to her mind then, the Antlertean script that had translated itself into Equestrian letters on viewing and prattled on about someone called Padhoof serving Lord Fallow. She squinted at the little plaque that the apparition itself had around its neck, and glared at the letters when they failed to obediently translate themselves. “What does it say around your neck? The sentry outside had a name there. Why can’t I read it?” “Ah,” said the apparition, glancing down at its front. “I understand a translation charm was applied to the holding’s exterior, to the other servants, and myself; to keep matters clear for any proper visitors. Lord Fallow has not extended that luxury to the interior writings — perhaps to obfuscate matters for any rivals or snoopers entering uninvited — but would you wish me to lay such a charm upon you, Miss Daring? Just for the duration of your visit.” Daring started to nod, before her thoughts caught up with her and turned the motion into an uncertain wiggle. There was probably some rule against getting enchanted by strange old ghost-deer-things, just like not crossing roads without checking both ways for carriages. If she read about a hero doing this in a story, she’d probably be groaning at their silliness. But at the same time, it was the heroes who took gambles who won the most and got the treasure despite all the peril. And she’d already wagered her full name. This couldn’t be that much more dangerous. The wiggle became a more certain nod. “Sure. Go on then.” A glow of magic extended from the apparition’s horns, with what looked like speck-sized letters and runes drifting in its aura. It wove out through the air and struck Daring’s forehead. Daring winced — it was briefly cold and damp, like an egg had been broken on top of her head, but the sensation quickly passed. Daring blinked, and with no other change in the world at all, the words on the apparition’s plaque shifted and became understandable. ONCE CERVILE, A SERVANT REFORGED NOW I SERVE LORD FALLOW TILL TIME’S ENDING “Cervile?” said Daring. She looked up at the apparition’s blue eye-lights, and though it should have been impossible past their magical blankness, there seemed to be lively enthusiasm dancing in their depths. “Once my name, I’m given to understand. If you’d be comfortable using it, do feel free,” said the apparition — said Cervile, Daring corrected herself. Names were good things to have for beings. That had raised a new question, though. “What does ‘reforged’ mean? Apart from ‘forged again’, obviously—” “Such refers to Lord Fallow’s proficiency in soulforging. Applied pneumaturgy has long been a particular expertise and study of his,” replied Cervile. “Not an area in which I can claim especial academic proficiency. May I offer you refreshment?” “Refre —? I, um.” Daring hesitated. She wanted to know what ‘reforging’ was, but the thought of refreshment smoothly diverted her train of thought altogether. The aches and little burns she’d picked up during the fight with the sentry made themselves known with a prickle of sensation, and she was aware of feeling exceedingly parched. A growl came from her stomach in that moment as well. Skipping breakfast to get on with the adventure as quickly as possible seemed like a slightly less great idea in retrospect. Maybe Dad had had the right idea when he’d grabbed an apple along the way. Refreshment sounded way better than reforging, on consideration, at least for now. “I guess I wouldn’t mind,” she admitted. “Do you have anything to eat?” “I do apologise. The holding’s perishables have long since perished, despite the best efforts of the cool-boxes. But fresh water remains available, should you wish to quench your thirst.” “Thirst-quenching sounds great,” said Daring, trying to resist the urge to cough and trying not to imagine just how good some cold water would taste. A water canteen would have been a really sensible thing to bring as well, in retrospect. The earlier adrenaline had all but faded away now, and every other ache and complaint her body had to offer were enthusiastically making themselves known. “Is there a fountain or something further along?” “A natural well still flows. Do follow me, Miss Daring,” said Cervile, smoothly turning on their backhoof and motioning to the right. “Mind your step. And I apologise for the dust. It’s accumulated of late.” Daring looked at Cervile’s back as they soundlessly trotted ahead, shifted her saddlebags and adjusted her helmet with a sigh, and made to follow. But before she immediately did so, she remembered the other half of the corridor back off to the left. She quickly cantered to where the corridor led around a bend and peered around into the shadowed darkness. “Miss Daring?” came the voice of Cervile from back along the corridor. “Please follow me.” “Hold on. I’m just exploring,” said Daring. She squinted down the dark length, her little head-lantern’s thin beam skittering across it. This branch came to an abrupt stop after only a few metres, ending at an arched alcove containing a broad stone bench large enough for a big pony to lie upon. Ragged cobwebs dangled down from the ceiling, and the thick dust on the floor seemed flurried, as if something or somethings had moved through it several times over the last long age. “What’s this bit for?” “That is the guard post for the freehold, should the outside sentry prove insufficient. There is customarily a guard there, though that particular one has … taken to wandering in recent centuries. Some quirk of an early forging, I suspect.” There was a pause before Cervile spoke again, and there was a new edge to their tone that Daring hadn’t heard before. “Miss Daring, please stay close to me.” Nothing exciting jumped out at her from the short corridor after a moment’s further inspection, and Daring decided that Cervile’s route was probably more interesting. “Alright,” she said, and turned back and trotted to where the ghostly buckservant stood waiting. Cervile gestured around to where the right corridor bent off. Around the bend, pale stone stairs sloped upwards at a shallow angle, leading up into shadow. More unlit light fixtures ran up along the ceiling, and a motion of Cervile’s magic sparked them all to life, drowning the shadows under the soft blue light they emitted. At the very end, there now stood revealed another dark archway, leading on into what looked like a great room. “So, ah,” Daring started as they made their way up the stairs. “Are others like you here? I already met the sentry, and you mentioned that other guard. Are there any others?” “I believe so,” replied Cervile, their tone still mild, their hooftread silent upon the steps. “Not all are known to me. There are some areas where I am unable to tread, such as Lord Fallow’s private library and laboratory, and there may be others there that I am unaware of. Past those … well, myself and the two you mention are the only soulforged beings here on whom I possess knowledge. We all have our own duties writ upon ourselves. You’ve been acquainted with the sentry and their role. The guard keeps watch over the interior. And I am the buckservant. I clean as best I may, attend to Lord Fallow’s needs, and offer hospitality to guests until such time as Lord Fallow deigns to receive them.” “Until Lord Fallow deigns to — He’s the deer who ruled this place, right? You’re talking as if he’s still around.” “Lord Fallow is indeed the master of this place, Miss Daring. And he is currently in residence.” Daring paused mid-step upon the stairs. “He’s still around?” “Quite so.” The enormity of it, delivered so casually by Cervile, took Daring’s breath away. You didn’t get Antlerteans in the world anymore, not after Antlertis Fell below the waves in some calamity that had also ruined all its overseas holdings, back in the days before ponies even had writing. It was so long ago, nopony had ever recorded even seeing an Antlertean or speaking with one, not even in the very oldest stories. Ruins were all that were left, dust and darkness and a few old scripts that resisted most translation spells even the smartest pony scholars could throw at them. Nothing more. So if there was actually one still here … if there was an actual Antlertean mage-lord alive and in the flesh and who was possibly willing to meet a great adventurer with stories from the surface world... Medals and acclaim and all the publication everywhere wouldn’t even begin to cover it. Princess Celestia would have to mint new awards, just for her. There’d be more glory than Daring could ever imagine, and enough glory for Dad to have some spare as well. Enough for ten Dads, even. “Could I meet him?” said Daring excitedly. Cervile hesitated. “He is not presently receiving visitors, Miss Daring. But I would be happy to offer any hospitality within my power to extend until and if he does. To that end, let us go and get your water.” Daring reluctantly nodded, her mouth drier than ever. That’d be fine. There was plenty of old ruin to explore while Lord Fallow finished whatever he was doing. And as they reached the top of the stairs, she prepared herself to get properly stuck into that. They passed through the shadowed archway into the vast and equally shadowed room beyond, lit an instant later by Cervile’s magic. Daring’s jaw dropped to new unsounded depths as she took it all in. They were in a large hallway, lined on either side with the skeletal frames of low benches half-drowned in dust. Between each bench, different fixtures rose to divert Daring’s attention, one after the other. One plinth sported a golden orrery, a little and elaborately-crafted model of the world with the beads of the sun and moon and countless stars in orbit on little rods. Across it on the hallway’s other side, a huge and full suit of barding stood, made to fit a deer larger than the largest of pony stallions. Dark and tarnished scale-like plates covered the legs and torso and head, plates on a skeletal frame covered the fronts of broad antlers, and narrow slits glared down from the visor of an enclosing helmet. Past these, other marvels rested: rusted clocks seemingly made from spun silver webs, the marble heads of crowned deer, a model of a ship with tall masts and gently-curving lines, some amalgam of rusted gears whose purpose Daring couldn’t even begin to guess at, and yet more. Above, one great hemisphere shed blue light over the pale and dusty stone, as if all the room were suspended underwater, and even its light failed to penetrate the deep shadows lurking up in the vaulted ceiling. And on the other end, flanked by two doorways, looming over anyone who climbed up the stairs, there rose a great and dust-smeared portrait. Three sitting deer looked out at Daring from it, and she regarded them right back. The stag in the portrait had to be Lord Fallow himself, his aspect sharp and angular and stoic. Dark eyes glittered against a cream-coloured coat and from the top of his head, wide antlers spread high, midnight-blue magic dancing around them. He was broad across the withers, and dark blue robes covered him from the neck down, fastened around his throat by a plain silver brooch. A doe sat next to him, wearing dark green robes against a gold-hued coat. She wasn’t Fallow’s equal in height and her antlers were smaller and less branched, but she bore the same sharp and patrician aspect to her features, and her antlers were lit with a silver aura. Between them both, there sat a fawn, her coat cream-coloured and her own robes buttercup-yellow and somewhat rumpled. Her own antlers were only buds, like the horns of unicorn foals. The haughty glamour of her parents hadn’t been even slightly inherited at the time of the portrait-sitting, and even past the sweep of centuries and millennia, it seemed as if she was trying to resist the urge to grin and stick her tongue out at anyone looking. Daring felt an immediate kinship and stuck her tongue right out at her. She bet the fawn had read lots of adventure stories as well. Antlertis must have had its own share of those. “Lord Fallow,” said Cervile next to Daring, either not noticing or deigning not to comment on the display of tongue-sticking. “And the Ladies Aurum and Flora. Its preservative enchantments have held up better than most here, I feel.” “It’s pretty,” said Daring, her gaze running up and down the painting. The colours were vivid, even past the coating of fine dust, and it could have been painted yesterday for all she knew. “Are the others in residence as well?” “I’m afraid not. It has only ever been Lord Fallow residing here in my memory,” Cervile said gently, and Daring’s hopes of borrowing cool Antlertean books from Flora were dashed. While she internally grumbled over the loss, the ghostly buckservant’s gaze flitted to the open doorway to the left of the painting. Blue light spilled down another length of corridor for a few metres before being entirely choked away under shadow. Daring’s gaze went that way as well, and she peered with futility into the darkness. It might have just been her imagination, reading too much into the silence, but there seemed to be a faint sound coming from the dark corridor. Like something rustling, being dragged over the stone, and being the bold and undeterrable adventurer that she was, Daring stepped forward to investigate — “Do come this way, Miss Daring,” said Cervile quickly, motioning towards the other door on the right. “The solarium is as fair a place to be received as any — and probably fairer than most, if you’ll pardon the frankness.” Daring reluctantly stepped towards the indicated door, her gaze still on the dark left door. “What’s down there?” “Sundry elements of the freehold. Sleeping quarters, storage rooms, the kitchen and dining room, Lord Fallow’s personal library-cum-laboratory, his private study — all that sort of thing. Few amenities there at present, I’m afraid. The solarium is somewhat more agreeable. Through here, please.” The door swung open, and Daring found herself staring into another shadowed room, wide and roughly circular in shape. She peered in at what the hallway light revealed and saw the shapes of several benches and low tables. The bare walls curved up into the shape of a dome. It was then that the words used by Cervile caught up to her. “Hey, wait, a solarium? That’s … that’s a sunroom, isn’t it? Because of the sol bit. How can you have a sunroom? You’re underground.” By way of response, Cervile sent a single pulse of magic right at the wall’s surface. The pale stone drank the blue in a sudden shimmer of enchantment, with the blue spreading rapidly outwards like ripples in a puddle. As it went, it illuminated countless tiny runes and pieces of script etched into the curving walls, each flaring for a brief moment in the blue’s wake. A moment later, the blue had touched all parts of the dome, and one last great flash from all sides dazzled Daring. When she blinked the dazzlement away, she found herself staring at the room. Nothing seemed to have changed. She peered harder at the walls, whose texture seemed to have shifted to become vaguely more rugged and rocky. Faint white light came from the base, like the glow reflected by the naturally-growing crystals in the cavern outside. To her side, Cervile’s usually-blank expression had become subtly perturbed. “I do apologise,” they said. “Customarily, it reflects the sky from the top of the external tower. Something seems to have gone wrong.” “Oh. Ooh! That makes sense,” said Daring. “Your tower’s not pointing up into the sky anymore. It’s underground as well. You’re in this big cavern.” Cervile blinked, their blue eye-lights flickering. “Truly? How did that happen?” “I … I don’t know exactly. It must have happened during the Fall. Of Antlertis, that is. Lots of ponies think there were all sorts of earthquakes and such during it, so maybe the whole tower got covered then.” As she looked up at Cervile’s blank blue gaze, another thought came to Daring. “You … um, you did know that Antlertis had Fallen, right? Something just wiped you guys all out, and nopony knows why. Maybe something magical.” “There haven’t been any visitors or fresh supplies delivered for over three thousand years,” said Cervile, and this time, they seemed almost sad to Daring. “Certain suspicions of some manner of outside collapse had occurred, I shall not lie. It shouldn’t impact upon my day-to-day duties — at least, no more than it already has — but I thank you for the confirmation.” Daring tried to imagine living here, down in the darkness below the world, not knowing what was going on outside for three thousand years, never having anything other than suspicions. She couldn’t imagine it. “You weren’t able to check? Lord Fallow never checked?” “My duties do not extend beyond the freehold’s entrance. I never could have done so. And Lord Fallow ... Lord Fallow has been otherwise engaged.” Daring was silent for a moment. “You must have been lonely.” “Please do not worry on my account, Miss Daring,” replied Cervile quickly. “I always had my duties to preoccupy me, inasmuch as I could fulfill them. Lord Fallow remains in residence, and the other soulforged servants persist. That said, your visit is a breath of fresh air, and it is a joy to be able to extend the hospitality of the freehold once more. Speaking of ...” They gestured into the cavern-lit solarium — cavernium? — with a forehoof and bowed. “Please, take a seat inside.” Daring ventured inside cautiously, until a flare of magic from Cervile descended onto the shape of a table. It lit a small globe that had been balanced there, filling it with a flickering blue flame and lighting up the whole cavernium. The table sat at the centre, with shelves at its base holding dusty books. Sloped chairs and low benches were arranged about it, and a few empty flower pots ran around the circular room’s circumference. “Take a seat, Miss Daring,” said Cervile as Daring admired the room. “Feel free to indulge in any reading material there, if it suits your tastes. I shall return momentarily with your water.” “Sure,” said Daring vaguely, lost in admiration. Then, just as Cervile turned on their heel, she quickly wheeled around. “Wait! Do I have to wait here? I want to see the rest of the place and all your cool old stuff. Take me with you to get the water.” “Miss Daring …” Cervile hesitated for a moment. “The solarium is traditionally where guests are received and summoned at Lord Fallow’s pleasure. I can fetch your water and come back in scarcely any time at all by myself. Please remain here.” “I don’t need the water that quickly. And Lord Fallow wouldn’t mind that much if I saw some of his cool stuff, would he? Let me —” “There are other reasons for my preference in this matter,” Cervile said, pressing on. “Recall the aforementioned wandering guard? Time has had a way of making their faculties erratic, and they have not been bound to be as accommodating and respectful of guests as I. I can personally guarantee your safety and teleport you away from any danger, but I would sooner not have you out there and taking the risk. Please, Miss Daring.” Cervile seemed to have frustratingly grown-up ideas about risk-taking. Daring groaned. “But —” Cervile’s eye-lights twinkled. “Miss Daring, please recall your earlier efforts to ‘smack my face off’, as I believe you put it. It would be ingracious of me to prevail upon courteous recompense for that, but if needs must ...” Daring groaned harder. Cervile did have that over her. “Fine. I’ll stay here. I’ll take a seat and read and everything.” “Thank you. I shall be back momentarily.” Cervile bowed and turned on their heel once more. Daring watched them leave, and then jumped as if electrified. One more thought had occurred to her. “Cervile!” The ghostly buckservant turned once again, as smoothly as ever. “Yes, Miss Daring?” “There, ah.” Daring licked her lips. “There might be another explorer arriving here soon.” Cervile’s eye-lights brightened, and Daring rattled on as quickly as she could. “My dad. He’ll probably come in the same way I did, that sentry outside won’t slow him down much. But … he doesn’t know I’m here. Could you not tell him I’m here? Or … appear to him at all?” Cervile hesitated. “He would arrive here as a guest. It is my duty to offer the hospitality of the freehold to any newcomers past the entrance.” “I know that. But it’d be a big help to me. It really, really would.” Daring fumbled around for anything that might persuade the buckservant and latched onto the first desperate thing that came to mind. “He’d take me out of here if he found me. Then neither me or him could be Lord Fallow’s honoured guest. You wouldn’t want that, would you?” Some sort of inner war seemed to be raging beneath Cervile’s calm exterior, as blue fire roiled like smoke in the depths of their eye-lights. But after an agonisingly long moment, they nodded. “As a courtesy to the first breath of fresh air in a very long time, then. I won’t alert him to your presence, or immediately introduce myself if I sight him.” Daring breathed easy. “Thank you. Really.” “I won’t hide away from him should he spot me. And if he asks after you directly, I shall not lie,” Cervile continued. “But otherwise, I won’t breathe a word. Will that suffice?” “Yes. Thank you loads.” “Very good, then. I’ll be back with your water.” Cervile turned on their heel for the umpteenth time that minute, and this time, Daring let them leave without any interruption. The cavernium door shut behind them, and Daring was left to her own devices once again. After a moment of fluttery pacing and casting her gaze any which way, she decided on the only sensible course of action and went straight for the books. None of them immediately leapt out at Daring, even as she pulled them out from the table’s shelves with her mouth and got dust in her teeth. Coughing, she inspected the covers, and the Antlertean lettering there flowed and shifted to become understandable. Treatise On Outer Void Soundings read one, an embossed crown running above the text. Another read Abstract Sygaldry in the Context of the Unfettered Arcane: Volume IV, complete with strange squiggles on either side and running up the spine. Daring put them both aside and stared at a third. Introduction to Practical Pneumaturgy, With Special Regard to and Observations on Soulforging. Daring brightened. The last of those words rang a bell, from what she’d heard from the sentry and Cervile, and she flicked the book open at a random page. The time taken for her expression to completely glaze over set new records. — anent superfluous and unnecessary considerations of base morality ill-afforded in an Unfettered Arcane grounding, the text rambled, these observations concern themselves little. Instead shall be set forth clear descriptions of what is entailed and how most efficaciously it might be accomplished by the pneumaturgical process colloquially referred to as ‘soulforging’. Most simply put, that core essence of a higher being that underpins pneumaturgy offers fertile ground for rewriting, that the caster’s will may be effectively impressed upon a tabula rasa of a subject absent the clutter of independent thought and potential consequential truculence. Thus may perfect servants be created. The process itself demands much of those who would pursue it, however, and requires skill and power both matched and in abundance. Arcane sygaldry appropriate to the tasks required of the subject must be formulated and impressed upon the core essence, with the complexity of such sygaldry increasing exponentially to the complexity of the tasks. Subjects must be prepared both physically and mentally for the process, with extensive mental conditioning obligatory in order to induce a necessary degree of passivity. Physical conditioning must be conducted in order to achieve the optimal balance of internal humours and nerve channels. This balance must be checked and re-checked prior to the process in order to preserve optimality, through the expert application of such tools as galvanic pressures, vitreous hooks, appropriate sphygmomanometries — “Sp … S-fig,” muttered Daring to herself. “S-figo — no, flying feathers — s-figmomamona — um ...” She gave up and glared at the book. “You just made that up.” That had been as illuminating as mud, all things considered. She’d have to ask Dad what a tabula rasa was afterwards, and privately hoped that it was a new curse. Daring looked towards the other books and sadly concluded that none of them were likely to be cool or even translated into plain Equish. She sighed and reached for Outer Void Soundings in the hopes that it’d at least be marginally more comprehensible. And in that moment, there came a distant and muffled shuffling noise. Daring paused and stood upright to face towards the door. The shuffling continued, and as she strained her ears, she picked out the sound of something regularly clacking on the ground. It was like a hooftread, but slow, coming at a steady trudge, and it sounded as though something was being dragged along in its wake. Cervile walked silently. Was it Dad and his coat dragging along the ground? Daring tried to make out the direction of it, whether it was coming from where she’d come into the freehold. It was coming closer, whatever it was. A slow hooftread without a doubt, as if someone was taking their time when walking, or was slowed down by something heavy. Both of those things sounded like it could be Dad. But there wasn’t the sharp clack of metal meeting stone that Dad’s shoes and spurs would have produced. This sounded far heavier. Daring held her breath, trying not to shiver as the slow, heavy hooftread drew closer and yet closer until it sounded like it was right outside the cavernium door. Then it fell silent. Daring swallowed, and kept a steady eye on the door. “Dad?” she ventured. The silence held. And then the door handle on Daring’s side was wrapped in a dark red glow and began to rattle back and forth. Adrenaline's cold thrill shivered up Daring’s spine, and she slowly shrugged off her saddlebags and looped their strap around her forehoof. Her motions were slow, careful; her gaze remained fixed on the rattling handle. The blood-red aura around it flickered like fire, and its own motions seemed uncertain and turgid. The handle inched down, and Daring swept her saddlebag out and to one side, ready to be brought up in one great swing. The aura diminished suddenly, becoming no more than the suggestion of a flickering outline around the handle. Daring dared to breath out, just before the aura flared bright once more and yanked harder downwards. There was a dull click from some shifting bolt inside the door, and the sound of something metallic scratching at the door’s other side. Coldness took up what felt like a permanent residence in Daring’s spine, and she itched to lash out with the saddlebags. “Come on,” she found herself whispering, just loud enough for only herself to hear, “come on, come on. I’ve got saddlebags, it’s going to be fine, it’s going to be —” And then there was a polite cough from the other side of the door, and the familiar voice of Cervile. “You’re far from your post.” The aura diminished once again, and heavy hooves scuffed on the floor outside — the sound of something huge and ponderous turning. Cervile spoke again. “Back to your rounds elsewhere in the freehold. Come on. I can’t imagine what you think you’ll find in there.” Silence for a moment, a deep and echoing silence that seemed to fill the world outside the cavernium. Daring realised she needed to breath in again, and duly did so once before returning her rapt attention to the door handle. “Back to your rounds,” said Cervile again. “Attend to whatever areas you please. This one is under my watch.” Silence for another moment, a moment that dragged on and on, before whatever was waiting outside began to walk away with its slow and heavy tread. The rustle of cloth being dragged along the ground followed in its wake, and Daring turned to try and keep track of its progress. It seemed to walk back out and into the hallway, before shuffling off into the next corridor past the painting. Only when its hooftreads had all but slipped past hearing, Daring felt the cold prickle of adrenaline in her spine begin to subside. Her breathing came back to her, and she became aware of her own hammering heartbeat and dry mouth. And she swore to herself that she only squeaked with fright a little when the door slid open and Cervile stepped primly back into the room. The buckservant held a bell-shaped white cup in their magic, and they quickly closed the door behind them. “Apologies for that, Miss Daring,” they said, proffering the cup. “Here’s the water that was promised.” Daring dropped the saddlebags and fell to a sitting position so she could take the cup with both forehooves. She took one trembling sip, and then another, and found herself downing every last drop of the sweet, cool water that the cup had to offer in a matter of seconds. She needed that. “Thank you,” she remembered to say, as she glanced down at the empty cup. It wasn’t as plain a white as she’d first thought; there was a picture of a buttercup on one side. “What … what was —?” “That would be the aforementioned wandering guard.” Cervile glanced round at the door, seemingly checking it was shut properly. “I shan’t speculate what goes on in their head these days — indeed, whatever went on in their head at all — but their routes have gotten ever-wider and more erratic as the centuries have gone by. They were the first to ever be soulforged here, so I understand, and perhaps Lord Fallow had yet to refine his technique then.” Daring took another steadying breath and licked some stray water off her muzzle. “It wouldn’t have been so bad if I could see them,” she murmured to herself. “Beg pardon?” “Cervile, what’s soulforging?” Daring brought her head right up to look Cervile in the eye-lights; it was time to stop being the bad sort of scared. “You weren’t that clear earlier, and I’m sure that book over there just made up half the words it was using. What is it really?” “It is the art Lord Fallow made his life’s work,” said Cervile, slowly and hesitantly, as if they were choosing their words with care. “I am the last he made with it, and never witnessed any others being produced. The procedure took place in Lord Fallow’s combined library and laboratory, to which I was never allowed access. I cannot attest as to what it entails in much detail. But from what I understand, and in laybeing’s terms, the self of a subject is rewritten.” Daring frowned, and Cervile continued. “For a skilled mage like Lord Fallow, it is possible to tap into a being’s soul … or self, or core essence, there are all manner of terms for it — and to mould it like clay. Reshape it to what the crafter desires. If Lord Fallow wanted an unfailing and obedient being to serve him for all time, he could simply take some being else, use certain techniques to render their mind and soul blank slates, and impress their desired role upon them as a suitable and empty vessel. Such a soul could even be passed onto another physical vessel if required. That is soulforging. Do you follow, Miss Daring?” Daring followed, and she shivered. That was the sort of thing that gave her nightmares from some stories, where the evil warlock or psychephage or other mind-meddling villain could outright brainwash others, make them what the villain wanted them to be and nothing else, snuffing out their free will like a candle. When the evil Prince Vanadium had done exactly that to nearly every member of the Superb Six near the climax of Superb Six on an Adventure Through Time, she’d had to finish it when Dad was in the same room. Her gaze flitted down to Cervile’s plaque, and a different chill than the one adrenaline offered trickled down her spine like ice water. “Once Cervile, a servant reforged,” she whispered to herself. “Indeed, Miss Daring,” said Cervile, sounding unfussed by the whole prospect. “I was somedeer else before Lord Fallow soulforged me, and I confess to no memories of who that deer might have been. My identity and duties as a buckservant have been impressed upon me, and I shall follow them as best I may.” Mixed parts horror and bile rose in Daring, and a pang of sympathy went to Cervile and even to the sentry from before, whoever they’d been. Both couldn’t help the way they’d been made, or what they had to do. There was an evil old wizard pulling their strings. But with that realisation, the horror and bile that had risen in Daring faded away, and a core of iron-hard determination took form in her instead. She might have been confused by the sentry and Cervile at first, and there might still be other scary guards waiting out there in the dark, but she knew what she was doing now. The adventure made sense now. This wasn’t just a ruin-delving glory-hunt anymore where she hunted for whatever to prove she could do things as well as Dad. This was a properly heroic quest. She had an evil wizard to vanquish, and an evil wizard’s treasures to unearth. She had soulforged servants to free. And if doing those didn’t prove she was the great adventurer she’d been born to be, then nothing else would. A wild grin snuck onto her features, and she impulsively reached out to hug Cervile. The attempt ended in some failure when her forelegs just swept through Cervile’s ethereal form. “Miss?” said Cervile, looking mildly confused. “I’m intangible, recall? It helped me cheat having my face smacked off.” “Right, yeah. Oops. Sudden sappiness, never mind.” Daring stood and swept her saddlebags back onto her back with a suitably dramatic motion, her grin as cocky as she felt she could possibly make it. “Where’s Lord Fallow? Is he in his library-laboratory-whatever?” Cervile hesitated. “Lord Fallow is in residence in his private study, Miss Daring, and the route to such leads through his library. But —” “Pefect! Take me there.” “I’m afraid I can’t oblige, Miss Daring. The library is not an area of the freehold to which I am permitted access. Lord Fallow never permitted relatively … sophisticated minds in there apart from his own. I can access his private study, but it would skirt propriety dreadfully to bring a visitor there uninvited. He may come to you if you wait here, though I do doubt it.” Cervile seemed resigned when it spoke next. “If you wish to leave and perhaps return at a later point ...” “No! No, I’ve got to fix this now.” “Fix what, Miss Daring?” Daring thought furiously to herself. Cervile wouldn’t take her to the library or to Lord Fallow’s study, and she suspected if she asked them to lead her through the place, they’d refuse on the grounds of the wandering guard. Cervile had mentioned they could just teleport her out the place, so it’d be no use trying to force the issue or run away when they could still see her. Not a problem. She’d just have to be cunning about it. Daring gathered breath and mimicked what she felt was a realistic-sounding cough. Cervile looked concerned. “Was that a yawn?” One day, she’d be able to do a convincing-sounding cough for that matter. “It was a cough,” Daring insisted. “My throat’s still a little dry.” She looked up at Cervile with her most pleading expression. “Could you get me another cup of water? Or three?” “Of course, Miss Daring,” said Cervile, bowing as they picked up the buttercup-emblazoned cup with their magic. “I will be back shortly. Do keep the door closed while I’m gone. The guard’s unlikely to wander back this way, but erring on caution’s side is always advisable.” They departed through the door, closing it behind them, and Daring counted out the seconds. One, two, three … she didn’t know how fast Cervile could actually move, or whether they would just teleport right there, and their lack of any noise when moving didn’t help matters in the slightest. But she gave it a few seconds, and then scurried over to the door and reached up to the handle. She pushed it open, wincing as it creaked, and poked her head around. Nothing jumped out at her from the hallway, silent and still under the cool blue light, and all the stuff around the margins was still where it had been. The dust just outside the door was slurried, though, marked by whatever had been moving around outside. Daring wasted no time and rushed out under the eyes of the painted deer to peer around the other corridor. Her headlantern’s light skittered ahead across the white stone, laying out the shape of the corridor. Several dark, closed doorways loomed alongside either wall, ending when the corridor split down two forking paths. The left path was dark and silent. From the right, Daring could make out a glimmer of faint blue light behind some further door, along with what sounded like a splash of water. The left path, then, which would take her on towards the library with any luck. Daring hurried along as quickly and quietly as she could, her hooves padding along the dusty stone and her withers high and hunched, keeping one alert eye down the right-hand path. She stole down the left, slapped her headlantern dim, and pressed against the wall, trying to keep her breathing steady and quiet. After a moment, the sound of splashing ceased, and a soft blue light spilled down from the right path. Daring edged down further along the wall, holding her breath altogether. The light grew, and she saw Cervile’s luminous form trot out from the right path, their back to her and three cups of water bobbing in the air over their head. They swept by the mouth of the left path without slowing down or apparently noticing Daring and trotted silently down the main corridor path. Daring breathed again as they stepped back into the hallway and out of sight, and bopped her headlantern back to life, preparing to move quickly on. The first thing to greet her as light filled her world again was a great rising doorway to her front. It was arched and decorated around its edges, and past it, a stone staircase descended into depths unknown. A glitter of magic up by the doorframe caught Daring’s eye, and she peered up at what turned out to be glowing Antlertean script, seemingly written and left hanging mid-air. The script reshaped itself into understandable Equish. Daddy’s library, it read in neat, flowing cursive. And just below that, in slightly bolder letters, Absolutely no fawns allowed! (This means you, Flora.) Daring stared for a second, before her mind went back to the deer in the painting. A giggle escaped her then, no matter how she tried to muffle it. “Yeah,” she muttered to herself, in between giggles and attempts to silence said giggles, “Like that would have kept her out.” She’d have gotten along with Flora so very, very hard. But she could add an Antlertean to her list of imaginary playmates later. For now, Daring had her destination clear before her, and she peeled herself away from the wall to pursue it. From one side, there was the rustle of cloth across the stone, the sound of great scuffing hooves, and the sensation of something vast shifting in the air next to Daring. She slowly turned to face down the corridor and initially struggled to make out what her headlantern’s light was playing across — it seemed like a great, dark, shapeless mass of dusty folds, twisting up into the air before Daring. She looked up, and up, and further up, up past where she’d have to make eye contact with the very tallest stallions. And past where the dark folds stopped, and at the other end of the huge form they covered, she saw the broad sweep of great bone-white antlers, each one as large as a pony, their width almost too great for the corridor that held them. A dark red fire flickered up the lengths of the antlers, almost too dark to be seen amidst the shadow of the corridor. A cold ball gathered in Daring’s guts as she realised it was the same colour of the magic that had tried to open the door handle, and that coldness twisted up her spine when the great creature swept its head around to regard Daring face-to-face. They towered above Daring, at least twice as tall as Dad’s full height at their hunched withers, a colossus of a deer-shape swaddled in layers of a dusty black cloak that could have covered a whole floor. Their huge head was encased in metal, along with what parts of their torso and legs she could glimpse beneath the black, a match for the barding that Daring had seen out in the hallway. Their visored helmet had a skeletal aspect to it, like molten steel had been poured over a deer’s skull. No lower jaw remained to them, and cracked white teeth jutted down past the helmet’s edge over nothingness and the bones within their throat. And unlike for Cervile, when Daring looked through the visor of their helmet, no eye-lights greeted her. Only blackness, and within that blackness, Daring knew, something looked back. They turned completely and lowered their head to face Daring, the movements slow and ponderous and their hooffalls like thunder. The expanse of steel plates covering their torso was revealed, along with the silver-steel plaque that dangled down from their neck. The black lettering on it twisted before Daring’s eyes. ONCE STEELHART, A MURDERER REFORGED NOW I SERVE LORD FALLOW TILL TIME’S ENDING The huge head tilted slightly, the blackness past the visor still regarding Daring in utter silence. Daring found words after a moment. Cervile had turned out to be friendly, and that had been as good a lesson on not judging by appearances as any. Maybe it would hold here as well. “Hi,” she managed, and the words came out strangled and high-pitched. “I’m Dari—” The fire on Steelhart’s antlers blazed suddenly, the dark red guttering fiercely and shedding no extra light for it, and a weapon that they’d been keeping held against their other side came sliding out from behind them. It was a great glaive, its shaft longer than any pony weapon Daring had ever seen. The broad, single-edged blade at its end was larger than Daring herself, and a wicked grey sheen ran along its edge. Steelhart rose to their full height then, the ponderousness of their movements falling away in favour of smooth grace. Their withers unhunched to send them standing straight at their full height, and their antlers all but scraped the ceiling. All the while, the blackness behind their visor remained fixed on Daring’s own eyes. The glaive was angled towards the ground and brought forward slowly, its edge deliberately scraping and sparking across the stone. Daring decided that it was time to flee a minute ago and sprung through the library doorway to make up for lost time. She hit the steps on the other side in a mad helter-skelter of legs and flapping limbs, fighting to keep her footing and keep running at the same time. Her forehooves skidded on the dusty stone of one high, wide step, and only pitching herself into a frantic forwards glide saved her from meeting the stair’s bottom with a concussion. She swept on down through the air over the steps, her headlantern’s light all there was to see by. The stairs blurred by her and ran on without end into the dark. There was a hammering in her ears, and it might have been the guard on her heels or her own pounding heartbeat; it was hard to tell. She dared to twist her head back and fleetingly check. In the ever-receding rectangle of faint light that was the distant doorway, there was the hulking shape of Steelhart, carefully maneuvering their wide antlers and glaive through the too-narrow door. Daring flapped all the harder, her heart and wings beating equally swiftly as she scanned through the falling dark for any sign of an exit at the bottom, any exit. How far down did these stairs fall? She could only keep flying with all the strength that terror and exhilaration could give her. There — like a miracle, her heatlantern’s light skittered across the forthcoming shape of a door, many metres distant. Daring sucked in breath and whirled her wings forward with all her might to slow her descent. The sharp motion worked too well, and she all but spun down into the stone steps, bouncing down the last stretch with cries of, “Feathering — ahh! Bas — ow! Tabula —!” She finally hit the floor at the base of the stairs, skidding across it for several feet before she dug her hooves in and forced herself to rise — no time for checking bruises or whatever aches adrenaline might be hiding, she had to keep running, she had to get away. From above, where the doorway was all but too far away to see, there came the quickening thunder of huge hooves upon the stone stairs. Daring snatched her fallen helmet from the floor and spun upon the door. It hung slightly ajar, and she threw her entire body into it side-on to force it open a crucial few inches. It creaked open, and she wriggled through, forcing her saddlebags to squeeze through along with her. She burst through into open space, whirled back to the door, and rose up onto her back legs to press on it with her forehooves. Daring pitched her entire weight into slamming it shut, and it creaked back inch by excruciating inch till, at last, the door slid back into its frame. Some rusted bolt clicked near its handle, and Daring finally drew in another deep, shuddering breath. The distant thunder of Steelhart upon the stairs still came from the other side, and Daring stepped back to fall on all fours. Her wits slid back in past the red haze of panic and exhilaration, and she glowered up at the door while panting. “Yeah! There! It’s a closed door!” she spat. “You were pretty bad at the last one! Try that!” The thunder grew ever-closer, and Daring braced her trembling legs to turn around and keep on running. As she did, she realised that there was light to see by - a soft russet-red light, with some source at her back that grew gradually brighter with each second. Had something been triggered when she entered? She turned, tensed and ready, to regard the room in which she found herself. After a moment, she could only manage a soft, “Woah.” Before her, there waited Lord Fallow’s laboratory. And up and around it in all directions, as far as Daring could see, Lord Fallow’s library. Elsewhere. “You know what? You’re all bastards!” raged the sentry as it and the door it was impressed upon were ground open, inch by inch. “Excuse you,” said Gallivant, somewhat muffled past the ten-foot pole in his teeth with which he was levering the door open. One of his forehooves was planted solidly on the floor; the other held his fire-resistant coat up against the sentry. Fires billowed helplessly on the coat’s other side. “My parents were quite happily married by the time of my birth. Possibly to different ponies, granted, but that’s neither here nor there.” “What even was that approach?” hissed the sentry as Gallivant finally pushed the door far enough open to squeeze through. The stallion kicked a crowbar he'd used earlier through the gap with a satisfied grunt. “Holding your stupid coat up in front of you against my fire and just … trotting slowly forwards and tapping every square inch of the floor and walls with that equally stupid pole! What was the purpose?” “You wouldn’t be the first trap that might try and bait an adventurer-archaeologist into rash action,” said Gallivant, pushing right on past into the corridor and sweeping his coat down from the sentry’s face. “You start shooting fire, I panic and try and press forward, and that’s when the spikes come out from the walls when I’m too distracted to check for them. Luckily, you weren’t quite as sophisticated as that, but I’m sure you did your best.” “Shut up.” “Don’t get me wrong, I’m impressed by you regardless. You’re definitely the chattiest doorway I’ve come across in a while. There’s a juicy page or two to be written on you alone once I’ve had the chance to give you a proper look-over. And there’s surely a good mystery behind that Padhoof stuff on your front.” Gallivant dropped his pole and spread his justacorps out on the dusty ground. A few smouldering patches here and there — he’d have to get the enchantments redone — but nothing major apart from that. His pole hadn’t been damaged much getting through the ceiling-trap upstairs either. Gallivant grinned his cockiest grin, the motion of it coming back to him like an old friend from memory, and swept his coat back on over his barding. A good start to the day. Doing this sort of thing by himself had been less hard than he’d expected. “You don’t have an appointment to be here. The other one didn’t either,” the sentry muttered sulkily. “I’m very rude, you might have gathered,” Gallivant said apologetically, adjusting his tricorn. “Chronic gatecrasher. Professional, even. If it’s any consolation, I’ve not done this sort of thing in a … a while ...” His voice drifted off as the sentry’s words caught up to him. Gallivant glanced around at the hallway light, and at the dust covering the ground. At the small hoofprints in it, leading off to the right. He turned around, and at the doorway’s side, there was a rent that might just be big enough for a foal to squeeze through. The sentry, which had subsided into muttering Antlertean obscenities to itself, blinked when a crowbar rapped off its muzzle. There wasn’t even the hint of a smile on Gallivant’s face. “What other one?”