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Part One: Canterlot (Shining Armor)4,347 words
Part Two: Reduit, quite a few centuries ago (Kale)4,815 words
Part Three: Canterlot, to Reduit (Shining Armor)8,618 words
Part Four: Reduit, fewer centuries ago than before (Treasure)5,253 words
Part Five: Reduit (Princess Cadance)8,131 words
Part Six: Canterlot, the present day (Celestia)2,448 words
Part Seven: Reduit, at the very beginning of things (Auric)4,599 words
Part Eight: Reduit, to Cloudsdale (Shining Armor)2,950 words
Part Nine: Cloudsdale (Princess Cadance)2,534 words

Part Five: Reduit (Princess Cadance)

* * *
The First Time You See Her

Part Five

Jeffrey C. Wells

My breath steams the window of my airship stateroom. Reduit is tiny beneath me.

It's been ages since I've been here on anything other than a lightning errand. Even my current trip here is little more than an overnight layover, a quick stop to deliver my baby book back to the hooves of the Sisterhood and then a few hours of sleep before a very early flight to Cloudsdale. That said, the schedule is going to be just relaxed enough for me to take a few hours to look around my foalhood home and to reconnect with my roots before embarking on the most important voyage of my life so far.

A few hours is all it will take.

Reduit has gotten so small.

Paradoxically, the city itself is geographically larger than it's ever been. The Legion base, the airship-port, the gleaming traders' exchange: all new since my fillyhood here. There's even, to hear tell, a Hayburger, and it's quite popular. Reduit, which once lurked warily within the cell of its own curtain walls, spills abundantly past them out into the countryside now that it no longer has the secret of me to keep. Reduit is part of the Equestrian Hegemony now, and the Hegemony grinds cities like a hammermill grinds grain, turning everything it touches to a fine, homogenous mix. I do not need to see most of Reduit as it now stands. I have seen everything it has to offer many, many times before.

But, the Fortress of Song still stands. New construction washes against its ancient and fortified walls in waves of progress, but does not breach them. The Fortress was here before Reduit. The Fortress was here before I was; it is literally older than me, and there are vanishingly few things in Equestria that hold that distinction.

In only a moment, my breath has fogged the tiny window to translucency. I reach up with the tip of my hoof and draw a little heart in the vapor, then turn back to the only other occupant of my luxurious first-class cabin: my military retainer, Lieutenant Armor, formerly of the Legion, newly of the Royal Guard. He sits at stiff attention, as though the plush velvet of his sitting-couch were no softer than bedrock. He is watching me. He is always watching me, with those deep, oceany eyes.

"Lieutenant Armor," I say, as gently as I can, "you're staring."

He nods, crisply. It is the nod of a colt who spends fifteen minutes practicing his salute in the bathroom mirror every morning.

"Lieutenant Armor," I say, "you don't need to stare."

"Your Highness," says Lt. Armor, unblinking, "it is my duty to watch you."

I stick out my lower lip very slightly and exhale, ruffling my bangs. I really, really didn't want this to get awkward. "Lieutenant Armor, you do not literally need to have eyes on me every second of every day. This entire assignment is going to be very uncomfortable for me if you're constantly going to be sitting there staring at me."

A little half-stammer. He nods, and gamely begins inspecting his seat-cushion as though there were something to see there, or, alternately, as though he were a connoisseur of seat-cushions. For all I know, he is one. I know so little of the Lieutenant. I've been Twilight Sparkle's foalsitter for years, but for whatever reason, she always neglected to mention a beloved older brother, constantly away on Legion business. It's a little baffling.

Lt. Armor devotes a good thirty seconds of attention to the cushion before returning his eyes to me. I give a little sigh. "You're staring again, Lieutenant."

"Sorry," he says, flushing.

I try for my best Reassuring Princess Smile. "It's okay to relax a little bit, Lieutenant. This airship is a secured environment. As soon as they give us the clearance to land, we will be rooming in the headquarters of an order who would literally sacrifice their lives to protect me; and once in Cloudsdale I will be occupying the ambassador's quarters in an embassy with a full resident guard. And I have my own defenses as well." I touch hoof to the crystal heart pendant around my neck.

Lt. Armor nods. You can see the wheels turning in his mind. "It's beautiful," he says, and there is an honest but dutiful tone to his pleasantry, a fluffy little blanket thrown over his clattering threat-assessment machine. "A charm?"

"It's an asterite pendant," I say. "A gift from my first teacher of magic. It draws energy from my mood and focuses it into a cocoon of warmth and protection." I do not mention that the pendant is a double-edged sword whose entanglement with my emotions can turn simple despair into just the sort of inescapable black fit that left me freezing to death on the face of a glacier less than a month past. I do not mention this to Lt. Armor because he is already an overbearing mother hen, and if I worry him even the slightest bit I'll never see his backside again.

...which would be a shame, because it is a cute little backside.

My wings twitch slightly. Wait, where did that come from?

Muzzily, I swim up from mental depths I had not intended to plumb just in time to hear the tail end of Lt. Armor's next question. "—significance to the necklace it's on?"

"Oh!" I say, recovering my composure. "No, no significance. It's a strand of pink pearls. They tell me it was given to me as a gift by some citizen of Reduit a long time ago. That was well before I start remembering things. The oyster beds of Reduit are uncommonly plentiful with pearls like this."

Shining Armor shifts, and I wonder if I've made him uncomfortable. The Hegemony basks in the glow of Aunty Celestia, a dyed-in-the-wool pony vegetarian, and as she is (naturally) to be emulated in all things, most Canterlot unicorns regard the eating of fish as an act of disgusting animal barbarism. For decades I have made do with eggs and cheese, but when Aunty entertains visiting Griffonian dignitaries I will always sneak an anchovy or two from the kitchens, and I have to tell you that those little stinkers are nummy. Sorry if I'm offending anyone with this.

If Lt. Armor has any thoughts on the matter, he elects to keep them to himself. "That's very interesting, Your Highness," he says. And then resumes the stare.

I head off my titchiness at the pass by taking quick action. A conspiratorial smile, hooves folded before me, just so. "Lieutenant," I say, "I'm sure I saw a gentlecolts' lounge on board. I'm sure there'd be time before we land for you to have a quick puff on the bubble pipe and a few minutes of stallion-to-stallion chat far away from the dreary ears of marefolk."

"I don't... ah. I don't foam, Your Highness."

"Oh," I say. "Sorry. It's just.... the glycerin smell on your clothes—"

"My sire. Been staying with him for the past month."

"Ah. Well, good for you. I've never thought it healthy for stallions to breathe in all those soap fumes, anyway. Not that I'm challenging your father," I add, quickly. "No offense?"

"None," Lt. Armor confirms.

We lapse into a silence undercut by the drone of airship propellers.

"Okay," I say, after a time. "I really need just a little bit of time alone."

"Princess, I—"

"Just hear me out, Lieutenant." A pause to compose myself. "It's been decades since I've been free of Canterlot, Shining Armor. I can tell you're a very nice stallion, and a capable soldier, and your commitment to duty is very commendable. But you're Canterlot to me. You're that one last thread connecting me back to the capital. And I'm not silly, I know it's going to stay that way. But for just a few minutes, could we be stop being princess and retainer and instead be two everyday ponies sharing a stateroom, the kind of ponies who feel free to get up from time to time for a quick trot around the promenade deck?"

"With all respect, Highness, I don't think—"

"Please don't make me order you to do it," I say, my voice far smaller and more pleading than I'm used to it being. "Please don't."

Lieutenant Armor lets out a brief sigh through his nostrils. Then he rises. "Okay. But the moment, the very instant anything goes even the slightest bit wrong here, you need to yell. I don't care if you so much as hit your hoof on the nightstand. Call me." He glances to one side. "I mean... if that's... all right with you, Highness."

"Totally acceptable," I say. Without another word, he inclines his shaggy-maned head to me and leaves the stateroom. I hope he does go to the lounge. Bubbles or no, I like the idea of him engaging in a little gentlecoltly conversation.

I settle down into my cushion and return my gaze to the city below us. Not long now.

* * *

My fillyhood bedroom has been converted into a wedding chapel.

The transformation is less dramatic than you might suspect, since—what with the stained glass and all—my bedroom has always in fact resembled a chapel far more than it ever resembled a bedroom. But as of right now, you would never mistake it for anything else. Decorative arbor panels of twining ivy reach ceilingward toward draperies of white chiffon. Vases of roses fill every little alcove. Delicate firefly lamps stand in place of the heavy candelabra, and the place of honor which once contained my crib, and later my bed, is now filled with a celebration table covered in white linen vestments. One of the Sisters sweeps rice from the floor, bowing to me as she passes. We must be coming in right on the hocks of a solemnization.

"Sorry about the mess," says Sister Thistle, in perfect Equuish. Thistle is a rounding violet mare of advanced middle age who currently serves in the office of Prioress. She and I have always been close. "We just get wedding after wedding in here. Big Canterlot-style ceremonies just like you'd get in the capital. Two more yet today, if you'll believe that, plus a reception just starting. Ponies come in from all over Equestria to say their vows in one of the Princess of Love's holy places."

This is my room, I say, despairingly, to myself, looking around for the familiar. You were not supposed to touch my room...

Deep breaths, Cadance. Just like the Sisters always taught. I spin through my options and pick the happiest true one I can find. "It's nice that you provide this service for ponies!"

Sister Thistle gives a chuckle. "Hall rental pays the bills," she says. "We don't get the sort of voluntary contributions that we used to when you were in residence. Not money, nor new fillies to fill the ranks. The Sisterhood is aging, Princess-Goddess."

"Please, 'Princess' is fine. Or even just 'Cadance.' We've known each other long enough, right?"

"As you wish, Cadance," says Sister Thistle, with a small nod.

"So, wait, Your Highness," says Lt. Armor, looking up and around at the stained-glass windows and the intricate mosaics set into the high, vaulted ceiling. "This used to be your... bedroom?"

"Yes," I say. "Always a little drafty when storms would roll in off the ocean. There's a stonemason's flaw at the base of that column right over there; the veins are unfinished on one of the carved plum leaves. I've memorized the specific shape and texture of every single one of these flagstones." I gesture offhoofedly. "That cluster over there is new."

"Water damage," agrees Sister Thistle.

Lt. Armor blinks. "I'm impressed. Photographic memory?"

"No," I say. "I just never left this room for hundreds of years."

Lt. Armor awkwardly shuffles one hoof. "Ah."

After a moment, Sister Thistle breaks the embarrassed silence. "Those were the bad old days. I never really agreed with all that pre-reformation nonsense. There's a difference between keeping a pony hidden from the outside world and keeping her locked in her own bedroom." Sister Thistle's eyes go a little distant. "Of course, maybe if we had held you a little closer, you wouldn't have left us..."

"Don't be silly, Sister Thistle," I say, gently. "I first left Reduit because of the Heartstealers, not because of you. Once I did that it was only a matter of time before my Aun—Princess Celestia found me here."

"Speaking of that accursed blight," says Thistle, "you'll want to be seeing your old mentoress Prismia, sooner rather than later. I don't mind telling you she was awfully put out when you didn't stop to see her last time around."

I bite my lip. "I know, I know. It was just... there was this deadline on my name change form, and I needed to get my baby book to Canterlot, and... stuff happened. It literally was the next thing on my list."

"I should hope it was," comes a dry, rasping voice from the chapel's doorway.

The three of us look up. Shining Armor's horn glows with the faintest suspicion of magenta light, ready to start throwing aetheric force at the flick of a tail. Standing in the doorway is a tall, ancient, proud-looking gray nag, little more than a framework of bones welded together with spit and vinegar. A few threads of rainbow color wend their way through a mane gone shockingly white with age, and even her Mark—a sharp stone splitting water into spectrums of color—appears a bit grizzled around the edges.

The old mare limps forward toward me, her eyes blazing. "You," she snarls. "Petty little Canterlot princess. Belle of every ball she attends, am I right? Trot-trot-trotting though high society life while her hometown goes completely to seed? Chin so high in the air she couldn't even spare a moment to look down and see her old tutor last time she was here, yes?"

I look at her, saying nothing, my face carefully neutral. Lt. Armor's horn crackles behind me.

"Canterlot's eaten you up, it has," spits the old unicorn witch, sticking her snout directly into my face. "You have got some nerve coming back to these parts at all, 'Princess Cadance.' Finish your business and be off with you, back to your Hegemony, where they still need you."

We lock eyes.

A beat.

Then we both break, simultaneously dissolving into snorts and giggles. Lt. Armor's hornglow fades as he warily stands down. "Oh, it's good to see you, filly," says the Lady Prismia, my first real teacher, nickering and holding her neck to mine.

"And you," I say, returning the gesture as the smell of slate and liniment and old herbs fills my nostrils. "I was headed up to the house, next thing. I promise."

"Then you'd have missed me," says Prismia. "I'm here at the Fortress until this founder clears. Sister Thistle and her kin are nursing me back to health, and being annoyingly doting about it, truth be told."

"Founder is serious business," says Thistle. "It's not something you can ignore."

"I can ignore anything I please," Prismia snaps. "There comes a point in a mare's life when she earns that right. Still, being crippled here is better than being crippled alone in my hovel, and I've got you to thank for that. Who's the rigid gentlecolt over there?"

"Lieutenant Shining Armor of the Canterlot Household Regiments, Madam," replies Lt. Armor, dropping into a light formal bow, his comfiture fully recovered. "Her Royal Highness's military retainer."

"Hm," says Prismia, hobbling over to the Lieutenant and assessing him as though he were a sweet potato at a roadside produce cart. "Do stop by and see me before you depart. I've got a piece of paper to give you." Though still completely stone-faced, she gives him a knowing wink. I can't see a reason for it.

"All... right?" says Shining Armor, likewise grasping at straws; but any hopes he might have had for clarification from my mentoress are dashed as she totters back over to my side.

"Now, a little walk in the gardens before dinner. Just the two of us." She gives Lt. Armor a meaningful glance, silencing his protest before he has a chance to voice it. "Alone, Lieutenant. These walls are safe ones, and my former student here needs a dedicated talking-at."

I grin at her, matching her somber tone from earlier. "You dare give orders to the penultimate pony of all Equestria and the personal protégée of Celestia herself?"

"I do," says Prismia, leading me toward the gardens. "You were mine, first."

* * *

New life comes slowly to Reduit. The courtyard gardens of the Fortress of Song are awakening. Everywhere there is the beginning of dianthus and baby's breath and my sacred verticordia. A winding manicured stream chuckles quietly to itself as it roams through the garden, tumbling over beds of smooth gray stones. Black-capped Chickadees call out to one another in the secret language of birds. Here and there, crystals of pink and white jut out of the earth, glowing with an inner light that will appear positively magical come nightfall. It is a beautiful place, as beautiful as it was the first day the Sisters let me see it. The peace of the garden is only slightly interrupted by the gentle clip-clop of hooves against the cobblestone paths as Prismia and I walk along, drinking in the scene. It is so very tranquil. Nothing can spoil this mood.

"Your gait," says Lady Prismia, glancing over at me. "It looks ridiculous."

...and I've underestimated my mentoress, yet again. "Sorry?"

"You're walking ridiculously. What are you doing with your neck up like that?"

"A high-necked posture is very fashionable in the city," I reply.

"Ah, so it is ridiculous. Good to have that confirmed."

"Okay, see here," I begin. "A little posture instruction here and there is nothing to be snorted—"

"You've been training with a bearing rein. A really tight one, by the looks of it."

A guilty pause. "If I have?"

"Imbecile of a mare," she says, shaking her head. "I used to wear one of those back when I was the upper-class Canterlot twit, not you. It'll ruin your spine. Trust the voice of experience." A quick snort. "Of course, if you enjoy playing the crippled little socialite, then far be it from me to say otherwise."

"I'm hurt. Here I thought the whole 'hie ye back to Canterlot, betrayer' business was just us being playful.'"

"It was. Now I'm being serious. You had one job in Canterlot, Cadence, or 'Cadance,' or whatever foal thing it is now. I specifically told you not to let the city infect you. Clearly you were unable to manage that."

"I don't think—"

"The bearing rein," she says. "The silly name change. Telling Thistle to refer to you on a first-name basis. Did you know that once upon a time it used to be a venial sin to even pronounce your name?"

"'Mi Amore'?" I say, switching back to my native Pegasopolian, once the only language you'd hear within these walls. Yet another thing that's changed, and until this very moment I hadn't even noticed...

"Indeed," says Prismia. "Eventually it fell away, most likely because it made terms of normal endearment very difficult for the faithful. Everything changes, after all. But for a time, you'd have to run to confession if you so much as spoke the words. And now you're telling Sister Thistle to strip off the honorifics, too! As though they aren't a part of you. As though you're something other than a literal goddess on four hooves. It's the damnable Sun-Nag working her craft on you, just as expected."

Dismayed by my teacher's rancor, I am put in the unenviable position of having to stand up for my Aunty. "Okay. I will admit that she can be a pain, at times. But I do believe she's fundamentally a good pony."

"Mm hm," says Prismia. "So, tell me. You, whose special alicorn magic can perceive the light of love in other ponies' hearts. Have you ever looked at the Sun-Nag with those eyes?"

"Yes," I say, pursing my lips.

"Haven't seen it, have you?"

I shake my head and look away. "I don't totally understand it. She talks about love, and she certainly behaves lovingly, but I've never been able to perceive it. Professionally, I mean. Maybe my sight doesn't work on members of my own tribe, or something?"

"Or perhaps," says Prismia, "she's deceiving you, and she doesn't really feel it at all. Hockham's Razor and such. But be at ease, my princess; you don't need to leap to your Aunty Celestia's defense. I'm not calling her vile, or wicked. There is no cruelty there. She is merely being an alicorn."

"Sorry?"

Prismia scans the nearby vegetation, and her gaze eventually lights upon a black walnut tree, one of the many here that the Sisterhood cultivates to help fill the Fortress's pantries. "There," she says, gesturing with one hoof. "You see that tree? You see how nothing grows at its base?"

I squint a little. "Yes?"

"What you're witnessing there, my princess, is something called 'allelopathy.' The walnut tree changes the soil around it so that no smaller plants can ever compete with it. It's not malicious, it's just the nature of the tree. So it is with alicorns. So it is with you. You change the world around you just by being. Even in the depths of madness, I knew the first time I saw you that nothing in my life was ever going to be the same once you were in it."

"Well, you should be happy, now," I say, unable to quite shake the image of myself as a stunted plant trying to grow in poisoned soil, or worse yet, a plant poisoning the others around me. "I'm leaving Canterlot behind. All of it. Or as much of it as I can manage, at least—Lieutenant Armor is a little traveling extension of the city, and I'm afraid he's not going anywhere. But that's it."

"I am happy," says Prismia, as we continue to walk. "Believe me. It's high time you found your own place in the world. I only worry because you're treading close to darkness now, and you haven't taken the time to become strong first."

The lesson-giving tree is lost to view and we round a curve in the path leading to the Rose Tower, a modest turreted structure of ironwood and copper whose walls are completely covered with grapevines and pink climbing roses. It provides a beautiful overlook of the garden, and many were the hours I would rest there, gazing out at my tiny principality and pretending that I was one of those princesses in the flutterpony tales Sister Thistle used to tell me. It just goes to show that no child is immune from this sort of wishful thinking, not even those whose lives are already more or less a perfect match. In unspoken agreement, we begin to climb one of the helical ramps leading to the top. "'Treading close to darkness'?" I say, as we do. "Isn't that a little alarmist?"

"There's something wrong in Cloudsdale, child," replies Prismia. "I don't blame you for not noticing it, but the weather is different than it used to be. Seas rise. The coastline vanishes, inch by inch. Floods well up where they never were before. The Weather Corporation assures us that nothing is amiss as they continue to take the Hegemony's tax bits, but there is an imbalance in the wind that only gets worse with every passing year. And when have you last seen a rainbow, pray tell?"

"It's been a while," I admit. "Surely the pegasi know what they're doing, though? Surely there's a reasonable explanation for the climate shift that doesn't deserve the grim tone?"

My teacher is worryingly silent. We reach the top of the low tower, and stand for a while looking out over the garden.

"Prismia?" I say, eventually, looking over at her.

My teacher's eyes are distant. "I'm breaking an oath," she says. "Stars help me, I'm breaking it."

"You don't have to do anything on my account that—"

"I do." She takes a deep, steadying breath, and begins. "A story for you: Once upon a time, there were three foalish unicorns from Canterlot who thought they could find fortune and glory in the lost treasures of the world, in riches that time had buried. Quatermane, fearless adventurer and markspony without peer. Portolan, Duchess Blueblood, finder of lost things."

"The same Portolan who chairs the Weather Corporation?"

"The same," agrees Prismia. "Hence the point of this confession, but all in good time. As you may already suspect, the third foalish unicorn was none other than yours truly."

The questions begin to pile up faster than I can ask them. "Wait—you traveled with Quatermane? The Quatermane? I've read every single one of Haggard Rider's books about him!"

"Yes, some of us have their own pulp fiction biographers," says Prismia, her voice sharp. "And some of us prefer our anonymity. If you're quite finished gushing over a stallion I haven't seen hide nor hair of in decades, may I please continue?"

"Sorry," I say, instantly cowed. Prismia is using her teacher voice.

"Very well then. One night, while very drunk, the three of us conceived of what at the time seemed to be a brilliant scheme. The ancient world is full of wonders, my little princess. Great caches of gold and jewels and ancient magic left behind when the alicorns all but abandoned this world, caches that we were convinced could still be found with a little effort and a little brilliance and a little gumption. The Mines of King Incisive. Lost Tlalocan. The Castle of the Sisters. The Crystal Empire."

I give a little shudder at the mention of the name, a goose walking over my grave, or rather, the grave of my possible birthright. Trying to keep the desperation out of my voice, I interrupt. "Did you find anything out about... any of them?"

"Oh, yes," says Prismia. "Some are now wiped from the earth. Some are buried in forests where dangerous chaos yet reigns. We picked what we thought was our best prospect: the ancient dragon-sundered kingdom of Corazón. I taught you all about this one, if you recall. I thought you'd be especially interested in it, given your connection to the sphere of Love."

"That's the place where Hearts and Hooves Day was born."

"Correct. The long-ago damnfoal Prince of Corazón actually seduced one of the alicorn protectors of the realm with a love poison, of all things. A terrible embarrassment to the tribe, I suspect. Queen Arborvitae probably would have harmonized Corazón clean off the map had a dragon not done the deed for her while the kingdom's defenders were... otherwise occupied." A bitter chuckle. "No dread deserts or impenetrable jungles surrounded the ruins of its capital, though, and it seemed a modest enough goal for our little trio."

Prismia gives a brief shudder. "How wrong we were. Corazón itself was easy to attain, but something dark had taken root in the old citadel. A fell queen of the Unseelie, a creature of green fire and many faces; and her chittering insect hordes, too. We were forced to flee for our lives, but idiots though we were, we each took as much as we could carry from her dark vaults as we fled."

"Idiots? Why?"

"Idiots, because nothing the Queen of the Changelings possessed was uncorrupted. From the Queen's vaults I selected a book of magic and the asterite pendant you now wear, the pendant that destroyed my life and left me outcast on what used to be the edge of the world."

"And the book? That must be where you found the spell to create the Heartstealer snakes you used to attack the Sisterhood, right?"

"Uncommonly astute, my princess. Yes, one and the same, so you see how well that worked out. Great Quatermane carried from Corazón a Zebrican amulet used to communicate with the spirits of the dead, and nearly lost his own soul in doing just that."

"She and Quatermane!" I practically squeal, remembering the novel. "So that's where the necromantic amulet came from! The Haggard Rider fandom has been debating that for ages!"

"I expect discretion on this point, Princess Cadance. I do not want to read anything of this story in your next 'fanzine.'"

I compose myself. "Of course. Sorry. I'm just geeking out a little, here. Okay, a lot. So what did Portolan take from the Queen?"

"I do not know," says Prismia. "She concealed her treasure from us. I saw nothing but a glint of white light before it vanished into her bags. What I do know is this: every treasure we took from the Changeling Queen gave us terrible power, at a terrible cost. And while Quatermane and I have purged ourselves of our darkness, and have diminished, the youngest and most foalish member of our expedition has only grown in reach and influence. She laughs at the pegasus Senate and has made Cloudsdale her personal playground. She is the Weather Corporation. She controls the skies. Her power over Equestria is second only to its two remaining alicorns, and she may actually be edging slightly ahead of you. Her good fortune cannot be a coincidence."

Prismia sags. "The three of us swore never to tell anypony of our ill-fated adventure. I have held my tongue for decades, but I can not in good conscience send you off to Portolan's domain without warning. Stars help me, I'm sorry, but I cannot."

There is silence between us for a moment. "For what it's worth," I say, "thank you."

Prismia is about to respond when there is a motion from the cloister arches down below us in the garden. I blink for a moment at the positively surreal sight of a pair of young colts here in the garden of the Sisterhood, before I remember that this is no longer the forbidden sanctuary it was during my foalhood here. Guests of one of the weddings, no doubt. The colts, loopy with uncut youthful pony exuberance, waste no time in breaking into a noisy gallop along the paths, laughing and screaming and paying no attention whatsoever to my memories of tranquility.

My wince is barely visible, but it's there. Normally, I'm quite fond of the noises made by happy children. I hope to triumph over the alicorn tribe's abysmal birth rate and have at least one of my own eventually. But this... this is not a place for children. Or rather, it is the place for a child. Me. My garden.

"Seems we're no longer alone," murmurs Prismia. "Ah, well. Care to retire to supper?"

"In a moment." Maybe they'll leave, I think to myself. Maybe they'll give me one more minute to remember it how it was...

"I understand they've laid out quite a feast for your return," says Prismia. "Squash and salad and tulip petals and all sorts of good things. A nice Canterlot-style spread."

I nod, distracted, my eyes tracking the intruder colts. In no time at all, their moods begin to feed off one another, their voices becoming raucous as their play metamorphoses into a rambunctious game of Can't Catch Me. "Sounds splendid," I say. "I've needed this, Prismia. I haven't had good oysters in forever."

"Doubt there's any of those," says Prismia.

The colts' little game reaches the ramps of the Rose Tower. Their hooves rattle the ancient boards with a noise like an army as they chase each other pointlessly around and around. I realize suddenly that my back teeth are clenching, and I can't get them to relax. "There's going to be oysters," I say, too quickly. "There has to be. What kind of meal in Reduit doesn't involve an oyster or two?"

"Most of them, anymore. Oysters are a bit rustic and old-fashioned these days. Families around here have largely adopted the Hegemony diet. Far more civilized."

"No," I say, in outright denial. "They're... they're not supposed to do that."

The colts' mother appears at the cloister arches. She calls their names, her voice angry and scolding. The colts whine and protest in response. How dare they bring this kind of energy into my peaceful place? How dare they...

Prismia's eyes are like gimlets. "'Not supposed to'?" she says, her mouth twisting in a wry grin. "You're going to tell the ponies of this town what they should and should not eat? By all means, get your beloved Aunty to enact sumptuary laws, then."

"You're twisting what I'm saying," I say, turning on her.

"Am I?"

"Of course you are!" The hooves of the disobedient colts are thunderous below me. "I'm not talking about instituting dietary martial law! All I flipping want is for there to be oysters in the kitchen, like there used to be! It's the one thing I can't get in Canterlot!"

"You can't get oysters?" says Prismia, now clearly goading me. "The penultimate pony in all Equestria cannot simply ask for what she wants to eat?"

The colts' mother yells for them again. Harsher. Even more shrill. Ultimatums are delivered. A countdown begins.

"It just... it would look weird! It's not something you do in the city!"

"It could be something you do in the city!" Prismia fairly shouts. "For Pony's sake, girl, you're a princess! Not a schoolfilly! Make a decision! Issue a command! Shape the world! It's what your tribe does!"

"I respect the Canterlot way of life!"

"Funny! Because Canterlot doesn't much respect Reduit's way of life, does it?"

"This is all wrong," I say, turning away from her. "I didn't want it to be like this. I didn't want this place to change."

The colts are finally collected, and the lot of them disappear from view. In the new silence, Prismia's voice is as soft and final as a brick wrapped in velvet.

"Everything changes, Princess."

"Well, I want it to change back," I say, quietly.

Prismia lays a hoof across my withers, just above the wings. We do not speak for a long moment. The sun creeps toward the horizon: Celestia of the Sun and Moon, hard at work.

"At supper," says Prismia, "make sure you save some room. There's a supply of cask-aged cider and some good Castallian paprika up at the old house. Take that lieutenant of yours beyond the walls. Fetch some oysters. Build a fire. Steam them by the light of sunset, and eat them looking out over the ocean. Show somepony else a little of the Reduit you remember. It'd do the both of you a world of good, I think."

I nod.

"That sounds heavenly," I say.

* * *

And so this is how I find myself picking my way through the cliff-forests outside Reduit, a basket of picnic supplies and an earthenware jar of smoked paprika suspended in my telekinetic aura. Lieutenant Armor follows close behind, carrying the pot and the cask of cider. Because they're heavy, that's why, and because I presume that—like most stallions I have known—he enjoys the feeling of being useful.

The sun is setting over the western ocean now, painting the sky with color and transforming the water into a flood of amber and red. Aunty Celestia is really on her game tonight. We come again to the overlook clearing we noticed on the way up here, and I begin to spread out the blanket. That done, the two of us sit, watching whitecaps crash against the rocks far below.

"Well," I say. "The Fortress of Song is a little more crowded than I remember it. It's nice to have a little time alone, wouldn't you say, Lieutenant?"

"We're not alone," says Lt. Armor, gazing out over the water.

I follow his gaze. Somewhere far out on the ocean, a black shape darts and wheels in the air, falling occasionally toward the ocean. "A hunting griffon, looks like."

Lt. Armor grunts. "Not a griffon. The griffon. I first noticed him in the crowd at Canterlot, and he was in the gentlecolts' lounge on the airship when you sent me there. Now he's biding his time in Reduit, just as we are. We're being followed, Princess."

"Come, now," I say. "He probably just came to see the ocean. There's no need for alarm, is there?"

"Maybe," says Shining Armor. "But I've filed a report at the Legion base for Master Sergeant Thunderous back in Canterlot anyway."

"Your commanding officer?"

"Yes and no," he says. "It's complicated. Point is, he'll run a background check and see if there's anything in the Guard's files matching his description. We should have it by the time we reach Cloudsdale."

"Efficient."

"We manage it, every so often."

We sit for a time, watching the sky.

"It's really pretty this evening," says Shining Armor. "Twilight—my sister—she's a great appreciator of quality sunsets."

"As one might expect, given her name."

The Lieutenant's shoulders relax, and his muzzle lights with a tiny smile. Better! I begin to warm to the idea that the next few years may not be so terrible after all. "Pretty much," says Shining Armor. "It's kind of rubbed off on me, to be honest. It's kind of... cool to just sit and watch the stars come out."

"Absolutely," I agree.

And then, suddenly, I stiffen. Lt. Armor notices. "What's wrong?"

"Holy horseapples," I say, definitely treading outside my princess dialect. "I forgot. I completely forgot." I rise to my hooves and trot to the edge of the cliff as the Lieutenant stirs.

"What, Highness?" my retainer asks, but I do not respond. Anchoring my hooves against the rock, I squeeze my eyes shut. My horn flares teal, I pull back the curtains of my mind and, very briefly, I touch the heart of the sky.

Somewhere out there in the vastness of space, a light flickers to steady life. Blushing and smiling ruefully to myself I return to the Lieutenant's side.

"There we are," I say to him. "All done. Better late than never."

He frowns. "What just happened there, Your Highness?"

"Phosphorus," I explain. "My star. Aunty Celestia gave me one to manage before I left. Probably yet another attempt to tie me to Canterlot, but I've always secretly wanted my own star so I could hardly say no." I lean over to him, conspiratorially. "Don't tell anypony, but it's actually a planet. Much easier than stars. I asked for the Cynosure at first because it doesn't typically move at all, but Aunty said she was 'saving' it for somepony, whatever that means. Probably for the best. Nopony uses Phosphorus to navigate by or anything."

"You just... raised a star."

"A planet, but yes. They call it Phosphorus, the Morningstar, and I've probably just sent about a dozen royal astronomers into conniption fits because I'm about twelve hours late with it. Whatever. It's been a big day."

Shining Armor shakes his head, chuckling a little. "I'm sorry," he says. "It's just... everything's on such a grand scale with your people. I can't believe that my little sister's foalsitter has a day job of moving planets."

"We're not always all about the great events and conflicts," I say, tapping the cider keg and filling a pair of wooden tankards. "Although I think you'll agree that, at times, looking after your sister does indeed qualify as a great event and/or conflict."

The Lieutenant actually grins. Yes! Excelsior! "Celestia's own truth," he says. I lift both mugs in my telekinetic aura, he takes one of them in his, and for a brief moment our magics touch.

A little shiver runs down my spine.

What is the meaning of love, Shining Armor?

The ridiculous words come to me unbidden. So unprepared am I for them that I almost give voice to them, before stopping them at the very tip of my tongue. My eternal question, the one to which I still await the right answer. The one that will tell me the stallion I'm destined to finally fall in love with.

The Lieutenant is of course an improbable candidate, given our present relationship, but it would be remiss to not ask him eventually. There's no real reason not to; I've asked the exact same question of virtually every stallion of my direct acquaintance, including that nice Mr. Line back at the Bureau of Names and Standards. But tonight is no time for such things.

Maybe you're putting it off, I say to myself, because you're worried he'll get it wrong.

I have no good response to myself.

After the briefest of moments our auras disentangle. We pull our mugs to our breasts and sip. The cider is hot and golden in my throat, forceful and complex, with hints of oak and vanilla and burnt sugar from the carefully-charred staves of the cask. I roll a mouthful of it around on my tongue, trying to pick out every last subtlety. It is exquisite. I am lost in the experience.

"So," says Lt. Armor, who has by now finished his entire mug, the Philhipstine. "Oysters?"

"Of course," I say, wresting myself back to the present. "Hold on. I'll just need to fetch some. You can start building the fire."

He nods. "Have to say, I'm a little squeamish about this."

"No need to shy away from new dietary experiences from time to time, Lieutenant. It keeps you flexible."

"Flexible I can do," says the Lieutenant. "I was a Legionnaire. You wouldn't believe some of the things they expected us to treat as food. Oysters are a whole different ballgame."

"You'll love them," I say. "I promise. Just get that fire going."

"It's a ways down to the water," says the Lieutenant, eyeing the cliff. "And not much of a path. Don't you need company?"

I grin impishly at him and unfurl my bright pink wings. "Nope," I say. "Back in two shakes." I grab my stupid hateful tiara from my head and toss it to the grass. Before Lt. Armor has a chance to protest, I leap from the cliff and trust myself to the air; and then, with an exuberant yell, I fold my wings and fall.

The intoxicating rush of cliff-diving is over all too soon as the ocean rushes up to greet me. I tuck my wings and shut my eyes, chuffing out breath through my nostrils, and with a crash I am underwater. A second to reorient myself, and then—using my wings to steer and propel myself in a way that always reminded Prismia of a swamp anhinga—I locate a likely-looking bed of oysters and pluck a few up in my aura. Then, back to the surface, unfurling my wings again, and with a few beats I lift myself free of the water. I have never been a powerful flyer (too much weight and too little fillyhood experience) but I manage well enough.

Delicately, I re-alight at the top of the cliff and shake the water out of my coat in a spray of droplets. My tricolored mane hangs wet about my face, and I am breathing a little heavily from the exertion and the adrenaline of the dive. Horn still gleaming with magic, I set the oysters in the pot, and then look up at Lieutenant Armor.

I let out a petulant breath. The Lieutenant is staring again. And here I thought we were making progress.

I try for cheery, in an attempt to elevate the mood. "Ta-dah!" I say, gesturing. "Oysters!"

He does not so much as blink.

"You're staring again, Lieutenant Armor."

This time, he does not even manage an apology. He is utterly spooked, and it's thrown his sense of watchful duty back into overdrive. I blame the seafood, or maybe the whole planet-raising thing. I never should have accepted that job.

"Tell you what," I say, settling myself back down onto the blanket. "How about we just cook and eat these things, okay?"

And so we do.

Happily, they are delicious.

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Super Trampoline

Super Trampoline #1 · Jun 19th, 2014 · 7 · ·

You just HAVE to post a new chapter RIGT when I've started tutoring. I won't be able to read it for FIVE hours now. You monster.

GameKnut

GameKnut #2 · Jun 19th, 2014 · 24 · ·

Oh, Cadance. You have no idea what Shiny's thinking.
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A necklace stolen from changelings? Well, surely they've forgotten about it by now.
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I really love the idea of bubble pipes replacing tobacco in Equestria. It's just... It's just wonderful. Words are not adequate.

Lucky424

Lucky424 #3 · Jun 19th, 2014 · · ·

Huh... so changelings have been featured at last. Hmm, that griffon... the one Cadence met there before, perhaps? If that is the case, they have no need to worry. Oh, and he's staring because you just jumped from a freaking cliff and enjoyed it!!!

ObsidianOrangutan