Three Left Turns

On a night yet to come when the skies were alight and the forests burned, a cloaked pony glided along the straight cobblestone streets where the last stones were upon stones. It kept to the walls and shadows, but otherwise made no sign of stealth. A lavender horn peeking from beneath its cloak was all the identity it had.

The gas-lit side street was like all the others snaking into the Old City: an indecipherable convolution, but the twists were all its own. It turned and doubled back growing darker and narrower until it was indistinguishable from all the other decaying alleys of stone and board. The pony turned left, then left, then left again, but instead of finding herself right, she came to where she wanted to go.

Here, the cobbles drew back. The pony's hooves kissed the earth for the first time since forever. The old firefly lanterns shone properly as though the world had never replaced their gifts. Eternity had dulled the riotous colors of the carnival booths, but the patrons made up the difference.

At least, they had.

But here too, there was a bit of red in the moon. The low hiss of a careless whisper leaked occasionally from guarded circles of cloaked figures. A nigh-indiscernible tremble disturbed the pony’s neck, but that was all.

It weaved through the jumbled sea of booths until it found one with the sooty red and grey stripes of fire-rat wool. A broad biped with calloused black paws peaking from its sooty yellow cloak turned from the sweltering double bellows.

Wordlessly, the pony’s horn shone magenta. A battered suit of armor answered the call, appearing in its own way between them. The ornate barrel was dented from a hundred blows, and a wing guard had snapped in half. Beside it, the pony tossed a heavy bag that clinked when it hit the reckoning board.

The dog teased open the bag, but when it saw the glint of gold, a low growl crept from its throat. It shoved the bag away.

The pony took an uneasy step back. It had been more than sufficient before.

The smith spat. Gold could not block a stick. What good was it now?

The pony stepped from hoof to hoof, then straightened. Its horn glowed, and the coins took on a magenta hue. Perhaps the gratitude of a princess would suffice?

The smith snorted. Everyone knew the gratitude would end tomorrow.

The princess bared her teeth. Smoke billowed from beneath her hood. Not if the enemy bought from this rust-hole! What smith did not care for their own work?

The sneer faded from the smith’s muzzle. It pointed behind to embossed swords chipped with use, stove-in mithril plate set with gems, and bent horseshoes of purest adamantium all in a heap. Sometimes even a master could not care for all of it. The smith gave the armor a few hard knocks, pressed a wax proof onto it, and turned back to the bellows.

The princess stared open-mouthed at the seal of service. Her hood slipped lower over her eyes. She clenched her teeth. The armor vanished from the stall, and she with it.

Your wedding night for wards of protection in bulk. A sturdy right hoof for high-spark dragon loogies. When had prices grown so cruel for so little? When had the laughter left the stalls?

The breezies were out of ward gossamer. No, an emerald would not change that. A library seed? Hmm… let them look in the back. Four corns. Two? Try three: it must be lucky, yes? Pleasure doing business with her.

So it went. Magic’s foaling teeth for a single banshee shriek. Carefully aged dragon’s molt bought a minute of searing sand. The dead and gone was traded for the lives of her foes, but not nearly enough.

The princess pushed past a chimera offering its garter snake tail for a fourth-hand beaver. The head vendor hydra mentioned there might not be a tooth or claw on the shelves tonight, but it could certainly give her trade credit for her horn.

She found herself considering the offer for more than a second. Her stomach squirmed more than it was already. No… thank you.

Half a saddlebag of life. Before there had been two. Not enough, not nearly enough. Only one place left to go.

There was a line at the pawnbroker’s oaken stagecoach: unicorn, zebra, goat, and stag, others besides, all cloaked. No pushing. No cutting. That means you.

The princess waited.

Murmuring here and there.

The moon drifted overhead.

She tried not to think of tomorrow.

There was a crow at the pawnbroker’s booth. The eyes stared blankly from behind its silvery spectacles. It blinked so quickly it might not have after all.

She had time. She needed spells.

What kind?

Her people were going to see the day after tomorrow.

The crow’s eyes opened before they were closed.

There were some who would see the day after. What would she offer them instead?

The princess’s cloak shifted uncomfortably at her ears. Blissful sunsets. The summer’s heat.

The crow stared.

A walk in the square of a little town who loves you. A whole parade!

The crow stared.

The birth of your first foal-

A sharp caw. Too personal, that one. Quite worthless. Anything else?

The princess slumped to her haunches. Rancorous parties. The company of friends long gone.

Was that all?

Tears fell from beneath the cloak. What else was there?

Ten thousand spells to see tomorrow night. Eight thousand thirty-five showing.

Silence.

The line grew restless.

A irate caw. Hurry it up.

W-was there any to borrow?

A huge spread wing silenced the line. Given the circumstances, there was the issue of collateral.

A trembling hoof drew out a golden tiara with an amethyst star at the crest.

Where was the set?

The princess’s hoof trembled. The useless crown went back beneath her cloak. It would have to be the usual.

The crow nodded and produced a cruel steel file. It was tarnished with age but somehow not rusted. The princess floated it to her horn.

Rasp. Rasp. Rasp. She trembled with each stroke. Dust piled on the table. At last, the file clunked in front of the crow.

The princess’s horn lit, not with its usual magenta, but with a pure, silvery light. The light flowed up along the flute of her horn, gathering at the tip. A drop collected. It wobbled, then fell down, down, down, into the dust. The two flowed together, settling into a six pointed star.

The silvery light faded. There was a touch of grey around the princess’s fetlocks, but no one paid it notice.

The crow studied the star intently. Nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-seven spells showing. Ten thousand spells to see the day after.

The princess reared in alarm. It had promised ten thousand.

That was not what was showing.

But it would not be enough.

Had she anything else?

All eyes were on the princess. She fiddled with the crown.

With apologies, they did not accept sentiments.

N-no. She did not believe she had anything else.

Then the outcome would depend on the user. If she had no further business, she might kindly step along. It was a busy night, after all.

A nexus of power floated before her horn. A thousand warm memories floated before her eyes, as did a million faces burning, screaming, falling apart. She nibbled her lip. Her horn touched the nexus.

Shuffling hooves and swishing cloaks were all that reached the princess’s ears. Step. Step. Step. She paid no heed to where she was going. The fires of tomorrow danced before her eyes. Behind her now were relentless days of toil and study: a thousand mistakes and a thousand corrections without end. There were lessons there, too, but for the life of her she could not remember them yet. Not that they would be enough.

She ground her teeth. Her breaths came fast and shallow. Three spells. Where could she get three spells? The booths passed her by all the same. Booths had their price, and she had nothing to pay.

The roads guided her along as roads are wont to do. The cheery aged colors gave way to duller shades. The crowds thinned. Stark gas lanterns replaced the cheery glow of the fireflies.

It was the oppressive silence that brought the princess to her senses. That and the realization that wherever she was, the moon and the stars did not shine. The sky here had no place for them.

Could she be helped with something? The call was genial, but hollow: the speaker was not in the words.

The princess turned to find a crate and a man. The crate was splintery. The man was spidery. He wore a patched brown waistcoat, topless top hat, and no face. A harsh lantern to either side bathed the two in unrelenting flashpowder light.

She could not pay.

He doubted that. What was her trouble?

The princess blinked. What was it to him?

An opportunity. Nothing more. Provided she would care to offer it.

The princess looked about at the deserted lot. She drew closer. Behind the crate were pictures gossamer thin, yet vibrant: apples, gems, lightning, balloons, butterflies, and countless others besides, all in pairs. Some were in good repair, others scavenged or third-hand.

Her hooves slowed of their own accord, but in the end she sat before the crate.

She was anxious.

Many were in these trying times.

She was not good enough.

That was unfortunate.

She was going to get them all vanquished in fire.

He believed he found her problem.

The princess wished to know what it was.

She had spoken it thrice before: she was the problem.

She? But how could the princess be the problem?

It was none of his business. He had noticed a pattern. Nothing more. A pattern he had seen before. A pattern that was his business.

But he had said-

That was none of her business.

She shifted from hoof to hoof. What did he suggest?

That she paid the price which troubled her.

What did he mean?

Nothing was said, but she felt the eyes that were not there fall to her hips.

She stepped back. She did not understand.

Sometimes creatures no longer belong. They pay the price. They move along.

For what benefit? Could he spare three spells?

The benefit was the price.

The light was stark, the square still. The princess’s eyes roved from mark to mark. A sharp breath: two suns; two moons in an inky sky.

He did not have all day.

She studied the crate. She was engrossed in the crate. Her mouth opened, then shut, then opened again.

At the edge of the tents just before here became there, there was a little pushcart. The handle was pretty pink. The cart was buttery yellow. Behind it, a big brown bear with a beanie cap polished a porcelain teacup with the corner of its apron.

All around, cloaked figures flitted past. There were fewer now that the moon was low and angry red. The fireflies were going out. Whispers grew faint. It should pack up soon: it was what the house-sitter would have wanted.

As it returned the last teacup to the cupboard, the shop minder noticed a figure at the counter. A lavender horn poked from beneath her cloak. A bit clinked.

The minder looked at the bit in confusion, then slowly pushed it back. The figure stared at the returned bit, stock still. Its head drifted up, and as it did, its hood fell back. The friend stared, sad and empty.

A paw brushed the sign: Comfort for comfort, no more, no less, if that’s ok with you.

It set a teacup beneath her snout and waited.

Empty eyes stared through the cup, then helplessly up at the bear: ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Nothing could be seen in the cup, but it was not quite so empty anymore.

The minder’s big squashed tomato nose wrinkled at the bitter draft. It quickly righted itself: comfort came in many forms, after all. It collected the cup and ladled in some moon’s tears to steep.

The friend’s eyes fell back to the swirling grains of the wood. A breeze tussled the little propeller cap. Round and round it went. The moon’s tears grew pearly grey in the cup.

At last, tendrils of mood danced from the surface in the mind’s eye. The minder went to set it before the friend, but paused. A glint of blue had caught its eye. With a swish, an aged blue doily with blue diamond sequins was on the counter, the cup on top. A little something extra, as the house-sitter would have liked it.

The friend’s eyes settled on the diamonds. Something stirred behind them, but that price had been paid. She could not recall much finery before. It was… generous. Thank you.

The shop minder bowed.

Her lips settled on the cup, and she tipped it back gently. The trembling she had not noticed in her hooves stilled, but there was nothing to fill the emptiness in her eyes.

Another sip. The friend was a statue. The shop minder grew nervous. It knew what was sold for what price. Had it allowed a customer to underpay?

It rummaged through the cupboard beneath the counter. This was not what the house-sitter wished. The difference must be made up.

But the night was late: the milk bottle was dry, the sugar bowl empty. There was nothing to fill those pitiful eyes. Nothing except…

The bear felt around in the pocket of the apron. One tiny flask. One last drop of honey for one new shop minder long since aged. No strings. No duties.

The cup was half-empty now. The eyes were no more full. Bashfulness played with the minder’s ears. Its heart ached, but its tongue thirsted.

One drop of honey from days long gone fell into the pearly tears.

The friend sipped. The cup clinked. She stared up at the minder: distant, not empty, or not quite, at least. Not anymore.

The propeller spun. She smiled, but did not quite know what to do from there. That price had been paid.

Thank you, and... thank you again.

The shop minder bowed.

Fireflies on the counter were all that lit the scene. Her ear twitched in the silence. Perhaps she should move along.

The hood flopped back over her head. Hoof-falls, uncertain at first. Then a breath. Then they faded away towards the fiery dawn.

A last cup clinked on the pile. The stars were gone. Mars was in the moon. No one knew tomorrow.

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