Daring Do and the Hand of Doom

by Unwhole Hole

Chapter 19: Thoughts of a Pony, and his Changeling

Even if he had not been so deep underground, the sound of the blast would not have woken Caballeron. He was already awake, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling through the dim, fading light of a portable crystal lantern. He had paid to have beds brought down in advance, knowing that he and some of his henchponies might need to stay for some time. This did not mean that they were comfortable beds. In fact, they were relatively poor quality. Caballeron absently reflected on this, knowing that as a colt, he would have absolutely and categorically refused to sleep on any mattress that was not lined with silk and stuffed with freshly plucked Pegasus feathers. It was one reason why he had performed so well in his first year at university; unable to sleep, he had spent all his time studying instead.

Time had changed him, though. He had grown used to sleeping in the field, in the depths of rainy jungles, on high, cold desert planes, or bolted precariously to the sides of a mountain. He had traveled the world and slept in every kind of bed imaginable, waiting for the day when he would once again be able to afford a proper night’s sleep.

It was only a slight consolation that he was not alone. Argiopé lay beside him, fast asleep, clinging to his side. He had managed to feed her enough that she no longer looked like a disgusting insect. Instead of black chitin, she now had soft white skin and a long black mane. Still, she had expended a tremendous amount of energy assuming the form of a spider; her pony form was not complete. She was gaunt and pallid, and the foreleg that lay over Caballern’s chest was filled with strange holes. She did not have the energy to maintain the form that she usually did in this situation, the one that provided her with the most food.

Of course, Caballeron was not particularly in the mood for dealing with her anyway. He was lost in thought. Slowly, he turned his head to the side to where an exceedingly old but moldering nightstand sat beside his bed. On it sat a thick, spiral-bound book with a simple white cover. The albino Pegasus had given it to him, and opening it only confirmed his suspicious. Inside were copies of the rest of the rubbing of the Exmoori fresco.

They had been in possession of it all along. Yet, for some reason, they had initially only given Caballeron half. This was the reason he could not sleep. He was not sure why, nor could he fathom what reason they might have had- -and he was not sure he wanted to know. The job was supposed to be simple and straightforward, challenging only in the level of academic expertise it required and of course interference by a certain winged nuisance. But if that had been all, they would simply have given him both pieces.

He sighed, and Argiopé stirred. Her eyes were open- -in her present form, they had no lids- -but she was still clearly asleep. She smiled softly, and Caballeron pulled her closer. She tightened her grip. Despite being an insect, she was warm against the cold night.

Yet still Caballeron could not sleep. Thoughts of the white Pegasi and the text still dogged him. Worse, his mind wandered to the title of the binder. It had been rendered in an ancient language, a dialect of Solarian, one that supposedly no living pony was able to read- -save for Daring Do, who had long ago taught it to Caballeron.

The title was simple, even industrial, and in any other case would have been innocuous instead of sinister: “Binder One of Two”.