1. The Last Lesson

Spring was late again.

An outbreak of feather-flu had put almost the entire Canterlot City Weather Division out of commission for two full weeks, and the snow had lingered so unseasonably long that it had begun to melt on its own. Even now in late April, the beleaguered weather teams were shoveling off the last of the rooftops and scrambling through the clouds to put together the first true spring shower of the year.

Yet none of that mattered, Inger mused, smiling as the wind fluttered through his outstretched feathers. The intoxicating spring scent in the air made up for its lateness; that unique seasonal aroma of fresh greenery laced with the promise of rain and new growth.

Far below him, Canterlot had begun to explode in verdant bloom. At this height, the city looked nearly organic; like a tangled weave of ivy spreading from the great wall up the side of the mountain where it was crowned by the vast castle above, glittering gold in the afternoon sunlight. Inger still spent some nights up there, at the Firewing barracks just outside the castle grounds, but only when there was an emergency. There had been less and less of those in the years since the war.

The city streets below were still pockmarked by signs of damage, if you knew where to look. A broken tower here, an empty plot between houses there… but the old scars had long healed over, even from Inger’s aerial vantage point. Tracks of green streaked the city, trees regrown and buildings rebuilt. The Clement Blueblood Memorial Park was bursting with color inside the surrounding perimeter of brown-roofed buildings. All the blossoming trees made winter seem a distant memory already.

Inger inhaled deeply between wingbeats, with a satisfied smile. “Lovely day, huh, Wheatie?”

His flying companion, a brown-speckled pegasus, dipped his wings as they turned. “Very.” Wheatie grinned. “Though I’m looking forward to tonight even more.”

“Playing cards with Lieutenant Whiskwind's group again?”

Wheatie shook his head, grin widening. “A date.”

“Ah.” Inger’s eyes twinkled. “Well, you’ve earned it, for a change. That was some good work over the field today, Sergeant.”

Wheatie winced, massaging the back of his neck. “You know, you could ease up a bit. Just because the weather’s taken a turn for the better doesn’t mean you need to overdo it. I’m going to be sore for days after all those displacement rolls.”

Inger chuckled, gliding for a few meters to let his wings rest. “You baby. Windstreak used to make us do forty sets of those a day.”

“Not in a row. I thought poor Cherrylen was going to puke.”

The two juked left, gliding past a stray cloud as they began their descent toward the streets. Inger felt a sudden gust of wind tug at his feathers, and adjusted his posture to cut through it with the unconscious ease of a lifelong precision flyer. He cast a dubious eyebrow at Wheatie. “If anything, I’ve been taking it too easy on you all. Old Bergeron could have eaten this lot for breakfast.”

Wheatie laughed. “True enough. He put the fear of the Sisters in us during boot.” The sergeant’s smile turned melancholic. “I miss him.”

“So do I.”

“It was never the same after Whitewall,” said Wheatie, pensively looking down at the flowering city as it drew closer. “I miss all the old faces. Don’t get me wrong, I like the newbies, but…”

“They’re not so new these days,” said Inger, as the two circled down to land. They touched down onto the cobblestones with the faint clop of bare hooves on stone. Inger pushed a hoof against his chin, cracking his neck. “Oof. We’re just getting old.”

“Hmph! Speak for yourself.” Wheatie fluffed his feathers and broke out into a parade canter. “Come on, Captain, keep up. Or do you need me to help you cross the street?”

Inger grinned, matching Wheatie’s pace. They’d been working hard all day over the flying pitch, but a little more exercise wouldn’t hurt. The soreness in his muscles was a good ache. It meant he was still pushing his limits, still at his physical peak. Most days, he felt like he could fight another dragon if he had to.

Most days. He stretched his wings with a tiny wince. “So, who’s the girl?”

Wheatie coughed, caught off-guard. “I… didn’t realize you took an interest, Captain.”

“Why wouldn’t I? Windstreak and I have been waiting for you to get hitched for years.”

It wasn’t easy to make the sergeant blush. Inger felt a silly little surge of victory at Wheatie’s reddened cheeks. “I, uh, don’t think that’s in the cards. She’s nice, but…”

“But…?” Inger’s grin widened.

Wheatie rolled his eyes, still blushing. “Look, just because you got married to the first girl who caught your eye doesn’t mean we all want to. Some of us prefer to play the field.”

“Some of us don’t have to,” Inger countered.

“Touché,” said Wheatie, shrugging with a faint smile.

Inger took another lungful of that invigorating air as they passed a florist’s shop flanked by kaleidoscopes of gorgeous bouquets. “Cranberry and I have been together for six years now. I’d say we got it right the first time.” He elbowed Wheatie. “Come on. You’ve thought about settling down, haven’t you?”

Wheatie adjusted the silver circlet around his right foreleg. “Once or twice…”

“I suppose family’s been on my mind a lot, these days. The boys keep surprising me. Strawberry’s almost old enough to take the Firewing entrance exams, can you believe it?” Inger shook his head. “Time moves so quickly when you’ve got kids.”

“It’s not the kids, it’s the rank,” said Wheatie with a sly grin. His hoof jabbed Inger’s shoulder where the captain’s bars would sit when in uniform. “All senior officers are perpetually doomed to feel old. You’ve got a whole flock of children to manage at the barracks. That’s why Windstreak was always so maternal.”

“Ha. You know something strange? Just the other day, I realized—I’m the same age she was when she retired.” Inger turned a corner, Wheatie following close behind. “Although I’m sure she’d still be ordering us around today if not for the injuries.”

Wheatie’s trot quickened slightly as he pulled up beside his captain. “Not thinking of joining her in blissful boredom, are you?”

“No, no,” Inger reassured him. “It’s just funny how these things sneak up on you.” When Wheatie’s nervous squint remained, Inger chuckled. “Don’t worry, I’m not planning on quitting anytime soon.”

“Good. I don’t want your job,” said Wheatie, relaxing again. “I prefer flying.”

“I fly!”

“Sure,” chuffed Wheatie. “You fly that desk real well.”

Inger rolled his eyes. “Someone has to organize Celestia’s protection detail.”

“Oh, no argument here. I’m just glad it’s you, not me.”

Rolling his shoulder, Inger grimaced. “Now you mention it, it has been a long time since I got out in the field… Maybe I should lead some of the cadets on a patrol out west.”

“Forget a patrol,” said Wheatie, flicking an ear. “You need a vacation, Dragonslayer.”

“Ach.” Inger grimaced. “You only call me that when you’re angling for something.”

“Guilty as charged,” Wheatie chuckled. “But it’s for your benefit, this time. When was the last time you took leave?”

“Er… Rye and Tyria’s wedding, come to think of it.”

“The wed—goddess, that was nearly two years ago, Inger!” Wheatie looked genuinely aghast. “That settles it. You’re taking a vacation. A month of it, at least.”

“A month? Wheatie, I can’t be gone that long—”

Wheatie frowned, eyebrows furrowing in mock disapproval. “And why not? Celestia can’t say no to Equestria’s biggest hero asking for a break.”

“I know she can’t,” said Inger unhappily. “That’s why I’ve always been reluctant to ask.”

“Captain.” Wheatie looked evenly at him. “Section one-sixty-six.”

Inger rolled his eyes, but he had the blasted Firewings combat manual memorized. Avoid exhaustion and overwork by taking rest days between periods of extreme exertion. A longer rest period of at least one week and not exceeding thirty days, is required at least once a year to keep the mind focused and the wings strong.

He shrugged. “Yes, yes, but there’s always so much to do—”

“I can handle training the fresh recruits and your administrative duties for a month, Inger. I’ve been at this almost as long as you have, you know.” Wheatie winked. “Almost.”

“But what if something happens? We only had four days of advance warning when the griffons took Southlund and kicked off the war…”

Wheatie waved this away. “They’re not marching to war again anytime soon, and our Nordpony neighbors are still on good terms. Everyone else is far enough away that we’ll hear them coming if they want to make trouble.” He nudged Inger with a hoof. “Go on. Take a vacation. You need one worse than anypony I’ve ever met.”

“Well…” Inger’s jaw worked for a moment. “I have been trying to find time to take Strawberry out to Lake Alazure to teach him some more advanced weatherforging…” His lip curled, and he narrowed his eyes accusingly. “You’re just trying to get out of more displacement rolls, aren’t you?”

Wheatie snorted. “Yep. You got me.” The joke came with an expectant look.

With a sigh of defeat, Inger waved a hoof. “All right, all right… I’ll think about it.” He rolled a leg to work out a bit of soreness. Ahead, he saw the signpost that signaled the point on their daily trip home from the castle where the two pegasi would part ways. “In any case, I’d better get home before the sun goes down. See you tomorrow, Wheatie.”

“Goodnight, Captain. Say hello to the professor for me.” Wheatie departed with a wave.

* * *

The rest of Inger’s walk was calm and peaceful. The weather hadn’t warmed enough for the streets to reach a true bustle, but there were plenty of other ponies enjoying the spring air. He nodded to the ones he knew as he passed, and endured the gawks of those he didn’t with a patient smile. Inger had long given up hope that he could fade into a crowd in this city—there weren’t many cherry-red pegasi with gold rings for cutie marks around.

The famous Dragonslayer of Canterlot had always been uneasy about the fame that came with being the first to take down a dragon alone in nearly a thousand years. For one thing, he’d have had no chance if Celestia herself hadn’t done most of the work beforehoof; for another, his brothers- and sisters-in-arms had sacrificed far more than him to kill the other dragon involved in the war. But Equestria needed heroes after suffering so much loss and misery, and so Inger played the part for his country’s sake.

The sunset had just begun to darken into night when he reached the front door of his family’s cozy two-story cottage. Raising a hoof, he knocked twice before resting it on the knob. Before he could turn it, the door swept inward to reveal a pink mare with a curly blond mane, glancing away from him over her shoulder.

Words tumbled out of her mouth with customary breathlessness. “Good evening! I’m so sorry, the house is still a mess, I wasn’t expecting you for another—” She turned to face him and blinked in surprise. “Oh! Inger. Hi, honey.”

He darted forward and stole a kiss, receiving a giggle in return. “Hey. Were you expecting someone else?”

“Yes, we’re entertaining tonight,” she said, stepping aside as he entered and shutting the door behind him. “I got cornered by some noble stallion today at the university after my lecture. His name’s Count Vallen, from Silvervale in the Rose Valley down south.”

Inger followed her into the kitchen. “Never heard of him.”

“Me either.” Cranberry adjusted her reading glasses, blowing out a sigh. “Apparently he’s in town on business. He said it was right up my alley; wanted to discuss it after hours. And of course, we haven’t cleaned the house in weeks…”

“Months, actually,” said Inger dryly. His wife was normally as lax as her husband and the colts about keeping their home prim and proper, but whenever formal company loomed she transformed into a tidying tyrant. “Did this Vallen character say what he wanted? I thought you were still too busy right now teaching classes to take on anything new.”

Cranberry’s normal bouncy good cheer went suddenly flat. “He said it was about Locke.”

Inger rubbed his chin. He knew the name. Pad Locke was Cranberry’s closest colleague in Canterlot University’s classics department. “Oh. Has he still not returned from that dig in the Elktic Commonwealth? I thought he was due back months ago.”

“He was.” Cranberry’s mouth thinned with concern. “He warned us that he wouldn’t be communicating much until the dig was well underway, but nearly a year without a word? He’s almost as bad as Rye about keeping in touch on trips, but that’s extreme even for him.”

“As bad as Rye?” said Inger, raising an eyebrow. “Maybe he got married on Elketh, and the postcard’s still on its way,”

Cranberry’s serious expression vanished as she glared up at the ceiling with an exaggerated groan. “Oh, ye gods. Hi, everyone. Sorry I haven’t written, got kidnapped by pirates. By the way, you’re invited to my wedding to a mare you’ve never met… I don’t think Windstreak’s forgiven him yet.”

“I think Windstreak has…” said Inger with a grin. He glanced around the kitchen. The mess on the counters looked worse now than it had last night, after their oldest son had tried his hoof at cooking the family dinner. Inger frowned. “Is there a reason Strawberry’s not helping you?”

“He’s off cloud-diving with his friends.” Cranberry rolled her eyes again. “I told him he could stay out late. At least he won’t be running around underhoof while I’m speaking with the Count.”

“I’ll have a talk with him later.” Annoyed, Inger prodded a dried soup-encrusted pot with a hoof. “In the meantime, I can take these out to the pump and start washing.”

“Thanks, honey, but I need you to take Apricot to the bakery tonight.” She flung a rag over her shoulder. “He’s got magic lessons with Papa.”

“Oh—tonight?” Inger hesitated. “I thought those were on Wednesdays.”

“Normally. But I was too busy to take him this week, and you had guard duty at that castle soirée, so we rescheduled.” She lifted a bucket of well-water onto the counter and began scrubbing the pot. “Besides, you ought to go with him more often. He wants to show you what he’s been learning.”

Inger scraped a hoof guiltily on the floor. “I’ve… I’ve been meaning to. I just get home so late this time of year, with all the new Firewings starting basic training…”

Cranberry set the rag down and prodded him in the chest with a stern look. “You made time to teach Strawberry how to fly.” She softened. “Apricot deserves the same attention.”

He wilted a little. “I know. I’m sorry.”

It wasn’t that he didn’t love spending time with their youngest. But Strawberry was a pegasus, and Inger knew everything there was to know about flying. Apricot, a unicorn, was fascinated by magic, and Inger knew as little about the arcane arts as he did about farming.

“Papa’s been teaching him how to levitate things,” said Cranberry, amused. “Thankfully, I caught him before he started practicing with the eggs I bought last weekend.”

Despite himself, Inger chuckled. “All right, I’ll get him out of your mane.”

“Thank you.” She leaned close and kissed him. Lowering her voice, she murmured, “I’ll show you how much I appreciate it later.”

Inger kissed her back, grinning. “Looking forward to it.” Playing the field? Wheatie doesn’t know what he’s missing.

“Now, go on,” she said, making a scoot gesture with her hoof. “You two are already running late. Oh! And if Tyria’s back early and you run into her there, tell her I’m still on for tea this Tuesday.”

He gave her a parting kiss on the cheek and trotted into the living room. Stopping at the base of the steps to the second floor, he looked up and cupped his hooves to his mouth. “Hurry up, Apricot! Time to go to the bakery.”

“Coming, Dad!” The sound of hooves pounding on the floor echoed from above. A short, pink colt skidded into view at the top of the steps, his face lit with excitement under his curly mop of ruddy pink hair. “You’re taking me tonight?”

“Mhm,” said Inger, smiling. “We can still get there in time for dinner if we hurry.”

“Let’s go, then!” His son’s voice warred between excitement and impatience. Apricot raced down the stairs, beating his father to the door. His horn glowed a rich, rosy pink, and the knob twisted. The door swung open.

Apricot shot him a look of badly-hidden eagerness. “Very good,” Inger said, nodding in approval as he hid a small chuckle. He was rewarded by his son’s proud smile.

After a hurried exchange of farewells with Cranberry, the two headed outside into the street. A few meters down the road, Inger tilted his head back toward the house. “You’re getting better at that. The door, I mean.”

Apricot beamed. “Thanks. I’ve been working on it.” His grin turned sheepish. “Mrs. Strudel said the bell on her door was driving her crazy from all the practice.”

Inger snickered as the two turned down the street in the direction of the Strudel bakery. “Windstreak’s not fooling anyone. She’s wanted another colt in the house for ages.”

“Do you think Uncle Rye and Aunt Tyria will be there tonight?”

“I doubt it,” said Inger, shaking his head. “They’re not due back from Lleru for another day or two.”

“Aw.” Apricot was practically bouncing on his hooves. “I want to show Tyria the trick with the colored sparks. She promised to watch it when she got back.”

“I don’t think I’ve seen that one yet,” said Inger, curious.

“Really?” Apricot’s eyes lit up even further. “You want to?”

“Sure—”

“Or I could show you featherfall. Mr. Strudel had me start working on that one three weeks ago. I, uh… don’t really have it down yet, though. Last time I tried it I broke a plate…” Apricot rubbed his neck. “Uh, I could try icemaking! That one’s amazing. You can actually see the water freezing. Or how about polylevi… uh, pol… er, lifting a bunch of things at the same time? I tried that the other day and I got three or four spoons going at once. Or—”

Inger smiled, holding in a laugh as his son kept talking. Apricot spoke so fast the words practically tripped over each other coming out. Definitely his mother’s son, he thought.

“Oh,” the colt said, jerking upright, “I know a good one.” His hooves stopped, and he looked up at Inger with sudden caution. “Do… do you want to see me make fire?”

Taken aback, Inger blinked. “Mr. Strudel’s teaching you how to set things on fire?”

“N-no, not… I mean, we haven’t gotten there, yet, but…” Apricot also shared his mother’s nervous tic of nibbling the tip of his hoof. He glanced down at a nearby puddle in the road, his eyes darting across his reflection. “Well, sometimes when I’m over there, Mr. Strudel lights the ovens, and I can feel what he’s doing… And, uh, I think I can do it too.” He swallowed. “Actually, I… I have done it. Once.”

“Not indoors, I hope,” said Inger, feeling a twinge of worry. “You figured the spell out just from watching him?”

“Not watching, exactly.” Apricot’s mouth scrunched up as he searched for the words. “I sort of… heard it?” He shrugged. “It’s hard to explain—”

“To a non-unicorn, right,” said Inger with a reassuring smile that belied the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach. He understood the difficulty. After all, could I truly share how flying or weatherforging feel with a pony who can’t do either? As hopeless as the concept of color to someone born blind. Apricot Strudel understands him better than his own father…

“All right,” Inger said, with sudden resolve. “Why don’t you show me a flame, then?” He cleared his throat as Apricot’s legs tip-tapped with excitement. “A very little one.”

“Yeah, sure!” Apricot took a deep breath, then closed his eyes. His horn glowed a vibrant rose, and sparks swirled around his head. Inger had always found his son’s magical aura beautiful, but he’d learned not to embarrass him by saying so.

A small light flickered at the tip of Apricot’s horn. Inger watched, transfixed, as a small tongue of rose-colored flame leaped into the air. It vanished so quickly he wasn’t sure he’d even seen it, but Apricot’s teeth gritted in concentration and another flicker followed.

There was a sudden electric tingle in the air, like the feeling right before a kicked cloud emitted a snap of lightning. Inger had barely begun to raise a hoof in concern when the largest flame yet burst from Apricot’s horn, so bright that Inger instinctively winced.

“Ah!” Apricot scrabbled backwards, one of his mane’s rosy locks aflame. “Put it out! Put it—”

Not wasting a moment, Inger swiftly scooped a hoof down into the puddle, flinging water up at his son’s forehead and dousing the colt in muddy water. The flame drowned instantly, leaving merely a sodden young unicorn. The two stood frozen for a moment, staring at each other.

Inger cracked first, releasing a halting “Ha!” of relief, and then both of them broke into laughter.

“S-sorry,” said Apricot, giggling nervously, as he wrung out his dripping mane. He gulped. “I guess I need more practice with that.”

Inger ruffled his son’s curls with a hoof, his heart still pounding. “Agreed. I think maybe you’d better wait for Mr. Strudel to teach you that before trying it again.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “And, er, let’s not tell your mother about that particular trick just yet.”

Apricot nodded glumly. Wordlessly, he turned and resumed the course down the street. Inger followed, with an internal sigh.

He was trying to impress you, not make a fool of himself. Apricot was still at that awkward age between foalhood and full adolescence, a walking knot of nerves and anxiety. It had been difficult for his older brother, too, but at least Inger had been able to show Strawberry the basics.

They walked in silence for a few minutes. Upon a turn down a deserted back road shortcut to the bakery, Inger made a stab at lifting Apricot’s spirits. “I’m impressed that you managed that without any training, you know.”

His son’s head just fell further. “Managed what, setting myself on fire?”

Inger converted a snort into a cough. “Hey, everyone makes mistakes at first. It took me months to figure out how to make clouds rain when I was your age. I kept getting hail.”

“Not everyone,” said Apricot, kicking a pebble. “Strawberry gets everything right.”

“Not the first time. He practices a lot.” It had practically been Inger’s second job for the last two years or so. Ten hours spent drilling the Firewings before coming home to spend another five with his son, getting down the basics of breathing and good wing posture… and I love it, he admitted to himself.

“I know, I just…” Apricot sighed heavily. “He’s just so good at being a pegasus, and I’m so bad at being—me.” He gave Inger’s wings a longing look. “I wish I was like you.”

Inger swallowed. Had he slipped? Were his own anxieties spilling out enough to affect his son? Or, even worse, was this Apricot’s own worry? He frowned and stopped, giving Apricot an even stare as he followed suit. “Do you really mean that?”

“I… guess not,” said the colt, still not meeting his eye. “Maybe. Sometimes.”

Standing beside him on the dusty cobblestones, Inger placed a hoof around his son’s shoulders and pulled him against his side. “Apricot, wings aren’t better than horns. They’re just different. The world would be dull as dirt if we were all the same.”

“But you and Strawberry can do so many amazing things that—that I can’t ever—” Apricot wiped his eye with a sudden frustrated sniff, clearly angry at himself for the tears. “I just wish I could be up there with you.”

“Oh, Junior…” Inger hugged him again. “All right, so you can’t fly. But you can do things that Strawberry and I couldn’t even dream of. That fire? That’s something I’ll never be able to do. And you figured it out all by yourself! You’ll be an incredible mage someday.”

“I don’t know.” Apricot didn’t sound any cheerier. “I’m pretty sure you need a cutie mark for that.”

Inger glanced down at his son’s empty pink flank. “That’ll come in time.”

“Strawberry had his by now,” said Apricot, scratching a hoof on the cobblestones. “And you got yours even sooner!”

“And your mother didn’t get hers until she was nearly five.” Inger ruffled his mane. “It’ll happen when it happens. No point worrying about it.”

“But what if I’m not good at anything?”

“Well then,” said Inger dryly, “you’d be perfect for the council of lords.” Apricot gave him a puzzled look. Inger shook his head, smiling. “Listen, Junior, the more you worry about it the longer the wait will seem. Focus on what you enjoy. You like learning new magic, right?”

“More than anything,” said Apricot wistfully. His horn glowed pink, and a large pebble rose shakily to eye level. He squinted, jaw trembling for a moment, before the aura vanished and the rock fell. Apricot exhaled in defeat. “I’m just not any good at it!”

Inger frowned, watching his son’s ears droop. A military pep-talk wasn’t the answer here, and he didn’t have his friend Rye’s gift with words. Maybe another unicorn can boost his morale a little, he thought, looking down the street at the faint trail of smoke rising from the direction of the bakery. Apricot Strudel was the kindest stallion Inger knew. If anyone could cheer up a disgruntled colt, it would be him.

“We’d better get moving,” he said, resuming his walk. “Or Mr. Strudel might decide we’re not coming and start dinner without us.”

A flash of alarm broke through Apricot’s gloom. He trotted after, slightly jittery with worry. “I wanted to help him cook again tonight,” he said, shifting from hoof to hoof.

“We might get there in time if we run.” Inger grinned, pausing and drawing a line across the dusty cobblestones. “How about we make it a race?”

At last, a smile returned to his son’s face. “Okay, you’re on. Start on three?”

Inger nodded, crouching slightly. The two both faced down the street, braced to break into a sprint. Apricot swept his mane out of his eyes. “Ready, Dad? One… two…”

The colt took off in a sudden blur of pink. “Three!” he yelled over his shoulder as he turned the corner.

With a dismayed grunt, Inger raced after him, hooves pounding on the cobblestones. “Not very sporting of you,” he called ahead. Apricot just laughed, galloping down the road.

Inger shook his head, smiling. His legs were still sore from training, but he quickly began to close the gap. While Strawberry was old enough now to give his father a genuine run for his money—on the ground, at least—Apricot still hadn’t hit his growth spurt. Even at a full sprint, his legs were simply too short to match Inger’s practiced gallop. The older stallion kept things interesting for him, pulling ahead, but letting the colt overtake him once or twice.

The streets flashed by, as the two dodged the odd passerby, and Inger reveled in the fresh air as it rushed against his face. “Pace yourself,” he reminded a gasping Apricot, who had fallen a few steps behind. “Remember those breathing cadences I taught you.”

“I—” Apricot panted, “—remember!”

Up ahead, Inger spied the bakery at last. It was a plain, unassuming little building, right next to the post office. A thin taper of smoke rose from its brick chimney, carrying the smell of bread on the air. “Almost there!” He moved ever-so-slightly faster, drawing ahead. “I’m going to wi-in,” he sang, and he meant to. Closely enough that Apricot wouldn’t feel bad about it, but enough to serve as well-deserved payback for that head start.

Apricot’s voice was strained but gleeful. “No—you’re—not!”

Inger saw a flash of rose light, and his brows furrowed. What was—

His hoof hit a vine and he tripped. Inger lost his balance, tumbling forward and plowing into the cobblestones. Lifting his head with a wince, he saw Apricot reach the bakery door and triumphantly slap it with his hoof. The colt turned toward him and sat heavily, his chest heaving, but wearing a wide smile. “Beat you!”

As he stood and massaged his shoulder, Inger cast a wary eye down at the vine that had sent him sprawling. It was an ordinary plant, poking up between the cobblestones, nothing special… except he could see the deep indent in the dirt where it had lain before he tripped on it. Something—someone—had pulled it out of the ground like a snare.

The kid’s got more talent than he realizes. Inger smiled to himself. Trotting up to the door to join Apricot, he made a good-natured hmpf of disapproval. “You cheated.”

“I won,” Apricot corrected, tilting his head up. His smile was more cheeky than smug.

The corners of Inger’s mouth twitched. “And who taught you to be so cutthroat?”

“Strawberry,” said Apricot, matter-of-factly. “He kept beating me because he used his wings.”

Inger shook his head, grinning. “You’re lucky you’re cute, or someone would strangle you.”

“I’m not cute—” Apricot began to protest, but he was interrupted by the jingle of the bell over the bakery’s door. It cracked open, and a blue pegasus with a graying mane of orange and red peered out.

“Aha,” she said, eyes twinkling with delight at the sight of them, “I thought I heard voices.” She opened the door, and waved hello to Apricot, who returned the gesture with enthusiasm. “Good to see you, Inger. You haven’t been by in a while.”

“Evening, Captain,” he said, tilting his head respectfully. Even after all these years, he felt the urge to salute her, but he knew she’d give him one of those embarrassing maternal chuckles if he did.

Windstreak’s eyes creased with amusement. “I haven’t been your captain in years, Inger.”

“You’ll always be my captain,” he said, lightly sweeping a hoof across the ground.

Apricot, fidgeting on the doorstep, could wait no longer. “Can we come in?”

“Of course, of course.” Windstreak stepped back and opened the door wide to let them inside. “Honey,” she called into the bakery, “they’re here!”

As Inger stepped inside, the scent of yeast and sugar hit him like a brick. He paused a moment to acclimate, surveying the rows of delectable-looking pastries that lined the storefront. As the years passed, this place seemed to grow cozier and cozier. Beautiful floral displays, tended with great care by Windstreak, decorated the entire shop. The air was comfortably warm after the cool breeze outside, thanks to the residual heat from the ovens keeping the cold at bay. It was no surprise that Cranberry still enjoyed spending time here, after all these years.

“Hi, Mr. Strudel!” Apricot bounced on his hooves as a beige-colored unicorn strode out of the central kitchen area, wiping a hoof off with a magically-suspended towel.

Apricot Strudel was older and grayer than his junior counterpart, but the energy behind his smile was just as vibrant. The older unicorn’s eyes lit up. “Aha! You made it after all. I was starting to worry I put too many dumplings in the oven. And how’s my favorite pink colt doing?”

Apricot huffed. “I’m not pink,” he complained. “Pink’s girly. Aunt Tyria said I’m, uh… ser… cerise.”

The baker grinned, but nodded. “Well, I’m not foolish enough to argue with my daughter-in-law about color.” Chuckling, he turned back toward the kitchen. “How about you come put those cerise hooves of yours to work helping me feed the sourdough starter? It’ll be good levitation practice.” Head bobbing in affirmation, Apricot practically pranced after him.

“Come on, Inger,” said Windstreak warmly. She strode past him toward the kitchen and the dining room beyond it. “Feels like we haven’t caught up in ages. They’ll be at it for a while; we’ve got a few minutes before dinner’s ready.”

He followed her through the kitchen, sliding past the two unicorns as they measured flour and water portions on a hanging scale. His gaze lingered on his son’s glowing horn as he tipped a small bag of ground spelt flour into the waiting bowl, mouth screwed up in concentration. Just keep at it, Junior.

The dining room was much smaller than the storefront, but the table was large enough to seat more than the four sets of silverware and cups of water it was set with. Windstreak sat on the nearest cushion, brushing a long tress of fiery hair over her shoulder. Inger still wasn’t used to her wearing her mane so long; in the military she’d kept it trimmed to a still-generous shoulder-length.

He sank into the adjacent seating cushion with a groan. Windstreak snickered. “I know that look. Long day on the training pitch, huh?”

Inger nodded ruefully. “I’m going to be stiff tomorrow morning.”

“You’re not driving them too hard, are you?” Windstreak rested her head on a hoof. “It’s possible to overtrain, you know.”

“Wheatie certainly thinks so,” said Inger dryly, taking a sip from his water glass.

She snorted. “Wheatie hasn’t changed. I remember when he’d sneak naps during survival training, thinking Bergeron and I weren’t watching.” Fiddling with her glass, she gave it a meditative swirl. “Still, you can’t deny he’s one hell of a soldier. Saved my life, after all.”

“He’s a good instructor, too. He’s helped me whip over a hundred recruits into shape now. We’re almost halfway to recovering our numbers from the war.”

“Good,” said Windstreak. The pride in her voice made Inger sit up a little straighter. “I still speak to the princess, you know. She says you’re doing a wonderful job as captain.”

“That’s kind of her,” said Inger, awkwardly tapping a hoof on the table. He’d never been good at handling praise from Celestia; it always left him feeling a strange mixture of happy and embarrassed. “I’m happy to say the new Firewings are living up to your reputation. Thanks to our efforts, there haven’t been any major bandit raids or monster attacks in two solid years. No griffon trouble, either—I think we’ve finally cleaned the southlands out completely.”

Windstreak exhaled slowly. “I’m glad to hear it. To tell the truth, I was worried the war would be the end of our unit. Shrikefeather almost wiped us out after Whitewall. I wondered at times if I’d live to see the end of the Firewings…” she shook her head. “Well, it’s good to be wrong.”

“Thanks to you,” said Inger, with a respectful nod. “With all the crazy stunts you pulled during the war, you turned the Firewings back into legends. The best fliers from all over Equestria keep pouring in every year to join us.”

“I think you deserve more credit than I,” said Windstreak, touching a hoof to her cheek. Half of her face was a slightly darker blue than the rest. The old burn scars had never fully faded. “After all, you’re the one who took down a dragon. Without losing hundreds of troops and getting scalded half to death.”

“Captain…” Inger frowned. “Those lives bought Equestria’s freedom. You don’t have anything to regret.”

“I know,” she said, calm but meditative. “Inger, the hardest part of being a commander is learning you can’t save everyone. Sometimes, you have to choose who lives and dies, even though you love them both. Even when you make the right call…” she sighed. “You don’t forget them.”

“I’ve never actually had to do that, myself.” Inger fiddled pensively with his hooves. “My entire tenure as captain has been during relative peacetime. Even the fighting against Warlord Lionsclaw was nothing compared to the battles you faced.” He swallowed, giving her a searching look. “I admit… sometimes, I wonder if I’ve really got what it takes to do that. To make the kinds of sacrifices you did. To look a friend in the eye, knowing you’re about to get them killed. I just… I’m not sure I’ve got it in me.”

Windstreak’s eyes flicked away from his, staring somewhere far away and dark. “I wish I could tell you that it doesn’t get easier.”

“Well…” Inger smiled. “That’s why Celestia keeps the ambassador around. If we’re lucky, he’ll put all of the Firewings out of a job.”

That got a laugh out of her, breaking the dour mood. “You know, I used to hope that Rye would become a soldier. Help Equestria and make ponies respect him.” She brightened again. “Now, some days I find myself wondering if he hasn’t done more to keep the country safe than you or me.”

There was an enthusiastic grunt from the kitchen entrance. “Not to mention protecting my pocketbook,” said Apricot Strudel, sweeping into the dining room with a plate full of steaming dumplings held in his magical grip. “That trade agreement he worked out with the Zyrans brought the cost of sugar down so much that our profits jumped nearly thirty percent last year. Kid’s making me proud.”

Windstreak grinned. “And he even found someone to keep him company. Tyria’s a saint; I don’t know how he doesn’t drive her mad.”

“It’s all that cooking I taught him,” said Apricot Strudel, chuckling. “That’s how I got you to stay around, after all.” He set the dumplings down on the table, taking a long sniff and smiling. “Ahh, perfect.” Inger had to agree; the smell of them already had him salivating. “Just a few more things and then we can eat.”

Inger’s son staggered into the room, eyes fixed on a wobbly bowl of vegetables hovering just above his glowing horn. “Where do I—” he began, his voice strained.

“Right here,” said the baker, gesturing to a space next to the dumplings.

The junior Apricot guided his burden down to rest on the table, giving a relieved puff of breath as his horn’s light winked out. “That’s a lot heavier than it looks.”

“Sounds like we need more practice,” the older Apricot said cheerfully. “Come on, you can help me get the salt and pepper shakers out.” The two vanished back into the kitchen.

Windstreak smiled after them. “Speaking of Rye and Tyria…” She glanced sideways at Inger. “Cranberry hasn’t heard anything, but you and Rye go out for drinks every now and then.” Tapping her hooves together, she looked uncharacteristically embarrassed. “Has he said anything to you about… erm, children?”

Inger blinked, jerking upright. “No. Are they—”

Windstreak slumped back into her cushions with a disappointed huff. “Not as far as I know.” She tsked. “You’d think a year and a half would be plenty of time, but who knows. Maybe they’re waiting until Rye’s career settles down a bit. I suppose sailing across the world every few months isn’t conducive to raising a family.”

With another exasperated shake of her head, she smiled at Inger. “At least Apricot and I get to play grandparents for your little ones.”

“Cranberry and I appreciate it,” said Inger. “Truly. I don’t know how we’d have managed Junior’s first year without you two watching him all those nights.” Without that help, either Inger or Cranberry would surely have had to give up their careers to have a second child. If the Firewings were everything to him, then the university was everything to Cranberry. Not having to make that choice had been Windstreak and Apricot’s greatest gift.

“You’re welcome.” She twirled a strand of her mane wistfully. “Sometimes it feels like I’ve been taking in children my whole life.”

“Ah,” Inger smiled, “you mean Cranberry and her sister?”

She blinked calmly, meeting his eyes. “And you, in a way.”

“Wh—” Inger tilted his head. “Sorry?”

“When you applied to join the Firewings, standard procedure would have been to reject you,” said Windstreak, half-smiling. “Normally, the proctors don’t let foals who lie about their age even get to the flight section of the exam.”

His face heated with embarrassment. “Wait, they knew I lied?”

Windstreak gave him an are-you-serious look. “You think you’re the first one to try it?” She shook her head, still smiling. “But while I was reviewing the files on each recruit, I noticed you didn’t have any parents listed.”

“Oh. So that’s why you…?” His hooves slid off the table. Inger wasn’t sure how to feel about this. His mother’s early death was so long ago that he had only the barest warm memories of her. His father… well, whoever he was, he hadn’t cared enough about Inger for there to even be memories.

“Mhm.” Windstreak gave him a fond wink. “I had to make sure you could actually do the job, of course. But you did better than colts almost twice your age during the flight trials. With that kind of performance, well… if you had nowhere else to go, I thought I ought to give you a place to stay, and a way to do some good for the world in the meantime.”

Inger fluffed his wings awkwardly. “I never… I must have been useless those first few years.”

“You’ve trained how many recruits now?” she asked wryly. “I’m sure there have been a few worse than you were. I made sure you weren’t treated like a charity case; you got the same training as everyone else in the program. But… I admit, you were one of my favorites.” She took a sip of water. “That’s why I let you marry my foster daughter.”

He coughed. “Uh…”

Snickering, she set the glass down. “I’m kidding, Inger. We were all very happy for you two.”

Processing her words, he sat quietly for a few moments. Still dazed, he lifted his head to look her in the eyes and nod. “Thank you, Captain. For everything.”

Laying a hoof on his shoulder, she smiled kindly. “I think it’s high time you started calling me Windstreak.”

“I’ll… I’ll try, Cap—Windstreak,” he said, fumbling over the name. He grinned sheepishly as she laughed again.

There was a thud and a clattering sound from the kitchen. Inger winced, hoping Apricot hadn’t broken anything valuable this time.

“Careful in there, you two,” called Windstreak. “We’ve already gone through one set of dishes this month.”

“Heh,” said Inger. “He’s still got some work to do, but he’s made a lot of progress. He loves these lessons; they’re practically all he talks about the whole day before.”

“And Apricot was delighted to get the chance to teach someone magic.” Windstreak’s eyes suddenly flicked away. “He always wanted to do it with Rye, but…”

There was a scuffling sound, and his son’s head poked out from the kitchen entryway. The colt looked worried. “Dad?”

Inger met his eyes expectantly. “Did you two get the spices?”

Apricot ignored the question, turning his head hesitantly back toward the kitchen. “Dad, I think something’s wrong with Mr. Strudel. He—he fell down, and he’s not moving.”

An icy pit formed instantly in Inger’s stomach. He and Windstreak stood abruptly, rattling the silverware on the table. “Honey?” called Windstreak. “Are you all right? Apricot?”

There was no response.

After seconds of terrifying silence, Windstreak jolted into motion. She brushed past the colt into the kitchen with her wings half-raised in agitation. Inger heard her breath suck in. He turned to his son, who was running his hoof through his mane again. “Apricot, stay in here.”

“What’s happening?” Apricot’s eyes were wide. “Is he okay?”

“I don’t know yet. Please, just stay here until I come back for you.”

Inger stepped past him without waiting for a response, entering the kitchen. His stomach fell as he saw Windstreak sitting on the tiled floor, cradling her husband’s head in her lap. “Apricot…?” she whispered.

First-aid had always been a weakness in his skill set, but Inger swiftly sat beside them and held up the stallion’s hoof. He felt the ankle for a pulse. Nothing.

You’ve never been good at finding it, he thought, feeling his own pulse quicken. Strudel’s chest wasn’t moving, but maybe Inger just couldn’t see the shallow breathing, considering how badly he was shaking.

He forced the panic deep down. Windstreak needed him to be strong, now. “I’ll get help,” he said, a little too quickly. “The doctor on Fairweather Street isn’t far.”

“Honey?” Windstreak sounded more lost than Inger had ever heard her. She stroked her husband’s forehead. “Apricot, can you hear me?” Her hoof trembled. “Wake up, honey…”

Inger turned toward the exit, his legs still shaking. If that doctor was home, he could get him back here in ten minutes, tops. The unicorn did good work; he’d managed to get Strawberry through that dangerous bout of whooping cough a few years ago. Surely he could…

Distracted, Inger bumped into the store counter on his way out. Clutching his shoulder with a hoof, he started toward the exit, when the bell above the door jingled. Looking up, he saw the door swing open, and in trotted the last pony in the world he wanted to see right now.

Rye Strudel’s eye-searing yellow robes flapped around his hooves as the outside breeze followed him in, carrying the scent of rain. He had a stack of woolen clothing piled on his back, tied neatly with twine. His wife Tyria came in behind him, adjusting her black eyepatch with a hoof. Both beamed in unison when they saw Inger.

“Surprise!” said Rye, hauling the clothes off his back and setting them on the floor. “We got back early.”

“Total success, by the way,” said Tyria, offering a hoof toward her husband. He clapped it agreeably, grinning.

“I’d say so. The llamas have agreed to release our ships, without even a fine for disorderly conduct. Crisis averted.” Rye winked at Inger. “I was worried. You know how badly behaved those navy types are.” He cast his wife a smirk.

Tyria snorted, elbowing him. “We’ve dealt with worse.”

Inger, throat dry, tried to speak, but couldn’t get the words out. Rye raised an eyebrow. “What, cat got your tongue?” He shrugged, grinning. “I wasn’t expecting to run into you tonight, Inger. We were going to hit your place tomorrow, but this is good—you can take your ponchos right now. They’re real alpaca wool, you know. Extremely cozy.” He swept a hoof over the stack of clothes. “Pick whichever colors you like! We got enough for your family along with Mom and Dad.”

He looked past Inger toward the kitchen entrance. “Speaking of, do I smell dumplings?”

Inger leaned forward, clenching his teeth. “Rye, your father’s—”

A low moan of sorrow echoed out from behind them. Inger’s heart seized up. Oh, gods, Windstreak…

“I—I have to get a doctor,” said Inger, moving for the door.

Rye’s eyebrows furrowed. “Mom? Dad?” He left the clothes on the floor, hesitantly walking past Inger.

Inger paused as he passed Tyria, locking eyes with her. “Please, my son’s here—make sure he stays here until I get back, okay?”

Tyria nodded, eye wide. “What’s going on?”

Suddenly, Rye’s voice rang through the house, cracked with terror. “Dad!”

Go! Inger flung open the door and charged out into the street. His wings unfurled, and he took flight in a flurry of feathers.

The weather teams had finally gotten their act together. It had begun to drizzle outside, drenching the city and turning the roads to mud. The smell of spring was doused by the crisp dampness of rainfall. Inger swiped water out of his face, wings beating the air as he strained for speed. His teeth ground together as he raced above the rain-dappled rooftops, mentally replaying the image of Windstreak rocking with her husband in her lap. The tracks streaming down his cheeks weren’t from the rain. One question ran through his mind over and over again:

What will I say to Cranberry?

2. The Rose Lord

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“My apologies,” repeated Cranberry, gesturing at the empty table. “If I’d had more warning I’d have cooked something.”

“It’s no trouble,” said the stallion, calmly taking his seat. “I know this was on short notice. Unfortunately, outside forces dictate my haste.” As the gentle rain pattered on the windows, Cranberry sat across the table from him, and cast an evaluating glance over her guest.

Tybalt Vallen, the Count of Silverglen and Lord of the Rose Valley, was a striking pegasus. His coat and feathers were a deep, dark gray, almost black, and his dark gray mane was curled and tightly cropped. Sharp, golden eyes gazed across the table at Cranberry, calm and analytical. He wore a short summer robe, whose hem only came down to his knees. It was pale white with a blush of pink, and embroidered with curling, thorned stems that ended in a large rose near his shoulder. Around his neck hung a small copper locket, the latch worn with use.

Opening the bag he’d brought, he lifted out a dark bottle and set it on the table. “A gift, for the inconvenience. A bottle of Silvervale’s finest Pinot Noir. 253 was a good year.”

“Oh,” said Cranberry, astonished. The vineyards of the Rose Valley were legendary even in northern Equestria. “I’m sorry, I don’t drink.”

“Ah. Well, keep it anyway. A gift for a friend, perhaps.” He smiled, though it didn’t manage to warm the intensity of his gaze.

Cranberry had felt him taking her measure since the moment she’d opened the door, but she wasn’t yet sure why. “What brings you to the capital from the sunny south, Lord Vallen?”

“Academic pursuits,” he said, steepling his hooves. “I understand you work closely with Professor Pad Locke on elken archeology.”

“Yes,” she said, brushing a curl of golden hair out of her eyes. “Locke and I have published several papers together since I joined the university. He was my graduate advisor, in fact.” Her lips thinned as she restrained her annoyance. They had been working closely… until Pad had up and left on some hush-hush expedition seven months ago without telling her much of anything.

“I read your paper on the tablets from those ruins near the Antlerwood last year. Fascinating.” Tybalt blinked. “Please, if you don’t mind; I’m curious about your current project.”

Brightening at the chance to talk about her work, Cranberry nodded. “Perhaps you’ve heard of the Platinum Codes—”

“Of course,” said Tybalt, tapping his forehead and spreading his hoof in acknowledgment. “Lady Platinum’s set of laws. The one that kickstarted your career, if I’m not mistaken. You’re the one who found that famous translation of them in Sleipnord, after all.”

“Ah. You’ve read my CV.”

“And heard the songs,” he said, with a slight smile. “The Mountain, the Mare, and the Dragonslayer has a whole verse about your discovery of Tyorj.”

Cranberry smiled in return, but it was sour. “I’ve never much liked that song.”

“No?”

Frowning, she folded her forelegs. “The only reason we got out of Sleipnord alive was my friend Rye Strudel. If not for him, Inger and I would never have made it back south, and Canterlot would be a smoking ruin. But the song doesn’t even mention him. None of them do.”

“Rye Strudel? Celestia’s pegacorn?” Tybalt raised an eyebrow, then shrugged. “Interesting. But back to your work—you were saying?”

“I found a translation of the Platinum Codes that let us decode hundreds of texts, both at the Sleipnord site and in the university archives.” Cranberry sat back, staring fondly past Tybalt as she remembered those thrilling months of discovery. “One subject came up in the Tyorjan books, time and again: the Elken Dominion.”

“The world’s first civilization,” mused Tybalt, resting his snout behind his steepled hooves.

“Unless you count the dragons, and few do,” said Cranberry, grinning. “The ancient elk were a fascinating people. As widespread as they were diverse—we call them elk, but their empire had deer and caribou citizens as well. Not to mention all the lands they conquered—ponies, antelopes, even griffons were all subservient to them for a time. At its height, the Dominion spread all the way from the arctic circle to the Bay of Winds in modern Antellucía.”

She twirled a hoof. “They were masters of magic that haven’t been matched since. They had floating castles of diamond and glass, huge cities in the high branches of their forests, vast roads and towers that connected their empire…” Cranberry waved vaguely toward the city walls. “The great road that runs through Equestria was originally of elken manufacture, you know.”

“I did,” said Tybalt, with a small nod.

A little deflated, Cranberry cleared her throat. “Oh. Well, the old unicorns in Sleipnord were obsessed with them. Half the books in that library were about the Dominion. They wanted to know how the elk performed such feats, about the invention of spellsinging and how—before the princesses—the elk began to raise the sun.” Cranberry rubbed her chin. “And of course, why they disappeared.”

“We really have no idea?”

“Oh, we’ve got plenty of ideas,” she said, dryly. “Take your pick: war, disease, famine, political fragmentation. The problem is backing any of those theories up.” She shook her head. “For all their spread and influence, we still know so little about the ancient elk. Even my colleagues in the Elktic Commonwealth don’t know much about their ancestors. Six thousand years is a long time for any records to survive if not written on stone.”

Tybalt dipped his hooves toward her. “Yet, you and Locke found a way.”

“There are still a few ruins that haven’t been completely plundered over the centuries. Locke had been working on some artifacts down in a tower in Antellucía for half a decade before we met. One in particular was noteworthy. A large, inverted stone triangle… that I found described in several of the books from the library site. The books called it a gate.”

“A gate?” Tybalt’s voice was unreadable, but his eyes flashed.

“Yes. And it wasn’t the only one.” Cranberry rubbed her hooves, still remembering the adrenaline rush from decoding those words. Locke had come running into the archives in alarm to find her whooping triumphantly. “The tower was a twin to the one we call Middengard, in the mountain pass between Equestria and Sleipnord. We hoped that there would be another gate there—an intact one.”

Cranberry rapped the table. “Locke already suspected that there was more to find in Middengard—a hidden chamber of some sort. We’d just never had enough proof to get the funding to go looking for it… until now.” She leaned back with a satisfied smile. “It didn’t take long after that for Locke to find us funding. He got it from some mysterious backer—wouldn’t tell me who; they wanted to keep their privacy. Probably some noble. You wouldn’t believe how paranoid some of them are.” Belatedly, she remembered who she was speaking to. “Er…”

The count tapped his hooftips blandly. “Where do the gates lead?”

“Well… that’s what we hoped to discover.” Cranberry tapped her hoof anxiously. “After a month of digging and knocking down walls, we found what we were looking for. A room beneath Middengard, with the gate inside, incredibly well-preserved. In perfect condition—but inactive. Neither Locke nor I could figure out how to turn it on, or whether it still worked at all. It might not even have been meant for transporting living creatures—perhaps a conduit of magical energy, or a food distribution network. Or maybe a communications hub—”

Cranberry stopped herself. She could talk for hours about her work, if she wasn’t careful. But she still didn’t know why Vallen was here, and she was starting to get a bad feeling about the way those golden eyes were staring at her. “At any rate, that’s what’s been consuming all my time for the last year and a half. Locke’s, too… until last September. He left to… work on something else.”

Something he wouldn’t tell me about, she fumed internally, but her anger was laden with anxiety. It wasn’t like Pad to keep her in the dark, or to stay out this long after he was supposed to have returned. “You said this meeting was about Locke. Do you have any idea what he’s doing, Count Vallen?”

“Less than I’d like,” said Vallen, finally revealing an emotion other than bland politeness. His eyes narrowed and he glanced pensively down at his hooves. “You see, Cranberry, I funded that dig at Middengard.”

She blinked, swearing internally. Now you’ve gone and put your hoof in it, she thought, before the realization hit her. “Wait… then you were also his mysterious backer for the expedition last year, weren’t you?”

“I was.”

“What was he after, Tybalt?” She bit her lip. “He wouldn’t tell me. That’s not like him.”

“Something important. Bigger than Middengard.” He met her eyes again. “Bigger than the Sleipnordic site.”

Cranberry’s mouth was suddenly dry. “The gateway destination.”

“So he suspected.” Tybalt leaned in on the table. “Locke told me he’d traced the location to the island of Elketh.”

“That’s…” Cranberry wet her lips with her tongue. “That’s not possible. The Commonwealth islands have plenty of ruins, but they were all picked over centuries ago.”

“Not this one. Locke believed it was hidden deep underground, beneath the old growth of the Elderwood. He said it was a city. The nexus of elken civilization, he called it.” Tybalt’s eyes glinted. “Last September, I sent him to find it. Forty expeditionaries: mostly ponies and antelopes, but a few griffons for security, as well. They reached the island near the end of the month, and set up supply lines between the dig site and Port Faeloch, the nearest local settlement.”

“And? What happened?” Cranberry leaned close.

“Things went as planned for several months,” said Vallen, frowning, “until sometime in late January, all communications ceased. The carts stopped coming out of the forest for resupply. There was no indication of anything going wrong before then—the whole expedition just went dark overnight.”

“So you have no idea,” she said, her heart thumping. “Are they still alive?”

“That’s what I’m going to find out,” said Tybalt, lifting his head. “And I was hoping you could help. I’m leading another expedition to the islands—better supplied and better armed. We’re leaving in two weeks. I’d like you to join us, if you’re willing.”

Fearful hope sprang in her chest. The greatest archaeological find in a thousand years—one to make even Tyorj pale. And if Pad’s in trouble, I’ve got to save him.

Before she could accept on the spot, Tybalt lifted a hoof. “I don’t expect an answer tonight. Take a day or two to think about it and make any arrangements you need.”

Cranberry nodded slowly. Hushed, she said, “Count Vallen, before you lost contact…” She leaned all the way forward, craning over the table as she stared into his golden eyes. “Did they find anything?”

Tybalt matched her stare. “Yes,” he whispered.

The door burst open so loudly that Cranberry jumped, mistaking it at first for a thunderclap. The rain poured loudly beyond the doorway as someone panted for breath. Inside stepped her husband, his feathers sodden and his mane drenched.

“Inger!” Cranberry stood, walking around the table. “Back so soon?”

He pulled wet locks of his mane away from his face, and she blinked in confusion. He looked haggard, as if he’d sprinted all the way back from the bakery. Behind him, Apricot trudged in, equally soaked, and not meeting her eyes.

Inger rested a damp hoof on her shoulder. “Cranberry…” His eyes were red and bleary.

Had something gone wrong with the magic lesson? Apricot didn’t look injured… “I didn’t expect you two back for another hour or so. I was just talking with Count Vallen…” She awkwardly waved a hoof toward the dining room table.

Vallen was staring at Inger, his face full of unconcealed amazement. “Inger of Canterlot,” he said. “The Dragonslayer.”

“Cranberry, honey, I think you should…” Inger took a deep breath. “You’d better sit down.”

Her stomach sank. “What’s wrong?”

“Uh…” He looked at Vallen.

The noble stood abruptly, approaching them. He was still staring intently at Inger, almost hungrily. “A red pegasus…” he murmured, touching a hoof to his locket. “Orange mane… about the right age… but I didn’t expect the eyes…”

Inger shifted uncomfortably. “Look, Count Vallen, I don’t mean to be blunt, but I don’t have time to play celebrity tonight. This is a… a family matter.”

A family matter? Cranberry’s blood ran ice-cold.

“Yes,” said Tybalt, holding the locket tightly. He blinked, looking back at Cranberry. “Oh—I’m sorry. I can see this… isn’t the time. I’ll take my leave. Please, Professor Sugar, consider my offer. And…”

He returned to her husband, “Inger, you and I should talk as well. As soon as possible. It’s urgent.” His eyes burned with desperate intensity. Hesitating with another long look at Inger, he took a deep breath and strode past them to leave.

Inger and Cranberry ignored him as he slipped out into the rain, closing the door behind him with a soft click. Cranberry swallowed, resting a hoof on Inger’s. “What happened?”

“It’s Apricot,” he said, not meeting her eyes. “Apricot Strudel.”

“Papa…?” Her voice was barely a whisper.

“The doctor…” Inger shook his head slowly, struggling with the words, “He said it was the heart. A, a… myocardial… something. Almost instantaneous. There… there wasn’t anything he could do.”

Cranberry blinked, staring numbly at the door. When she didn’t say anything, Inger swallowed and continued. “Apricot, he… he’s gone, Cranberry. I’m so sorry.”

He hugged her tight, but Cranberry couldn’t return it. Her legs weren’t working. Gone…?

“The doctor said he wouldn’t have felt much pain,” said Inger, resting his head against hers, dripping rainwater down her shoulder. “He was just there one minute, and the next…”

Words spilled from her lips. “Are they going to close the bakery?”

What a heartless thing to say. Is that all I care about? His business? Her mind was somehow racing yet empty, a mousewheel of white noise.

“I’m not sure,” said Inger, stepping back and trying to guide her toward the seat cushion. “Rye said—”

“Oh, gods,” said Cranberry, closing her eyes and dropping her head. “Rye was there? He saw it?” Sisters, how cruel…

“No, thankfully. But bad enough. He got there just afterward.” Inger touched her shoulder again. “Honey, let’s go sit down.”

Why wasn’t she crying? She ought to be bawling her eyes out, but no tears were coming. Cranberry shook her head in a daze. “No, we… we should head over. Windstreak and Rye shouldn’t be alone.”

He brushed her mane with a tender hoof. “If that’s what you want.”

“It’s raining. I’ll… go get the parasol…” Like a sleepwalker, she plodded past him and headed up the stairs toward their room.

Passing Apricot and Strawberry’s room, she could hear her son’s pillow-muted sobs. He loved Papa as much as I do. Never again would she get to see the two unicorns doing magic together, with her son wearing that beaming grin.

As if her soul had left her body, she marched on like an automaton. Cranberry pushed into her room, stepping around the bed toward the closet. She opened it, searching for the parasol buried somewhere behind the clothing.

They’d have to organize a funeral. Her older sister Inkpot would insist on taking charge of the whole thing. Inky had always been good in a crisis. When the two sisters had found their father frozen to death after that murderous blizzard, it was Inkpot who’d asked Apricot Strudel to help them melt the door lock out of the ice. Cranberry could still remember the day vividly. The frigid wind, the crust of ice coating the furniture, the brief glimpse of her father slumped over his last, unfinished coat. Crying outside in the snow until Inkpot told her they’d be living with Apricot and Rye for a while…

Her hooves passed over items in the closet, aimlessly rifling through the inventory without even looking at it. Why’d she come up here, again?

The smallest mercy was that she wouldn’t have to worry about feeding the family for a while. She and Windstreak were going to be drowning in food as all their friends and acquaintances descended to help, in the only way anyone ever knew how. They’d bring basketfuls of fruits, vegetables, and freshly baked bread…

That was what did it.

Cranberry’s knees buckled, and she slumped against the bed with a howl of grief. Her shoulders shook violently as the tears came flooding down. Clutching her forelegs around herself, she shook and wailed again.

Papa’s gone.

Gone was the silly smile he wore whenever he saw the child she’d named after him. Gone was the crinkling of a paper bag as he packed her a free muffin on her morning stop by the bakery. Gone were those mouthwatering desserts, and all the masterful skill he possessed in the kitchen. Never again would his hooves guide hers to knead a lump of dough, teaching her to make something whole and beautiful out of the simplest ingredients.

Once again, she’d lost a father, and she couldn’t even remember the last thing she’d said to him.

Cranberry wept with hacking sobs as the door burst open and Inger rushed in to hold her tight. She cried and cried, bawling into Inger’s shoulder as the grief welled endlessly out of her, until there was nothing left inside but echoes of warm summer days and the scent of baking bread.

3. Memoriam

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One week later, on a pale, chilly morning, Cranberry had no tears left to shed.

The Canterlot City Cemetery was bleak and beautiful. Situated near the southern end of the Clement Blueblood Memorial Park, it lay in a quiet copse of maple and oak. The trees were all in bloom, their bright blossoms shaking defiantly against the overcast sky. Seasonal birds had yet to return to the north, so the only sounds were the flowering branches rustling quietly in a faint breeze.

The cemetery itself was a few small acres, enclosed by a wrought-iron fence. The bars were still shiny, unmarred by rust. They had been built along with the rest of the park six years past, replacing a long streak of burned-out ruins from the griffon siege. The tombstones were spaced widely and scattered beneath the trees, but only one held meaning for Cranberry today. It bore little text, befitting a stallion who’d never bothered with frills unless he was decorating his pastries.

Apricot Strudel

303-329

Twenty-six was far too young, even for a pony. Cranberry felt that hollow ache in her chest again as a few stray leaves from vanished autumn brushed over the grass. Apricot had deserved another decade at least, time to spend with his wife, his son, the grandchildren he’d never meet… She drew closer to Inger, who squeezed her shoulders with a sturdy foreleg.

The unadorned pine box, mercifully closed, lay in a rectangle of open earth beneath the stone. Circled around the grave were dozens of mourners, dressed in funereal black. Rye’s ink-dark robes had the opposite effect of their ordinary yellow counterparts, seeming to leach him of life and vibrancy. A few splashes of color were present thanks to Windstreak, Inger, Tyria, and a few other veterans and soldiers wearing bright blue dress uniforms.

Inkpot, a white flower pressed neatly into her reddish mane, stood at the foot of the grave behind a small podium. Her eyes were calm and tired, but she still held her head high. Cranberry was amazed she hadn’t collapsed days ago, with how thin she’d been spreading herself during the arrangements. Rye and Cranberry had both taken up as much of the slack as they could, but Inkpot had gently insisted on being the one to deliver the eulogy. I owe him, she’d repeated, more than any of you know.

Rye wasn’t holding up as well. He looked older than Cranberry had ever seen him. Those heavy black robes and the dark circles under his eyes seemed to age him a decade. Was he grateful to be here for his mother’s sake, she wondered? Or did he wish that he was still in some distant land, blissfully unaware? Beside him stood Tyria, drawn and reserved in the prim military uniform she’d dusted off for the funeral.

Cranberry’s eyes flicked over to Inger, standing at her side. She would never have made it through the last excruciating week without him to lean on. She knew that, deep down, he didn’t truly understand what this felt like. His mother, Pomegranate, had died so long ago that Inger—with shame—had privately admitted to her that he barely remembered her face. But he was trying to help anyway, making sweet, clumsy gestures of love like laying out her clothing this morning to save her the trouble of digging the funeral wear out of the attic. It helped, just a little, to know that she wasn’t alone.

Not like poor Windstreak. Cranberry’s heart hurt whenever she looked at the old war hero, standing proud and utterly shattered in her crisp Firewing blues. The mare’s parade-ready stance revealed no hint of the hurricane of grief that must be tearing her apart inside. Always putting on a brave face for her children, thought Cranberry, brushing a lock of golden hair out of her eyes. The thought of that great pegasus standing alone in the empty bakery was almost too much to bear.

“Are they starting soon?” Apricot hesitantly shifted in his spot in front of her.

“Shh,” scolded his older brother, scowling. Strawberry was a light orange pegasus who’d inherited his father’s prematurely serious air. He tapped Apricot’s leg to quell the younger colt’s fidgeting. “Not everypony’s here yet. Settle down and be patient.” He flashed an apologetic look at Cranberry.

She patted Apricot’s shoulder. “It shouldn’t be much longer, honey.”

Her son nodded and resumed staring at the muddy ground. He’d taken the loss of his teacher hard, spending most of the last week sequestered in the brothers’ shared room. One day she’d spied him levitating his pillow through the ajar door; before she could congratulate him, he’d dropped it to plunge his head into the down and burst into tears. Fighting maternal instincts, she’d let him be. Apricot hated when his parents saw him cry.

Though childishly blunt, his concerns about the delay were understandable—the ceremony was supposed to have started almost ten minutes ago. Cranberry returned to her surveillance of the park entrance, wondering when the final guest would arrive. A gust of wind shook the trees, and she caught a flash of gold through the foliage. She straightened.

Two pegasi in full Firewing battle armor marched around the bend. She recognized Major Specklestraw on the left, but the other was someone new she didn’t know. Behind them strode the reason they were both in armor, not uniforms: Princess Celestia, flanked by a second pair of Firewings, appeared from the trees. Her enormous mane shimmered with all the colors of the Sleipnordic aurora.

It was impossible to dress more formally than her daily wear, so the princess had gone in the opposite direction. No crown adorned her head, no gold lay around her neck, and no jeweled boots encased her hooves. Celestia was here as a family friend, not a ruler. Cranberry swallowed. She’d never seen the princess look so… mortal.

Inkpot was the first to bow, followed by all the other funeral-goers. The Firewings took up their places at the back of the group, and the princess walked slowly through the parting crowd to stand beside Windstreak and Rye.

Windstreak was the first to raise her head. “Your majesty,” she said, her voice cracked and raspy, “thank you for coming.” She looked up at her liege with a trembling jaw.

Celestia bowed her head to the new widow briefly, eyes solemn. “You are most welcome, Windstreak.” She lifted her head again, looking sadly down into the grave.

Inkpot cleared her throat as the small crowd settled. “Welcome to all of you. For those who haven’t met me, my name is Inkpot Sugar. I was not Apricot Strudel’s daughter by blood, but he and Windstreak cared for me and my sister for many years. Today we gather to pay our respects to him: as a father, friend, and,” she smiled, “the best cook in Canterlot.”

A few sad chuckles emerged from the crowd. Inkpot’s smile remained, but her eyes fell to gaze into the open grave. “Apricot never liked long ceremonies unless there was cake involved. I’ll do my best to keep this short.” She lifted her head. “Then again, that may be difficult—Apricot touched so many lives, from all kinds of ponies. Soldiers, librarians, artisans, aristocrats… we’ve all enjoyed his marvelous confections and warm smiles.”

She glanced around at the gathered ponies. “They say you can measure a pony’s worth by the quality of the company they keep. If that’s true, then Apricot was the greatest stallion I’ve ever known. He was the beloved husband of Windstreak Firemane, the mare who led our troops to victory over the griffon invaders. He was the father of Rye Strudel, our most accomplished ambassador, who’s saved our nation from a dozen new threats of war since then.”

Cranberry caught a few faint whispers in the crowd. Someone behind her muttered, “Mutant.”

Her jaw tightened. Could the poor stallion get no respite, even at his father’s funeral? Rye bent his head, his too-small wings drooping just enough for her to notice. Windstreak’s back straightened as one of her ears twitched. Cranberry could see a small flicker of fury in the lines of her face.

Princess Celestia cleared her throat sharply, and the whispers instantly ceased.

Inkpot handled the moment with grace, moving swiftly on. “And Apricot was a dedicated member of our city’s community, using his bakery to turn birthdays and weddings into memories we’ll all treasure forever.” She took a deep breath. “But pastries were not his greatest gifts to me and my sister.” She met Cranberry’s eyes, and the two shared a silent, mental hug.

After a moment to gather herself, Inkpot continued. “Twelve years ago, the vicious blizzard of 317 claimed the lives of our mother and father. We had nowhere to go, until Apricot…” she smiled, eyes glimmering, “Apricot took us both in without a moment’s hesitation. He and Windstreak opened their doors to us and made us part of the family. Whenever Cranberry skinned a knee playing with Rye, Apricot would bandage it up. Whenever I came home late from a long shift at the library, he would tuck me into bed.”

Wiping an eye, she nodded and her smile widened. “The spring I turned eight, I had finally saved up half the money I needed to purchase the deed to my library. I thought it would take another five years of hard work to finish the job, but Apricot matched my funds to help buy it that year, and all in my name. He even helped me with the paperwork, and moving our furniture when my sister and I went to live there.”

Cranberry smiled, remembering how much he’d sweated getting her favorite silly pink bookshelf up the stairs. Oh, Papa…

“And…” Inkpot paused, her eyes focusing on something far away, “that winter wasn’t the only time he saved my life.”

Cranberry blinked, eyebrows furrowing. It wasn’t?

“Six years ago on the day of the red sun, when the griffons rained from the skies and poured into our streets, I went to the bakery to rescue the stallion who’d been a father to me.” Inkpot’s voice cracked. “But he saved me instead. Two griffons broke into the bakery just after I arrived, and before they could—hurt us, he, he—” She paused, rattled, and took a deep breath. “He stopped them, by himself. I owed him my life twice over. And he never said a word about it afterwards.”

Neither did you, thought Cranberry, staring in shock. A quick glance at Windstreak and Rye’s horrified expressions meant this was new to them, too. Cranberry felt her stomach turn. The way Inky had said hurt us…

Inkpot lifted her head again. “And I know that he didn’t save me so that I could waste his gift by mourning him forever. Apricot would want me—us—to remember the good things: those lazy summer evenings at the bakery, helping knead dough; listening to Windstreak’s stories about the Firewings after our lessons, watching my sister and Rye playing by the building without a care in the world, because they knew they were taken care of. Those things will always be with me. And so will Apricot Strudel.”

She placed a hoof on her chest, looking around at the gathered ponies. “So let’s keep him alive in our memories. Let’s always remember the kind, warm stallion who made our lives a little better, one pastry at a time. And the next time you and your loved ones share a fresh loaf of bread, hot from the oven, think of Apricot.” Inkpot bowed her eyes and nodded once. “Now, we return him to the earth, to find peace in the world beyond.”

The crowd suddenly rumbled, murmuring in surprise as Celestia stepped forward. Her horn glowed brightly, and the piled earth beside the grave began to pour down into the pit. In moments, the casket was hidden from view. The earth packed neatly down into the plot, leaving a brown rectangle of dirt beneath the tombstone.

Celestia laid her hoof on the loamy surface. Her horn brightened, and glowing trails of magic curled down her leg like paisley. The radiant tendrils plunged into the soil, and green shoots burst up from the loam around her hoof.

Cranberry looked on in awe. It was easy to forget sometimes that Celestia was fundamentally different from a pegacorn like Rye. She embodied not just the pegasi and the unicorns, but the earth ponies as well. An avatar not just of the sun, but of all three pony races. Reverence stirred in Cranberry’s breast as she realized some of that old earth pony magic ran in her blood, too.

The plants bloomed as they sprouted, revealing roses, tulips, violets, and brilliant orchids all brimming with life. Celestia removed her hoof, and the light faded. Bowing her head once more to the tombstone, she stepped back into the crowd.

Apricot Junior sucked in a tiny breath. He was staring at the princess, transfixed. “Wow…”

The ceremony, brief as it was, had concluded. The mourners began to take their leave, filing past the tombstone to pay their final respects as they departed. Soon, only a few remained with the Sugars, the Strudels, and the princess’s retinue. Cranberry pulled her black cloak tightly around her neck and leaned on Inger, watching the blossoming branches sway in the wind.

As the final few guests gave their condolences, Inkpot joined them by the graveside. “Was the speech good?” she sounded hesitant, looking down at the bed of flowers. “I didn’t think he’d want something long.”

“Inky…” Cranberry wasn’t sure how much to ask, or say, in front of the kids. Throwing caution to the wind, she bolted forward and hugged her sister. Inkpot jolted, then softened and returned the hug. Hushed, Cranberry said, “Inky, you never told me about the griffons.”

Inkpot stepped back, shaking her head. “For good reason.”

“Do you want to talk about it…?”

“No,” she said flatly. “Not now, anyway. Maybe never.” Sighing, she gave Cranberry an apologetic look. “But if I change my mind… I’ll let you know.”

Cranberry nodded, swallowing. “Okay.”

The awkward moment was interrupted by a familiar, too-loud whisper from behind them. “Strawberry, did you see that?” Apricot’s voice was never as quiet as he thought he was. “The princess growing all those plants with magic! You think I could learn how to—”

“Quiet, Pinky,” said Strawberry, boxing his ears. “Be respectful.”

Apricot’s ears drooped. “Sorry,” he muttered, and fell silent.

A rich alto broke the quiet. “Greetings.” Cranberry and Inkpot turned to see Celestia standing before them, almost glowing in the pale morning sunlight. The Sugars all bowed deeply—though Strawberry had to nudge a starstruck Apricot to follow suit.

Celestia dipped her head. “Please, rise.” She focused on Inkpot. “Your words were lovely, Miss Sugar. I’m sure Mr. Strudel would have been grateful.”

“Th-thank you, Princess,” said Inkpot, shifting anxiously. Cranberry restrained a smile. Inky had never had as much exposure to the princess as the rest of the family. “And, um… thank you for the flowers.”

Celestia nodded sadly. She caressed one of the stalks of lavender with a gentle hoof. “Even after six thousand years, the pain of losing someone cuts deep each time. There is no secret to it. Nothing I can say will make the hurt heal faster. Yet…” She cupped a rose’s petals with her hoof. “Healing does come, in time. I promise you that.”

It was true, Cranberry knew—the ache of her blood parents’ loss had long faded to bittersweet memory, but it did nothing to make this pain less fresh. Celestia let the flowers go. “If any of you need someone to talk to, I will always be willing.”

“I couldn’t impose, Princess—”

“I make time for my subjects, Cranberry. Always.” Celestia turned her head. “Including you, Inkpot.”

Inky, her tail tucked unconsciously down at the royal attention, nodded meekly. “Thank you, Princess.”

“And Inger…” Celestia looked at her captain of the guard. “Extend your leave as long as you wish. For your family’s sake, if not your own.”

“My lady,” Inger began, “I couldn’t…”

“You’ve been there for me and Equestria without fail for over a decade, Inger. Now, they need you.” Celestia gestured to Cranberry and the colts. She flashed a dry smile over her shoulder toward Wheatie. “The sergeant can handle matters in your absence.”

Inger grimaced. “So he claims.”

A sudden sob broke the air. All eyes turned to see Windstreak sink to the ground beside the tombstone, shoulders shaking. Rye hugged her tight, covering them both with his wings. Tyria joined the hug, looking helpless.

Celestia frowned. “Excuse me,” she said, stepping away to comfort the Strudels.

As she left, Cranberry exhaled heavily. “I should stay a little longer, honey. If you want to take the kids home now—”

“Wait!” said Apricot. “Can I ask the princess to teach me that flower spell?”

Inger choked. “Apricot, you can’t just ask the princess to be your magic tutor.”

“Why not? She said she’d always have time for—”

Cranberry placed a restraining hoof on Apricot’s shoulder. “The princess was just being polite, Apricot. She’s very busy.” She sighed, focusing on his horn. “We’ll find you a new teacher soon, I promise.”

Apricot’s face fell. “I didn’t mean—I’m not trying to replace—” His eyes darted toward the gravestone, and his shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry.”

“We’ll wait with you here,” said Inger to Cranberry, patting her back. “Take as long as you need.”

Inkpot blew out a breath through pursed lips. “I have to get going, sis, I’m sorry. I’ve got to be back at the library to get some books ready for someone.”

“Shouldn’t you take a break, Inky? You didn’t even close the library for the week…”

“Working helps me cope,” said Inkpot grimly. “Always has, ever since Mom and Dad. I’ve got to stay moving.”

Maybe it would work for Cranberry, too. If she’d spent the last week teaching classes, instead of wandering around the house like a ghost, then maybe she wouldn’t have had all that time to dwell. She gave her sister a little nod. “Okay. Who needs the books so badly?”

“It’s some pony from out of the city. He wants practically every reference I have on elkish spellsinging,” said Inkpot, shaking her head. “Strangest unicorn I’ve ever met. He gives me a bad feeling.”

“Elkish?” Cranberry’s eyes sharpened. “But he’s a unicorn, you said? Not a pegasus?”

“Yes, why?”

“Hmm.” Cranberry bit her lip. “Nothing, I guess. Just a strange coincidence.”

Inkpot bid the rest of the Sugars goodbye, then walked away down the trail. As she left, Cranberry traced a small cross in the dirt, like the ones Papa always made on the top of his bread loaves.

She watched as Celestia spoke quietly with Windstreak and Rye, losing herself in the princess’s mane. It reminded her of the auroras in the Sleipnordic sky, and the legends of the valkyries that carried the valiant dead to the next life. Surely warriors weren’t the only ones to carry on after death. What evergreen fields waited beyond the veil for bakers?

They stayed another hour, long after the Princess had departed. There was little to say to the Strudels, but the two families remained together in silent solidarity. As the sky began to darken, Cranberry at last gave the grave a final press with her hoof and turned away.

She took a deep breath and nodded to Inger. “Let’s go home.”

4. Heir to the Rose

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The walk home was chilly and subdued. Inger kept a discreet watch over Cranberry, but she didn’t have that frayed, on-the-verge-of-tears look in her eyes that he’d grown to dread in the last week. Perhaps the funeral had brought her some peace, after all. Or maybe she was just exhausted. Inger looked away, downcast, wishing he could help her somehow. At times like this, it felt like all he knew how to do was hit things, and you couldn’t punch someone's grief into submission.

A voice like his own, yet reptilian and alien, wriggled into his thoughts. Some hero you are.

In childhood flights of fancy, Inger had often imagined that a tiny dragon lived inside him. It was a cold thing, a creature that breathed ice instead of fire. It feasted on fear, on the lonely desperation of an orphaned colt, on the terror of wandering the streets searching for food, whispering with a sibilant hiss of the dangers lurking for him in every shadowed alleyway.

Many imaginary monsters had been set aside as he’d grown up, but not the dragon. It stayed with him as he joined the Firewings, as he fought the griffons, as he married Cranberry and started a family. It nestled in his chest, slumbering so quietly that most days he could forget it was there. The little dragon was his constant companion, speaking the ugly thoughts he dared not say, not even to Rye or Windstreak.

It said the things he couldn’t even tell Cranberry.

He had ways to keep the dragon at bay. When the bards sang about his defeat of Merys the Red, pride could quash it. When Cranberry gave him a warm smile, it melted away. When his loyal Firewings offered firm salutes, Inger could pretend that he was worthy of their respect, pretend that the dragon was vanquished. But in the dead of night it woke, crawling up to whisper in his ear. And these days, it had new fears to feed on.

If you were faster, you could have saved him. She blames you for letting her father die.

The Dragonslayer, they called him. A cruel joke. The tiny dragon couldn’t be killed with golden armor and a magic hammer. It was always there, perched between his ribs, seeing through the hero’s mask he wore.

You’ve got the others fooled, but you can’t fool me. Someday they’ll see you for what you really are, and then you’ll lose them all, one by one. Who will go next? Maybe Windstreak. She must blame you, too. You were supposed to be her best student, her successor, and you let her husband die.

Or will it be your son? Apricot knows he isn’t your favorite. You can see it in his eyes, can’t you? He knows you don’t love him as much as Strawberry. You know what it’s like to grow up without a father. He was the first to leave you.

Inger squeezed his eyes shut tight, exhaling. The intrusive thoughts slithered through his brain, unabated.

But no. Not them. We both know who you’re going to lose next. After all, she only married you because you were the first stallion to kiss her. And vice versa.

His jaw clenched. That wasn’t true. It had never been true. He’d fallen for Cranberry because of who she was; because of her passion for history, her curiosity, her intelligence, even her fiery temper—

Oh, yes. It had nothing to do with being the first mare willing to let you into her bed. You shared a tent all those nights because of her ‘passion for history’. The dragon snorted. Don’t feel bad about it. She settled for you, too. But six years is a long time for young love to last.

Snapping his eyes open, Inger ground his teeth. Neither of us settled for anything. We’ve built a life together because we wanted to.

The dragon’s breath was cold in his chest. You let her father die. You can’t even comfort her. Why should she stay? How much longer before she decides to… how did Wheatie put it? Play the field. See what she’s been missing.

Foolish thoughts. Old insecurities mixing with fresh survivor’s guilt. Not real. Inger stared firmly ahead. I love her. And she loves me.

The dragon sneered. Then why can’t you get her to smile? It hissed laughter as it settled back into a supine slumber.

Inger cringed, looking back at his wife. Cranberry looked so cold and reserved in her black funeral robe, with her golden mane tied up tightly behind her head. She could have been a statue, frozen in stone and suffering in noble silence. For days, Inger had tried to break her free from that stony prison and bring back some warmth to her face, but nothing had worked. Wasn’t that his job as her husband? To make her feel better?

Up ahead, their home had come into view. The glow of the kitchen’s oil lantern radiated from the nearest window. Inger squinted. “Did you leave the light on?”

“No, I…” Cranberry’s face fell. “I must’ve forgotten to put it out before we left. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not a big deal,” he amended hastily, hoping the question hadn’t come out as an accusation. “You’ve had a lot on your mind. It’s fine, honey.”

She nodded, still crestfallen. “I’ll put it out… boys, go put your cloaks away upstairs before we have dinner.”

Apricot and Strawberry mumbled assent as the family reached the front step. Inger stuck the key into the lock, but found that someone had left it unlocked. With a glance at Cranberry, he decided against mentioning it. No point in making her feel worse. He pulled the door open and waved the boys past. As Cranberry followed them in, Inger glumly berated himself for his carelessness.

A shriek rang out from the dining area, wiping the recriminations from his thoughts. Inger rushed into the house, wings flared, to find Cranberry standing stock-still with her hoof pressed to her mouth. Seated at the table were two stallions. One, Inger instantly recognized: Tybalt Vallen, wearing another one of those rose-embroidered summer robes, this one a deep purple. His hooves were folded calmly on the table, as though he wasn’t sitting uninvited in their home.

Beside him sat someone new. He was a unicorn, wearing a wine-dark red robe. The hood was pulled down over his head despite the warmth of the house, the hem resting just above his horn. The fur coat on his snout and the strands of his mane that poked out from beneath the hood were pure white—an unusual color. Most ponies with white coats, like Wheatie, were tinged pink or cream underneath, but this unicorn’s skin and hair were as colorless as chalk. Blood-red eyes peered out from under the hood, curious but calm.

“Strawberry,” ordered Inger, stepping between his family and the intruders, “take your brother to your room and lock the door.”

Strawberry was staring wide-eyed at the intruders, but nodded and pulled his sibling with him toward the stairs. Apricot stumbled beside him, head turned over his shoulder to stare at the strange unicorn. “Who’s that?” he whispered, before his older brother shushed him.

Tybalt stood, lifting a placating hoof. “Inger, Professor Sugar; my sincerest apologies for the—”

“Get out,” said Inger, graven-faced. “Now.”

The robed unicorn’s eyes flicked sideways toward Tybalt with a resigned frown. “I told you we should have waited outside.”

“And risk being turned away?” Tybalt shook his head curtly. “This is too important. Inger, we need to—”

Inger slammed a hoof into the kitchen floorboards so hard the table rattled. “Out. Now.”

“Wait,” insisted Tybalt.

“Is this about your expedition?” asked Cranberry, looking warily between the noble and his companion. “Count Vallen, I haven’t made a decision yet. And you shouldn’t have come into our home.”

“I know. I regret the need. But time is too short to delay for the sake of politeness.”

Funny. Inger wasn’t feeling very polite, either. “Last warning, Vallen. I will throw you out.”

Behind Tybalt, the hooded unicorn’s eyes narrowed. Frowning cautiously, his horn glowed a soft red. Tybalt noticed and slashed a hoof through the air. “Pollux, relax.”

Pollux blinked, then his hornlight faded out. Shrugging, he sat back on his cushion. “Your funeral, my lord.”

At the word funeral, Cranberry stiffened. Inger took a step toward the intruders, but she barred his path with a hoof. Her eyes narrowed. “I’ll hear you out, for Locke’s sake. Make it fast, Tybalt.”

“The expedition team arrived in the city yesterday morning,” said Tybalt, sitting again and gesturing to his companion. “A mercenary group I’ve hired called Katabasis Company. They’re led by a pegasus named Castor, a veteran of the War of Whitetail. This is his brother Pollux, an accomplished mage in his own right. Together, they’re veterans of over a hundred operations. More importantly, Pollux possesses a great deal of knowledge about the magical techniques of the elk.”

“And I can carry a tune,” said the pale unicorn, with a wry smile. His eyes had relaxed again. Without any apparent hostility, he gave the Sugars a nod.

“If whatever befell Locke’s team was some kind of magical catastrophe, Pollux will help us put a stop to it.” Tybalt steepled his hooves in his familiar tic. “Please, sit.”

Inger was still glaring, but Cranberry stiffly took a seat at the end of the table. Against his better judgment, Inger joined her.

Tybalt tapped his hooves. “Katabasis Company also employs an engineer, an alchemist, and a number of ex-Dromedarian soldiers. The quartermaster, Beatriz, has been busy stocking up enough supplies to feed not just our expedition, but Locke’s people as well, once we reestablish contact.”

“Sounds like you’ve covered all your bases,” said Cranberry, distantly.

“All but one. We still need an expert on the Dominion. Someone who can read ancient elkish script, and finish Locke’s work if necessary.” Tybalt tipped his hooves toward Cranberry. “Not to mention your knowledge of Locke himself. It might be useful in any number of ways.”

In lieu of a response, Cranberry rested her mouth behind her hoof. Tybalt continued, “A local guide waits for us in Port Faeloch, to show us the path Locke’s group took into the Elderwood. We plan to leave Canterlot with several supply carts at the end of the week, traveling west to Fillydelphia, where I’ve chartered a ship that will take us to the Elktic Commonwealth. The full journey should take about two weeks, weather permitting.”

Inger bit his lip, suddenly captured by the idea. Despite Tybalt’s impertinent intrusion, he might have just given Inger the answer to the dragon’s question. If there was one thing that always got Cranberry buzzing with excitement, it was an archaeological dig. She was never more alive than when she was packing for a trip to some Sleipnordic or Elktic ruin.

This could make her smile again.

But Inger knew, better than anyone, how tenuously Cranberry was holding herself together. Could he really suggest she go sailing to the ends of the earth without him there to comfort her?

Cranberry touched his hoof, visibly torn. “I… I’m worried about Locke, but…” she said, hesitantly. “Things are so difficult right now.”

“I, um…” Tybalt sounded strangely reticent. “I thought that you might wish to accompany us as well, Inger.”

Hope sparked in Cranberry’s face. Inger swallowed. “Why me?” he asked, glancing warily at Tybalt. If this was just a ploy to convince Cranberry…

“Your martial prowess is, quite literally, the stuff of legends,” said Tybalt, looking strangely nervous. “But more than that, I, um…” His hoof touched his locket, almost unconsciously.

Inger tilted his head, his brow furrowing. A niggling feeling that had been bothering him since the night they’d met came to the fore. “Count Vallen… do we know each other?”

“No,” said Tybalt, his voice hoarse. “Not as well as we should.” He was staring at Inger with strained intensity.

Inger squinted again. He couldn’t recall ever meeting a golden-eyed, onyx-coated pegasus before. Yet… there was something in the shape of his jaw, the proud set of his shoulders, that dimly rang a bell. Could he be the relative of one of the Firewings? His raised chin had a trace of that haughty air some of the fresher ‘Wings possessed. It reminded Inger uncomfortably of how he’d carried himself in his younger days in the guard. It was Cranberry, thoroughly unimpressed with the act, who’d made him realize how foolish he looked.

“The time has come to confess. This trip was not entirely about recruiting you, Professor,” said Tybalt, never tearing his eyes away from Inger. “In fact, I’ve wanted to meet you for some time, Inger.”

Tybalt rose and began to pace, yanking the locket’s chain. “I want to tell you the truth directly, but I don’t think you’d believe me. So, instead… allow me to explain the facts, first.”

What in the world was he talking about? Inger, feeling more uneasy by the moment, merely nodded. Tybalt licked his lips, forced himself to stop pacing, and sat once more. He took a deep breath. “Very well. Seventeen years ago, shortly after I came of age, my parents arranged my marriage to Lady Eurydice Blueblood. The duke’s niece, in fact—she was second in line to inherit Emmet’s titles and estates, until she was bumped to third with the birth of his son.” Tybalt shook his head. “Poor lad.”

Everyone knew the end of that sad tale. Inger, still wondering where this was going, raised a brow.

“It was a smart match, but the bet didn’t pay off. The stallion in line before Eurydice survived the war, and had a whole brood of children.” Tybalt’s wry smile suggested he found this more amusing than disappointing. “No Norharren lands are passing to the House of the Rose in this generation. But,” he continued, “the wedding felt full of promise at the time. We married in Whitetail, near the start of June.”

His eyes grew distant as he reminisced. “Eurydice found no happiness in my southern homeland. She missed the mountains and her family in Norharren. All the delights Silvervale and the Rose Valley could offer weren’t enough to put a smile on her face. Our marriage was… dutiful, at best, for all that we tried. I thought perhaps our first child would bring us closer together, but I soon learned that our love for him did not far extend to each other.”

Perhaps noting Inger’s raised eyebrow, Tybalt cleared his throat and pressed on more swiftly. “The following summer, duty brought me to the capital. All the lords and ladies of Equestria’s noble houses were summoned to Canterlot for the decennial Royal Diet. It’s always an excruciating affair. We deliver census results and argue about the tax code affecting the next ten years. Which usually means the nobles weaseling out of as much of the crown’s financial burden as they can.” He snorted dismissively. “I expected to be bored out of my mind. But then…”

He touched his locket again. “Then, I met Meg.” He trailed off, hints of a smile playing on his lips. “She was beautiful. Smart, too, and ambitious. She was working at the castle as a scullery maid when I met her, with an eye on working her way through the ranks of the staff to become Celestia’s personal majordomo. It’s a position of great, if subtle influence. Meg told me she’d be there in five years. Her drive was… magnetic.” With a fond sigh, he rested his chin on his hooves. “And she had quite the sense of humor.”

A noble stallion from the south, swooping a young mare off her hooves. He used her, then left her, thought Inger sadly. Just like my father used and left my mother.

Inger’s heart forgot to beat. He suddenly sat up straight, staring at Tybalt with new eyes. Wait.

Tybalt was too deep in memory to notice. “Meg and I spent two months together, here in Canterlot. We had to be discreet. She was a commoner, and I a married noblepony… but every moment was a treasure. I wish we’d had more time together.”

He looked suddenly drawn and reserved. “However, two weeks after the grand diet had concluded, my continued presence in the capital was beginning to attract attention. Silvervale needed its lord, and Eurydice was raising our son alone. I had to return home. If only I’d brought Meg with me…” Tybalt clenched his teeth. “I thought our parting would be brief. I told her I would return before the year was out. I was already manufacturing excuses for Eurydice on the carriage ride back to Whitetail. I didn’t know at the time that… that Meg was with child.”

“Meg,” said Inger, his voice brittle with shock. “As in Pomegranate.”

Cranberry’s eyes widened. “Wait. That’s your…” She connected the dots at last, and gasped. Her hooves flew to her mouth as she stared at Tybalt. “You can’t be—” She dropped her hooves to the table in astonishment, her head twisting back to Inger. “You’re saying he’s your father?”

The world spun. Inger’s tongue didn’t seem to be working. His head swam as Tybalt lifted the locket from around his neck and gently offered it. Inger pulled it over with shaking hooves, and snapped it open. Within was a lovingly-painted portrait of a dark red mare with brilliant green eyes. Inger recognized them instantly—after all, he saw them every day in the mirror. He took in his mother’s image, hearing his own heartbeat thumping in his ears.

“I’m sorry it took so long to find you,” said Tybalt. “So, so sorry…” His wings fluttered in distress. “So many years, searching… All I had to go on was a brief description from the castle staff: a cherry-red pegasus with an orange mane. None of them recalled your name, or where you and your mother had vanished to.”

“You mean… you came back?” Suddenly Inger wasn’t the Dragonslayer, or the Captain of the Firewings, or even Cranberry’s husband. Little Inger of Canterlot, orphaned and hungry and alone, gazed across the table at the stallion he’d spent his whole life wondering about.

Tybalt’s ears wilted at the challenge. “Of course I came back,” he said gently. “I loved her, Inger.” Tybalt looked down at his hooves, ashamed. “But my return came too late. Three years too late. By then, Meg was no longer at the castle.”

“Of course not,” said Cranberry hotly, her pale face reddening. She banged her forehooves on the table, half-rising. “She was busy coughing up blood in the street—”

“Cranberry,” said Inger, instantly quelling her. She sat down, glaring at Tybalt. Inger gently closed the locket, looking back up into his father’s eyes. Why wasn’t he boiling with that same anger? Maybe he was still too shocked to process it. It felt like he was operating his tongue and lips remotely, like a puppeteer. “What took you so long? Why… why didn’t you come back for us sooner?”

“Eurydice wouldn’t let me out of her sight once I returned.” Tybalt shook his head weakly. “She was no fool. I know she suspected the truth, or something close to it. If I’d gone back for Meg, we’d have been found out for certain. The political ramifications would be…” He swallowed. “But I swear to you, Inger. If I’d known I had another son, I would have come back for you, and damn the consequences.”

“She didn’t tell you?”

“I don’t think she knew yet when we parted,” said Tybalt. His eyes pleaded with Inger. “I’ve been searching for you ever since I found out. Years spent chasing leads down dead ends, spending gold like water… and all that time, you were living in the Firewing barracks, scarcely a kilometer away from where the search began.” He suddenly slammed the table with a hoof. Beside him, Pollux jumped slightly. “Damn! So much wasted time…”

Tybalt stood abruptly, and began pacing again. “I heard about you after the war, of course—the Dragonslayer, Hero of Canterlot. A crimson-feathered legend in golden armor. But I never thought… it didn’t even occur to me that Equestria’s greatest hero could be my son.”

Tybalt’s pace sped to a frenzy. “Then, six weeks ago, when I began preparing the expedition, I reviewed Professor Sugar’s dossier. It had an entire section on her famous husband, of course—I skimmed over your well-known feats, but the simple physical description caught my eye. A red pegasus. Orange mane. Seventeen years old. No known relations. That’s when everything clicked into place.”

He tugged reflexively at his neck for the locket that was still clutched in Inger’s hooves. “I didn’t send a letter. After so many false hopes, I… I was afraid to get my spirits up prematurely. I had to be sure. That’s why I came to meet you myself, last week. And—” Tybalt’s steps paused. “You have Meg’s eyes,” he said simply. “I knew I’d found you at last.”

Inger felt lightheaded. “She died.” He pushed the locket back toward his father. “The scarlet plague…”

Tybalt took it, and gently replaced it around his neck. “I know. Years ago, my search for you led me to her grave, here in Canterlot.”

“Her—” Inger blinked. “You know where she’s buried? I was so young when it happened, I never remembered the place…”

“I do. We… could visit it together,” he offered hopefully. “I can’t even begin to make up for how I’ve failed you, Inger. And I’ll understand if you want nothing to do with me. But you’re my son. If you’re willing, I… I’d like to be part of your life.”

There was a long, thick pause.

“I… I need time to think,” said Inger, dry-mouthed.

“Of course. As I said, the expedition is leaving at the end of the week. When the two of you decide whether you’ll join us, or…” Tybalt winced, “or not, I’ll be staying at this address until then.” He nodded to Pollux, who slid a sheaf of paper with scribbles on it over the table. “I hope you decide to come. We could use you both.” The longing in his eyes went unvoiced.

With Pollux close behind him, he left the dining room and headed for the door. “Ah!” said Tybalt, halting in surprise. “Hello.”

Two yelps of surprise rang out from the stairwell. Inger’s whirling thoughts were momentarily becalmed by stern disapproval. How long were those two eavesdropping?

“You must be Strawberry and Apricot,” said Tybalt, practically beaming at his grandchildren. “I—” a quick look back at Inger and Cranberry muted his delight. “I’m afraid we must be going. But I hope I’ll get the chance to know both of you, next time we meet.” With a sigh, he nodded at his companion. “Come then, Pollux. We’ve a long walk back to the warehouse.” Tybalt opened the door and descended the step.

“Wait,” said Apricot, barging forward and tugging on the dark red hem of Pollux’s robe. “You—you’re a mage, aren’t you?” He was staring up at the unicorn with barely-disguised awe. Pollux nodded with a bemused smile. Apricot’s starry eyes sparkled. “A real mage… could you—”

“Pollux! Let’s be on our way.”

The red-cloaked mage jolted. “Coming, my lord.” He gave Apricot a parting head bow, and stepped through the door. Inger heard him whistle a strange, lilting melody as his hoofsteps rang out on the cobblestones. A red glow surrounded the doorknob, and the door firmly clicked shut.

“Up to your rooms,” said Inger firmly. Strawberry stared bashfully at his hooves, mumbling an apology. Apricot didn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed, still staring out the window after the mage. Inger’s frown deepened. “Go on, both of you. Your mother and I need to talk in private.”

Apricot finally tore his gaze away and scurried up the steps. Strawberry made to follow, but paused. “Dad… was that really our grandfather?”

Inger looked out the window as Tybalt and Pollux turned a corner and disappeared into the streets. “I think he was,” he said.

* * *

As the silence stretched on for minutes, Cranberry tried to corral her emotions. She’d been thrown off balance enough today by the funeral, but now this… Looking at Inger, she couldn’t even imagine what was going on in his head.

She tried to recall what he’d said to her over the years about his father. There hadn’t been much, as he’d never known who the stallion was. A noble, he’d long suspected, given the name his mother had chosen—Inger wasn’t a commoner’s name like Cranberry or Rye—but beyond that, pure conjecture. Not that Inger had ever seemed very interested in conjecturing about it… Cranberry had always found it a little strange how incurious her husband was on this one matter, how little anger he seemed to hold.

Now, though… Seeing the wounded bewilderment in his face and the slump of his shoulders, Cranberry realized that his cavalier, resigned attitude about his parentage had been a defense mechanism. If he didn’t care who his father was, then not knowing wouldn’t hurt. It wouldn’t burn him up inside.

She gently took his hoof in her own. “Do you believe him?” she asked at last.

“It all fits.” Inger nodded slowly. “The time frame, the locket, my mother…” He swallowed. “And… he looks like me. I kept trying to place it. The way he sits, the way he moves.”

“I noticed,” said Cranberry, pale. She scratched an ear. “Sisters, Inger. How do you feel?”

“Like… like I’m flying through a stormcloud.” Inger took a shuddering breath. “Being blown this way and that, blinded until some realization flashes like lightning—he was looking for me, Cranberry! I don’t… what am I supposed to do with this?”

“I don’t know if you’re supposed to do anything,” she said, shaking her head with stunned ambivalence. “You believe that he’s your father. But what about the rest of it? Him trying to find you?”

“He did find me,” said Inger, fiddling with his hooves on the table.

“Yes… but seventeen years is a long time. Do you even want what he’s asking for? To… try to be a family?”

Inger gritted his teeth, but it was an expression of distress, more than anger. “Half of me wants to punch him.”

“And the other half…?”

He had a strangely familiar hunger in his eyes. “I used to want to meet my father, more than anything. Growing up in the Firewings, I’d lie awake at night, making up fantasies about him coming back for me. I gave up hope of finding him years ago, before you and I had even met. But now he’s here, and I don’t know what I want, anymore.” His stare was practically burning a hole in the table.

Suddenly, Cranberry knew where she’d seen that expression before. It was the same look Rye got when he talked about magic, the birthright he’d been cheated of. A piece of him that had been missing ever since he’d been born. Inger’s soft green eyes now held the same desperate longing.

Cranberry’s hooves fidgeted uselessly. “So… what are you going to do?”

“I… I need to know.” Inger fiddled with an imaginary locket. “I need to know if he’s telling the truth about… about loving me. About us being a family again.” His brows knit with sudden resolve. “And I can’t wait months for him to return. I have to go with him to Elketh.” He bit his lip, and with visible difficulty, shook his head. “But only if you want to go with me. I won’t leave you on your own right now. Even for this.”

Oh, Inger… He was willing to put her needs first, even in this? She lunged forward and kissed him, drawing a surprised mmf. “Thank you,” she whispered, pulling back. Taking a deep breath, she nodded. “I need to find Locke. Whatever’s happened out there, I have to make sure he’s safe.” Her eyes narrowed in determination. “I’m not losing anyone else.”

Inger gave her a gentle nudge. “It’ll be like old times. You and me, picking through ancient ruins. Maybe we’ll find something big enough for them to write a few new songs about.” Cranberry could tell his good cheer was forced, but not the hope lying behind it. He really did think this might help her…

Cranberry laughed softly. “Maybe so.” She tugged her mane loose from its funeral knot. Golden curls streamed down around her head. “Just like old times…” She rubbed her eartips, unnaturally shortened by the frostbite she’d endured on their trip to Sleipnord. “The Elderwood may be dangerous. I doubt Locke stopped reporting in because he ran out of ink.”

“I’ll keep you safe,” Inger promised, grinning. “Guard you like the princess herself.”

“You always do.” Smiling, she nuzzled Inger’s cheek. “Okay. We’ll have to make the preparations fast. Tomorrow morning I can see about putting the boys up with Rye and Tyria while we’re gone. Then I need to get my tools from the university.”

“And I’ll go tell my… father,” Inger stumbled over the word, “that we plan to join the rescue party.”

“All right. This sounds…” Cranberry felt the fresh excitement that always preceded a new excavation filling her breast. “Good.” She wished she could tell Papa that she was finally close to what she and Locke had been searching for. With a sniff, she realized her eyes were watering again, and wiped them.

Inger kissed her. “Are you going to be okay?”

“Maybe Inkpot was right,” Cranberry said, exhaling. “Some distracting work could be exactly what I need. Maybe by the time we get back, things won’t… hurt so much.” The ache in her chest hadn’t gone away, even with Tybalt’s revelation.

He hugged her, and she squeezed back. They stayed together for a time. Eventually, Cranberry smiled slyly. “Old times… do you remember when you first kissed me, out in the snow?”

“Of course, Miss Cranberry,” he murmured.

Her eyebrows rose. “You haven’t called me that in a while…” A giggle escaped her.

Inger grinned, then kissed her again. Cranberry’s lips met his, and for at least a little while, she could forget everything but the stallion who loved her. As they pressed together she felt the cold chill fall from her like her cloak, as all the shock and heartbreak of the long day melted away at the warmth of his touch.

5. Katabasis Company

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The warehouse was so unremarkable that at first Inger thought he’d gotten the address wrong. Plain, utilitarian wooden walls held up the roof, bearing only a few windows and the bare minimum of white paint. What it lacked in appearances, it made up for in activity. The front of the building was positively bustling with camels moving barrels and crates from the building into large carts parked outside. It was rare to see even one camel in Canterlot, let alone dozens. This had to be the place.

Inger studied the mercenaries for a while before approaching, noting the symbol of a fiery horseshoe emblazoned on each of the crates. He’d never heard of Katabasis Company before, but that wasn’t surprising. War was—thankfully—too infrequent in Equestria for large scale mercenary organizations to maintain any consistent presence.

The griffon invasion had led to a booming cottage industry of them for a while, as the depleted Equestrian forces hired help to clear the remaining would-be warlords of Shrikefeather’s fractured army from the southlands. Inger had even fought alongside a few mercenaries with Wheatie in the cleanup action. Most, though, had disbanded after a few years of peace and quiet.

Where on earth did my father find these people?

His father. The words still sounded alien, even in his head. Inger shook his head, still feeling as if the earth had shifted under his hooves. What do I say to him? Inger scraped a hoof sheepishly across the ground. Observing the mercenaries at work was a feeble excuse to put off this meeting for another few minutes.

One of the camels, a female, was joking in her native tongue with a fellow Dromedarian, when the barrel over her back began to slip. She noticed too late, and it fell to the ground with a crash. The top of the barrel was knocked loose, spilling black dirt to the ground.

“Damn it, Kaduat!” A griffon came storming out of the warehouse waving an exasperated claw. “Do you know how expensive that is?”

Inger’s eyes widened. That looked an awful lot like the Gryphan blackpowder Rye had told him about. He trotted toward the mercenaries, who were quickly scooping it back into the barrel. The camel, Kaduat, replaced the barrel lid and slammed her foot on it a few times. “It’s not my fault you packed them badly,” she grumbled in perfect Equestrian.

The griffon scoffed. “Don’t pin this on me. You’re the one who promised Castor we could have everything packed by tomorrow morning.” He noticed Inger’s approach, and his back straightened. “Uh… hello, officer,” he said, growing noticeably prim.

Even without his armor, Inger had the aura of a guard. He felt urge to snicker, but resisted. “What’s in the barrel?”

“Ordnance,” said the griffon nervously. “We’ve got all the permits, if you want to see them. Blackpowder’s still legal to ship overland through Equestria…”

Well, at least they weren’t hiding it. “What’s it for?”

“Demolitions, for clearing cave-ins. We’re a search and rescue team.” The griffon bowed hastily. “My name’s Virgil. I’m the chief engineer for Katabasis Company.” He jerked a claw over at the camel. “That’s Kaduat, our XO.”

The camel gave Inger a cheery wave. “Hey there, handsome. What can we do for you?”

Inger blinked, caught off guard. “Er… I’m here to see Tybalt.” The two stared at him. “Tybalt Vallen,” he added, unnecessarily.

“Hang on…” Virgil’s eyes widened. “You’re the count’s son!”

Inger nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. Virgil beamed, offering a claw. “Good to meet you, Lord Vallen. We’ve heard all about you, of course. Is it true you killed a dragon? I always thought it was just a story, to tell the truth…”

Inger shook his claw awkwardly. “It’s true.”

“Incredible!” Virgil’s claw bobbed up and down. “Any chance you’ve got that magic hammer lying around? I’d love to take a look at it.”

“Er, no. We sent that back with the nordponies after the war.” Bemused, Inger gave the griffon another look. In his line of work, he hadn’t met many griffons who weren’t actively trying to kill him. Virgil, though, seemed somewhat tweedy. He had that sorry-I’m-taking-up-space air that many of Cranberry’s shyer academic colleagues possessed.

“Go take him up to see the count,” said Kaduat. “We can handle the rest of the blackpowder without you, Virgie.”

Virgil gave her a pleading frown. “Don’t call me that,” he complained.

“Why not? Beatriz does,” said Kaduat, grinning.

“That’s—erm, well…” Inger had never seen a griffon blush before. Virgil cleared his throat. “Ahem. If you’ll follow me, Lord Vallen?”

Nodding assent, Inger fell in behind as the griffon headed for the warehouse entrance. “Just Inger is fine.”

“Of course, Lord Inger.” Virgil popped open the door and ducked through.

Not bothering to correct him, Inger followed him into the warehouse. It was huge, but rapidly emptying. More camels were inside, leaning on some crates. Virgil snapped a claw. “Hey! We’re on a schedule, here.” They scurried back to work. Virgil rolled his eyes, then beckoned Inger down a hallway.

They passed an open door, and Inger caught a glimpse of a zebra mare sitting at a desk, surrounded by a menagerie of glassware. Beakers, bottles, tubes, and heating elements lay strewn about her desk. She was deep in some enormous tome, not bothering to look up as they passed.

Quite the eclectic bunch, Inger thought. “Katabasis is mostly Dromedarians, then?” he asked, keeping pace with Virgil as they reached a set of stairs.

“Nowadays, yes. We’re a small unit,” Virgil explained, ascending the steps. “Thirty souls, all told. Most of that number are the camels who joined up with Kaduat a year ago. We used to be mostly antelopes and ponies before that, but the War of Whitetail reduced our ranks significantly.”

“Oh… I can empathize,” said Inger, grimacing. “The Firewings have been rebuilding ever since.”

“I’d heard. They said you lost a lot of ponies in the battles at Whitewall and Canterlot.” Virgil paused, clearing his throat. “I, erm… to be clear, I wasn’t part of Shrikefeather’s forces when they came marching into Equestria. I finished my time in the army ten years ago, and I’ve been running with Castor and Pollux since then.”

“I… can’t fault anyone for fighting for their country,” said Inger. Not an attitude Wheatie shares. Then again, I was in Sleipnord for most of the war; he lived through the worst of it at Whitewall and Trellow.

“That’s generous of you. I’m not sure my countrybirds deserve it,” said Virgil, darkly. “After the things I saw during the Alastrian campaign, I didn’t want any further part of Grypha’s wars.” He sighed, resuming his walk down the corridor. “At least I can use the skills they taught me for good, now.”

“You do a lot of search and rescue jobs?”

“It’s our bread and butter,” said Virgil. “Not exclusively, though. We helped liberate a few forts in Westermin and Everfree from Warlord Lionsclaw after the war. Since then, Castor’s picked up whatever work comes our way—clearing out bandits, guarding merchant caravans, rescuing ransomed nobles… whatever pays the bills.”

“Huh. Not far from what the Firewings do, to be honest.”

“Well,” Virgil said dryly, “our armor isn’t as fancy… Here we are.”

They’d reached a plain door in the middle of the hallway. Virgil lifted a claw to knock, but before he could, a disgruntled voice carried through from the other side. “All I’m saying is that if we made a stop at Icehollow Bay on the way north, we might pick up a few nordponies to join the company.”

“I wouldn’t be opposed, but we’ve no time,” said another—Tybalt.

Inger’s throat went dry at the sound of his father’s voice. With military discipline, he willed his hoof to stop trembling. You’re here for answers, he reminded himself.

Tybalt continued, “The ship’s already chartered, Castor. The Aurora’s captain isn’t willing to make any detours. It was hard enough securing passage to Elketh. He wants to get there and leave as soon as possible… it’s not as though he’s going to get any cargo worth selling in Port Faeloch.”

Pollux’s light voice cut in as he chuckled. “Ignore my brother. He just wants to sample some more of that Sleipnordic mead we had last time.”

“I didn’t complain when we stopped on the way here for your spellbooks,” said the first voice, grumpily. “But I’m serious. We could use the extra help—”

Inger shifted, and a floorboard creaked. From the other side of the door, he heard Pollux say, “Ah! Hold that thought, Castor. We’ve got visitors.” There were a few hoofsteps, and the door swung open. Pollux smiled at Inger and Virgil, his horn softly aglow as he released the door. “Lord Vallen. I thought it might be you.”

Virgil rolled his eyes. “You can never surprise a mage…”

“Not magic, Virgil,” said Pollux, “Just good hearing.” He stepped back to let them through.

Virgil held back. “I’d better return to Kaduat and the others. Goodbye for now, Lord Inger.” Before he left, he poked his head around the door. “Oh, Pollux, are you coming to practice tonight?”

“I am.” Pollux winked. “Don’t get too warmed up with Beatriz before I arrive.”

Virgil coughed. “We’ll be tuned and ready to play.” As he departed, Inger stepped into the room after the mage.

It was an office, albeit a hastily-converted one. A simple straw bed took up half the far wall, and the “desk” on his right was a simple folding table. Sitting on the near side was another pegasus. Castor couldn’t look more different than his brother—where Pollux was wiry and pale, Castor’s rich mahogany coat covered impressive muscles. They shared one thing, though—identical mild, relaxed smiles.

“Pleased to meet you,” said Castor, waving a hoof in a lazy salute.

Behind the desk sat Tybalt, who looked like he’d just won a million bits. “Inger! You came.” He beamed. “I… I confess, I wasn’t sure if you would. Does this mean you and Professor Sugar will be joining us?”

Inger tried to steady himself, but the sight of his father was making his head spin again. “We are. Both of us.”

“Yes!” said Tybalt, leaping to his hooves. “I’m overjoyed to see you again, Inger. Truly.” He rushed forward and embraced his son.

Inger’s legs weakened. He hugged Tybalt back, a little harder than he intended to. How often had he pictured this moment, staring up at the ceiling of the Firewing barracks as a foal?

Castor sighed, then tossed a coin toward Pollux, who caught it with a grin. Castor snorted with annoyance. “Thank the gods,” he grumbled, as his brother tucked the bit away. “Looks like we won’t have to rely on Pollux’s attempts to read elkish, after all.”

“I do all right,” said Pollux, wounded. “But I agree—the professor’s a welcome addition to the mission.” He lifted a wry eyebrow at Inger. “Plus, now we have a pegasus who knows how to fight and dress himself.”

Castor shot him an exasperated look. “I apologize for my younger brother’s attempts at wit.”

“Younger by five minutes,” scoffed Pollux.

“And don’t you forget it.” Castor grinned.

Inger blinked, releasing the embrace with his father. “Five minutes? You two are twins?”

Castor laughed. “Fraternal, obviously. I got the color—”

“—and I got the brains,” finished Pollux, smirking.

“As well as the humility, clearly.” Castor rolled his eyes.

“Well,” Pollux yawned. “Someone’s got to keep your head from getting too big.”

With a pained look, Tybalt cleared his throat. “Gentlecolts…”

“Sorry, Count Vallen.” Castor turned back to Inger. He offered a hoof, which Inger shook. “Katabasis Company, at your service. You’ve already met Virgil—we can introduce you to the others later.”

Tybalt returned to his seat, gesturing for Inger to take the cushion beside Castor. “So! Did the prof—er, Cranberry, explain our mission?”

“Only the goal,” said Inger, sitting. “We’re heading to the Elktic Commonwealth to rescue Professor Locke. What happened to him, exactly?”

“That’s what I intend to find out.” Tybalt jerked his chin up at a large map hung on the far wall. Inger looked it over, instantly recognizing the island of Elketh.

Though the island was the largest landmass of the Commonwealth, it was a sparsely inhabited place of little value or interest to most, lacking any natural resources or major population centers. The elk were notoriously reclusive, and the natives of Elketh even more so than most. The island was actually further north than the border between Equestria and Sleipnord, though Inger was vaguely aware that the climate stayed mild—something about oceanic air currents interrupting Equestria’s runoff weather.

The northern half of the map was dominated by a vast green swath. The name Elderwood curved gently across the map, but it was the only written label. The rest of the forest was a blank, green enigma. Pins were stuck into the cloth, tied together with red string that made a trail from the center of the forest down to the coastline. They terminated in one of the few marked cities on the map, Port Faeloch.

Inger tilted his head at the pins. “I assume that’s the route we’re taking.”

“More or less.” Tybalt steepled his hooves, in what Inger had begun to recognize as a habit. “Only the locals know the precise paths that Locke took. The Elderwood remains virtually unmapped, even a thousand years after the formation of the Commonwealth.”

“No roads,” muttered Castor. “Bad visibility, centuries of overgrowth… getting the supply carts through there is going to be a challenge.”

“Professor Locke managed,” said Tybalt. “So will we.” He tapped his hooves. “According to Locke’s reports, the trail ends at a valley somewhere in the heart of the forest. It’s a gorge filled with dark sand and sheer cliffs, cut right into the earth between the trees. There, we’ll find the entrance to a large cave system. Deep within lie the elken ruins he was seeking.”

Inger shivered. “Caves, you say…?”

Pollux, leaning casually on the wall beside the map, quirked an eyebrow up. “Afraid of the dark, Lord Vallen?”

“We can use Pollux as a night light,” said Castor, snickering.

Inger quelled the brothers’ humor with a grim glance at the map. “It’s not the dark that worries me,” he said. “I’ve been through an elken forest before. The Antlerwood.”

Shifting uneasily, Pollux stepped away from the wall. “Ah. I’ve passed through it once or twice myself. Not an experience I’m eager to repeat.”

“Well, below that forest was a massive cave system like the one you’re describing. There were things living down there that…” Inger shivered again, shaking his head. “If Locke ran afoul of creatures like them…”

“His reports didn’t mention any monsters,” said Tybalt pensively. “The only things the expedition encountered on their journey were trees and rocks.”

“Until they went dark,” said Castor, dourly. He gave Inger a grim look. “You think they dug something unfriendly up?”

“I don’t think anything, yet.” Inger shrugged, shaking off unpleasant memories. “All I’m saying is, elken forests are dangerous places.”

“We’re prepared.” Tybalt rested his snout on his hooves, leaning forward. “And I have faith that we’ll find Locke alive. But even if some ill fate has befallen him, we’ll have the tools we need to complete his work.” He nodded at Inger. “Now that we have Professor Sugar’s expertise, of course.”

“Are you and her ready for the trip?” asked Castor. “It’s going to be a hard few days on the road before we reach the ship at Fillydelphia.”

Inger smiled, remembering the journey to the roof of the world and back. “Cranberry and I have experience with long roads.”

“Ha! So you do.” Castor stood, dusting his hooves. “Well, my lords, I’m sure you both have a lot to catch up on. Pollux, let’s go see if Kaduat’s finished loading the ordnance.”

The brothers bowed and took their leave. As the door closed, Inger felt his mouth go dry. For the first time in his life, he was alone with his father.

Tybalt and he gazed across the table at each other, as an awkward quiet descended. All the words he’d spent the night rehearsing were suddenly tangled together somewhere in his throat. It was small comfort that Tybalt seemed to be having just as much difficulty speaking—his hoof kept tugging at the collar of his rose-patterned robe. The table creaked.

Someone had to go first eventually. “That’s a very nice… uh… map,” said Inger, lamely gesturing at Elketh.

Tybalt blinked. Then he snorted and burst out laughing. It was infectious—Inger couldn’t help it as a smile broke out, and soon he too was laughing. The two sat there, giggling helplessly as the tension between them snapped under the pressure.

“Oh,” said Tybalt, rubbing his eye as the mirth subsided. Apprehensive, he shook his head. “Oh, Inger. I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Well…” As he caught his breath, Inger felt a sudden overpowering craving. Since opening that locket, a burning need for knowledge had awakened in his breast, lingering there all night. “I wondered if you could tell me what—what my mother was like?” Some of the only faint memories he had of her were of scrounging for food, or the way she held him as they fell asleep together. He could scarcely remember the sound of her voice.

Tybalt pressed a hoof to his locket. “Of course…” He smiled, but it was filled with sadness. “She was confident. Funny. And kind, so kind…”

Inger rubbed a foreleg. Awkward yet curious, he asked, “What… what kinds of things did she like to do?” Who was she, as a pony?

“She loved music. I think we attended every single performance of the Canterlot City Orchestra that summer. And she was always singing little songs while she walked with me.” Tybalt’s eyes were misty with memory. “She used to tease me that she’d teach me to carry a tune if I taught her to fly.” He chuckled fondly. “I did my best. With her on my back, I flew us up above the city at night, when all the lights were twinkling down below. The castle was positively aglow for the Summer Sun festivities. Meg said that she’d never seen such beauty…”

Inger felt an ache of longing more intense than he could bear. Taking a deep breath, he tapped his hooves together. He almost didn’t dare ask the next question, but he forced himself. “Did she love you? Truly?” The words sounded pitiful to his own ears.

“To my eternal, delighted gratitude,” said Tybalt, returning to earth with a melancholy smile. “My rank, my position—they didn’t seem to matter to Meg. She said she liked my… how did she put it? My old-fashioned noblesse oblige. Although she always added we can work on the stuffiness. She turned making me laugh into a game.” His eyes creased with amusement. “She was good at it.”

Noblesse oblige, hm? Inger tilted his head. Somehow he hadn’t expected that to be one of his father’s qualities. “You know… I’d long assumed that my father—whoever he was—was an aristocrat. But somehow I pictured you as, um…” He tried to find a charitable way to say a pompous, selfish bastard. “More like Emmet Blueblood.”

“Ach.” Tybalt winced and rubbed a shoulder. “The duke was always the worst of us, even back then. I swore to myself that I’d be better than him—like Celerity Belle.”

“Celerity? I wouldn’t call her much better,” said Inger, frowning. “She started a civil war.”

“To protect Whitetail,” countered Tybalt, but he sighed and tapped his chest to acknowledge the point. “I always respected her. At the royal diet, Celerity and I were the only ones to challenge the princess on some of the more substantial taxes being levied upon the peasantry and the merchant class—which proved prescient,” he added darkly. “The Fillydelphia rebellion was only a few years later.”

“Hm.” Inger blinked, processing this. When he was still a foal, he’d imagined his father as some shining knight, like Bergeron or Windstreak. As he’d grown older, the fantasies had grown less adoring, as the mental silhouette of his father turned from paragon to bitter villain. Some evil noblepony, abusing his mother’s trust and abandoning them to wither away, laughing at their plight. Eventually, he’d grown past that as well, figuring that the mysterious stallion hadn’t even cared enough about Inger to hate him.

Perhaps the truth was a painful blend of all those phantom Tybalts. A noble stallion, trying to do right by his vassals, yet carelessly naive about matters of the heart. If Inger had been trapped in a loveless arranged marriage when he met Cranberry, could he have been any stronger? And rather than an uncaring disposal of his mistress, it was duty and loyalty that had pulled Tybalt away from Canterlot, or so he claimed. His father had been selfish, yes, and thoughtless, but cruel? Inger couldn’t see any sadism in the stallion before him. Just an overwhelming guilt, barely hidden behind those hopeful eyes. Maybe his father had a little dragon of his own.

It was too early to decide how he felt about it all. But there was one thing that he did believe Tybalt about, one thing that rang absolutely true in those tiny anecdotes and the warmth of his father’s memories.

She loved him.

That eased a terrible burden within him. In his darker moments, Inger had wondered whether his birth had been a choice, an accident… or a crime. It was a relief to know that it wasn’t the latter. Though his mother hadn’t spoken much of his father, her silence had never been an angry one. It simply… hadn’t come up. I was too young to know how wrong our situation was.

Why hadn’t she said anything? Was she trying to protect Inger from the pain of abandonment? Or to protect her lover from the ruin a bastard son would bring to his life? Was she simply scared and alone, trying the best she could as the plague ravaged the city streets?

I’ll never know, he repeated to himself, the same conclusion he’d drawn a hundred times. And my father clearly doesn’t have those answers, either. All wondering will do is drive us both crazy.

Sighing, he looked back up from his hooves at his father. Tybalt and he shared a gaze across the table, uncertainly evaluating each other. “So here we are,” Inger said at last, briefly lifting his shoulders in a helpless shrug. “I had all these things I wanted to say. I had a whole speech prepared, once. And somehow, when I look at you, I forget all of it.”

“I remember my speech,” offered Tybalt, with a hesitant smile. “I’m afraid it’s not very good. But the gist of it was this:” He grew somber. “Inger, what I did, what I didn’t do, the way I failed you and your mother—it’s unforgivable. You’ve every right to hate me. Yet, despite my failings… I’m so happy to see how you’ve thrived. Married, with two beautiful children; serving as the captain of the royal guard, a hero so famous that even these mercenaries know your deeds.”

Tybalt looked near to bursting with pride. “I just wish that I could have been part of those achievements, part of your life, like a father ought to have been. But there’s still time.” He took a deep breath. “I know you scarcely know me, but that’s why I wanted you to come with us to Elketh. I can’t hope to atone for my neglect in a few short weeks, but maybe… we could start to build something new together. The family we should have always been.” Finished, he tapped his steepled hooves nervously, waiting for Inger’s answer.

“I…” Inger found himself breathing hard. The room had started to spin again. His heart pounded in his chest as his father’s words echoed through his head.

You love me? You don’t even know me.

“You’re right,” said Inger, looking away. “You can’t fix this in a few weeks.”

Tybalt remained silent, but the dragon had woken in Inger’s chest, and it was angry. “My earliest memories of my mother are the two of us running from dogs, after stealing scraps of food from some noble’s refuse pile. That was my childhood, because of you. No one realizes that the mighty Dragonslayer spent his early years scrounging in the garbage to fill his growling belly. And my mother—the sacrifices she made for me—”

Inger choked as bitter tears welled up. “She always made sure I ate before she did. Cradled me while we slept in alleyways, trying to shelter from the freezing rain. Told me stories about the castle she worked in before she had me. When I asked why she’d left, she wouldn’t answer. Was she ashamed to have a bastard son? Was she worried about your career? Did someone know, and blackmail her? I’ve asked myself why for years. Why did we have to live the way we did? Why did I have to hear her coughing up blood as the scarlet plague took hold? Why did—” his voice broke.

Jerking back to face Tybalt, he spat, “Why did I have to watch them bury my mother alone?”

Tybalt bowed his head, and Inger realized with a start that he was quietly weeping. “Inger,” he said, brokenly, “I’m so sorry.”

Inger felt his righteous fury deflate. As much as the most wounded part of himself yearned to believe it, the crying stallion before him wasn’t evil. His absence had not been calculated cruelty, or romantic self-sacrifice, or even emotionless disregard. It was, in the end, merely a mistake made in ignorance. After all his wildest imaginings, his father was simply mortal. It didn’t excuse him, or make the hurt go away, but…

What purpose does holding this grudge serve, now? Inger exhaled. As the anger subsided, something else bubbled up to replace it: a familiar need, the same one that appeared whenever Windstreak gave him one of those maternal smiles. Family, he thought, watching his father weep. An idea stirred inside him. “If you really want to start making amends…”

“Anything,” said Tybalt, lifting his head. Though red-eyed and teary, he looked determined. “Anything, Inger. My word on it, as Count.”

Inger focused on his father’s locket, and swallowed. “I want to see her grave.”

* * *

Cranberry took a sip of tea and sighed with relief. “I can’t thank the two of you enough.”

“It’s no trouble.” Across the small round table, Tyria Strudel brushed a lock of brown mane out of her good eye. “Rye and I thought you might ask, after you told us about this expedition last week. Actually, he mentioned the idea again before he left for the castle this morning. Princess Celestia isn’t planning to send us anywhere soon—peace seems to have broken out over the whole globe.”

Tyria wore that crooked smile Cranberry had come to know so well in the last two years. She adjusted her eyepatch. “Anyway, we’d be happy to watch Apricot and Strawberry while you’re gone.”

“I know, I just… on such short notice…”

Tyria shrugged. “Life happens fast.” She tapped her eyepatch once more for good measure, subdued. “After Rye’s father… well. I hope being busy with the kids will keep him distracted, for a while.”

Cranberry sat her teacup back on the plate. “This must be hard for you, too.”

“I feel like I’m failing him.” confessed Tyria. She hunched over her cup, sighing. “I don’t know what to say. I’ve never lost a parent. I’m out of my depth.”

We all are, thought Cranberry, eyes creasing sadly. Rather than speak, she took another sip of tea.

There was a clatter from the other room. Cranberry frowned. “Apricot, you’re not making a mess in there, are you?”

Her son’s head poked around the door, cringing. “Sorry. I was trying to levitate the palette, and…”

Tyria hid a smile behind her hoof, shooting Cranberry an amused look. Cranberry sighed. “Just be careful, would you? Those paints are expensive.”

“Sorry… sorry…” he ducked back out.

“It’s all right,” said Tyria, eyes twinkling. “That room hasn’t been clean in years. He’s not the first to spill paint in there.” She rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “Rye and I keep planning to turn the guest room into a proper studio, but we just haven’t had time.”

“Not with Celestia sending you off to all four corners of the earth,” said Cranberry, glad for the change in subject. She shook her head, smiling. “I forgot to ask. How was Lleru?”

“Gorgeous,” said Tyria, brightening. “The jungle climbed right up the mountains. In the mornings, mist would come rolling down over the ziggurats, flooding through the trees like water…” She grinned confidently. “You wouldn’t believe some of the sketches I got. I’m going to do a whole series of landscapes.”

“You think they’ll be ready soon?”

“Define soon,” Tyria said wryly. “Rye doesn’t say it, but deep down he still thinks I could paint one of those huge canvases in a week, by sheer willpower. Always in a rush, that stallion,” she laughed. “I’m still mulling over titles, but I’ve already got the centerpiece in my head: Heart of the Llandes.” She sipped some tea. “I might have the linework and basic color blocking done by the time you and Inger return. How long do you plan to be gone?”

“A month, maybe two.” Cranberry traced the wood grain on the table. “Depending on what Locke discovered out there.”

“Digging up ancient elken ruins sounds so exciting.” Tyria rubbed her hooves with a wistful sigh. “Part of me wishes I was going with you. I’ve never been to the Commonwealth, but I hear it’s spectacular. They say there are hills covered in flowers as far as the eye can see. And the forests! Thick and moody, with trees older the princesses. If I could get out there for a couple of weeks with some pencils and drawing pads…”

“If you want some closer to home, there’s the Antlerwood…” Cranberry shivered. “I wouldn’t recommend it, though.”

“Right. Rye told me about that place. He always gets a little… twitchy if I mention it.”

Cranberry snorted. “He’s been twitchy ever since we were foals. It’s all that energy being crammed into a four-foot frame.”

“You don’t think he’s mellowed with age?” asked Tyria, wryly.

“If anything, he’s getting worse. I used to say he’d bounce to the moon if he didn’t calm down.”

“You’ve known him longer, I suppose…” Tyria blinked. She hesitantly adjusted her patch again, and let out a small laugh. “You know, I think he used to have a crush on you.”

The room abruptly cooled. Cranberry’s tea tasted ashen in her mouth. Tyria had clearly been joking, but Cranberry felt a flash of old guilt. She’d never quite forgotten the moment Rye had first found out about her and Inger, on the trek north through Sleipnord. Rye himself had long since moved on—especially after meeting Tyria—but Cranberry’s own memory of how badly she’d hurt him had never quite faded.

Choosing her words carefully, she shrugged and said, “We grew up together.” Smiling, she gave Tyria a little nod. “And I’ve never seen him as happy as he’s been since he came back from Zyre.”

“Oh!” Tyria beamed. “I—Oh, that’s…” She fiddled with the corner of her sketchpad, blushing.

“That said,” Cranberry eased back in her cushion, “if you ever strangled him in a fit of irritation, we’d all understand.”

Tyria snickered. “Oh, he’s not so bad…”

“Hey, Aunt Tyria!” Apricot’s head poked around the door again. “Do you have any reds brighter than crimson?”

“Vermillion #2932. Top shelf, sixth bottle from the left,” she recited. “Don’t use too much. That one really is expensive.”

“I just need enough for the eyes,” he said, lost in thought. Horn glowing rose, he vanished once more.

Tyria’s eyebrows lifted approvingly. In a low voice, she spoke to Cranberry. “Y’know, I realize he mostly paints for the levitation practice, but he’s not bad. If you wanted me to give him lessons, I think I could make a real artist out of him.” She chuckled, shrugging. “Although he cares more about magic than color theory.”

“I just wish one of the boys would take an interest in history,” sighed Cranberry ruefully. “You and Rye ever think about having your own?”

“We’ve talked about it.” Tyria stopped fiddling with her sketchbook.

“Summer’s coming up,” said Cranberry, slightly embarrassed at her own suggestion. “Best time of the year to try.”

“It wasn’t that.” Tyria lifted the pad and flipped through a few pages. She frowned, scanning the charcoal sketches. Just when the silence had grown awkward enough that Cranberry was about to change the subject again, Tyria spoke. “When I first brought it up, Rye was terrified.”

“Really?” Cranberry blinked. “But he’s so good with Strawberry and Apricot.”

“Well… he was worried that any children we had might be…” Tyria tilted her head, grimacing. “You know. Like him. Pegacorns.”

Cranberry’s stomach sank. “Oh.”

“I told him I didn’t give a damn,” said Tyria, suddenly fierce. “I’d love our children whether they had horns, wings, both, or neither.”

“Windstreak and Apricot loved him, too,” said Cranberry sadly, fiddling with her teacup. “But it didn’t make his life easy. It still isn’t. You remember those awful ponies at the funeral.”

Tyria nodded, her mouth tight. “But he overcame it. He’s happy now. Well… aside from…” She sighed, shaking her head. Apricot Strudel’s ghost loomed over them both. After a gloomy pause, still fiddling with her sketchbook, Tyria continued. “I convinced him to at least go with me to see the royal physician, to prove to him that the chances of our child being a pegacorn were small. But… it backfired.”

She looked up at the ceiling, biting back emotion as the sketchbook slipped from her hooves. “The doctor did some research in the archives, and got back to us with bad news. She told us that pegacorns can’t… they can’t even have…” Tyria faltered. “That is to say, there… aren’t any records of pegacorns having children at all.”

On the table, the sketchbook lay bare. Cranberry glimpsed a page filled with drawings of colts and fillies, of all three pony races. Lost for words, she swallowed. “Tyria…”

“She might have been wrong. I mean, pegacorns are so rare in the first place, maybe no one really knows for sure.” Tyria bit her lip again.

Cranberry didn’t think she wanted pity or trite platitudes, so she gave her friend a hug. Tyria returned it, exhaling. “All we can do is try,” she said, determined. “We’ve beaten the odds plenty of times before. And hey,” she continued warmly, “watching your kids is good practice. We’ll keep them out of trouble while you and Inger are off with Count What’s-his-name.”

“Vallen.”

Tyria twitched in surprise. “Wait a minute. Vallen? Tybalt Vallen, of the Rose Valley?”

Cranberry had a sinking feeling. “Yes. You know him?”

Tyria bit her lip. “I know of him. My hometown, Ferndale, is very close to Silverglen. If we’d lived a few miles north, he’d be my family’s liege lord.”

“Uh…” Cranberry shifted uncertainly. “Is that a bad thing?”

“Well… I don’t know.” Tyria closed her sketchbook, chewing her lip. “Tybalt has a… mixed reputation in the south. He’s a champion of the common pony in the council of lords. He’s invested heavily in public works projects, and he’s very attentive to his vassals. But, uh, he’s very principled. Dangerously principled. They don’t call him Rose Lord as a compliment—roses are pretty to look at, but venture too close and you’ll get pricked by the thorns. He has a way of tangling ponies up in his schemes. Sometimes they get hurt.”

“What kinds of schemes?” asked Cranberry, eyes narrowing. Is that what happened to Pad Locke?

“It’s well-known he doesn’t love the crown. He’s infamous for his confrontations with Celestia in the council of lords, always pushing for more southern autonomy. Growing up, I heard the word sedition thrown around.” Tyria shook her head. “Ultimately, he backed Celerity Belle in the civil war—and lost both his children to it. I haven’t heard much about him since the princess granted blanket amnesty for the southern nobles.”

Cranberry’s stomach swam uneasily. Should I tell Inger? She remembered that longing look in her husband’s eyes. Could she tear that hope from him based on so little? Not if I don’t have to… “I don’t think it’ll matter in Elketh. Our expedition has nothing to do with the princess.”

Tyria looked out the window, still frowning. “When it comes to Tybalt Vallen, I’m not sure that’s ever true.”

* * *

The tiny copper plaques were half-coated by a creeping verdigris patina. The dull green blended so well into the grass that the eye could slide right over them, even if you knew they were there. Tucked away behind a carpenter’s workshop, atop the slight knoll that rolled down into a series of residential areas, the place was like a tiny island of nature in the busy city streets.

Inger had walked and flown past this place a thousand times, unsuspecting. There was no sign out front, no marker or notice that this sleepy little backstreet held over a dozen burial plots. They were so small that they didn’t even have tombstones, just the little plates of copper. All bore the same date—314, the year the scarlet plague had swept through the city in a brief, deadly summer. The dying had been so rapid and widespread that, for a few brutal weeks, the city had buried victims wherever they could find room. Record-keeping and tracking the names of the dead had been secondary to preventing the spread. Many of the plaques read Unknown.

But not the one at Inger’s hooves. He stared down at the small name engraved in the copper. Pomegranate.

Tybalt, at his side, gently set down a white rose on the nameplate. They’d stopped together at a florist’s on the way, buying flowers in uneasy silence. Neither had said much on the walk here. Inger’s own flower, a tulip, fluttered gently in his mouth as a breeze passed. As his mane billowed in the wind, Inger was suddenly plunged back in time.

A small, crying foal stood on the far side of the hill, and watched as the doctors in thick dark robes emptied the cart. They wore so much protective gear that they scarcely looked like ponies. Beaked nightmares ferried the bodies from the cart into the wide stretch of earth that had been hastily shoveled open. The foal’s mother already lay within, as if sleeping. He still hoped that they’d been wrong, that even now she would open her eyes again and walk away with him.

The vividness of the memory shook him. The tulip fell to the ground, rolling onto the plaque, as Inger’s vision blurred. Hot tears dripped onto the grass. “I was here when they buried her,” he choked. “They… they asked me if I knew her name, so I told them. Then they pressed it into that plate with some metal machine and… and started shoveling the dirt onto them all…”

With a quake, his legs nearly failed him. Inger sniffed, wiping his eyes. “She was so pale. All of them were…”

Tybalt looked as if he wanted to say something, but the words weren’t coming. He rested a hoof on Inger’s shoulder. Inger looked at him, tears flowing freely. “Why weren’t you here?” he asked again, closer to a plea than an accusation.

“Because I was a coward,” said Tybalt, his voice filled with self-loathing. “I was too afraid to come back for you and Meg. I was worried about losing my family, about Eurydice, about my house’s reputation. In the end, I lost them all anyway.”

Inger wiped his eyes, sitting back in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Eurydice died in childbirth along with our third foal,” said Tybalt tonelessly, staring up at the clear sky. “Orpheon and Atalanta, my beloved children, both perished in the War of Whitetail. My house’s reputation was ruined after the war. I had nothing left. Nothing but the faint, dim hope that somewhere, my last child still lived.”

With a deep breath, he pressed his hoof to the copper nameplate. “I visited dozens of mass graves. After so much fruitless searching, I began to think that the two of you lay buried together in some nameless street, just a plaque with Unknown to mark your resting place. But then I found hers… and her name was the only one on the plate. I knew you were alive. So I swore that I’d find you, even if it took the rest of my life and all the wealth my house had left.”

“All gone…?” Inger felt a sudden, keening loss. Part of him had wanted fiercely to meet his half-siblings. Now, he never would.

“You are my only living blood, Inger.” Tybalt looked gaunt. “My last chance for… redemption. To be the father I should have been sixteen years ago. To show you—to prove to you that I love you. I always have. Even before I knew your name.” He hugged Inger briefly, before giving him a little space.

It still hurt. But now, the pain was tempered with hope. The old bitter edge of his grief had softened. Tybalt’s frank admission of his failings had finally broken down his doubts. That desire for reconciliation was genuine, Inger was certain of it.

“I don’t want to be your redemption,” said Inger, with hoarse, wounded honesty. “Sixteen years is a long time, Father. But…” He put his hoof on Tybalt’s shoulder, meeting his gaze. “We are family. And… I’m willing to try to fix things.”

Tybalt’s golden eyes brightened for the first time since reaching the grave. “Truly?”

“Truly.” Inger found that he meant it. “Even if it hurts. I…” His voice caught. “I’d like to know my father.”

“And you will,” insisted Tybalt, standing up with sudden vibrant energy. “By the time we’re finished in Elketh, Inger, we’ll be a true family, the way we always should have been. I swear it to you.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” said Inger, managing a smile. He looked back down at the flowers and the plaque. “I think I’m ready to go.”

Goodbye, Mother. He kissed his hoof and pressed it to the plaque, feeling the breeze filter through his mane.

As the two departed, Tybalt looked up at the glittering gold minarets of the Sun Castle. “So… what’s it like, being in the royal guard?”

Inger marveled for a moment at the mundanity of the question. I suppose we have to start somewhere. He flapped his wings. “Why don’t I show you? Let’s go for a flight over the castle. I can get us in closer than they let most civilians.”

Tybalt nodded hesitantly, before breaking out into a smile. “All right.” His onyx wings spread wide. “I haven’t actually seen it up close since the reconstruction.”

“And on the way,” said Inger, as the two took to the air, “you can tell me about the Rose Valley. What’s your home like?”

“It’s a lot warmer down there than Canterlot,” said Tybalt, with a small chuckle. “Right around this time of year, the grapevines are starting to bloom. You can see the family vineyard right out the window in my chambers…”

As his father talked about his distant home, Inger realized that he was actually looking forward to the coming journey. Maybe, he thought, almost afraid to admit it to himself, just maybe, this could actually work.

* * *

The rest of the week passed in a blur. Cranberry made the arrangements for her leave of absence at the university, which proved easy—the rest of the classics department was equally invested in discovering Professor Locke’s whereabouts. Inger had little trouble obtaining an extended leave either, with well-wishes from the princess and wry approval from Wheatie.

Both began the frenzy of packing that always preceded a dig. Inger was bringing his armor and little else, but Cranberry’s supplies soon took up several bags. Innumerable brushes, shovels, and magnifying lenses of varying degrees constituted the bulk of her excavation tools. She was also bringing copies of dozens of texts on the Dominion—a few of which she had helped to write—quills, a copious quantity of ink, and a blank journal, with fresh pages ready for notes.

Locke was the one who’d gotten her into the habit of always starting her expedition logs before the actual day of departure. The research begins long before you get dust on your hooves, he’d often told her with a smile. Even though the dust is the fun part. Squinting in the dim light of the oil lamp on her bedside table, she scribbled the first entry.

Tomorrow we set off for the coast. Behind her, Inger lay slumbering with a hoof draped over her side. Cranberry did her best to stay still while writing, hoping that the scratching of her pen wouldn’t wake him. It’ll be nice to see the countryside again. It’s been half a year since I last left the city to visit the Middengard dig. Even longer since my trip to the Commonwealth to visit the university in Cariboulla. Sadly, we won’t be stopping there on our way to Elketh. Perhaps on the return journey? I’m sure they’ll be fascinated by whatever Locke has found.

I can’t help but wonder about it. He spent nearly five months at this mysterious ‘nexus’ of his, yet all the reports Tybalt’s shared with me were generic updates about food stocks and tunnel systems. They definitely found something down there, but the details are sketchy at best. Something about a large cavern, some kind of siphon, and a curious river—barely any details about any of them. I’m itching to get a look at it all firsthoof. Once we arrive, Locke can explain his findings… and why he hasn’t kept in touch with me since departing on the expedition.

Inger shifted in his sleep, pulling her closer. Cranberry smiled. Inger might be even more excited than I am. He’s been spending nearly every waking hour at the warehouse with his father. It reminds me of how Rye used to get when Papa Strudel made sweetrolls…

She paused, chiding herself. This was supposed to be an academic document, not a personal diary. Though… she would, of course, have the chance to edit it before anyone else saw it. And writing things down made her feel better.

I’m worried that Apricot isn’t taking our departure well. This morning, he asked again if he could come with us. I wish it was a sudden interest in elkish history, but his motives are pretty clear. Every time Inger comes home from the mercenary lodgings, Apricot’s all over him asking if he saw that mage, Pollux. I’ve tried explaining why we can’t bring him along, but once he gets an idea in his head he never lets go… He got so mad at me today that I’m not sure he’ll even want to see us off tomorrow.

Between all this and the funeral, I’m starting to feel stretched thin as gossamer. All I want is to forget it all for a few weeks, and get deep into some artifact study with Pad.

With a sigh, she abruptly tucked the pen between the pages and snapped the journal shut. Setting it down on the nightstand along with her folded reading glasses, she extinguished the oil lamp and laid her head down on the pillow. Perhaps tonight, sleep would come more swiftly than it had of late. Cranberry closed her eyes and willed her consciousness to recede.

* * *

Two rooms down the hall, there was another Sugar finding no respite. Apricot stared up at the ceiling from his bed, hooves tucked over the sheets and fidgeting restlessly.

The entire house had been bustling and churning with dozens of unfamiliar faces for a week. Camels, mostly, but there had been a griffon and an antelope as well. None stayed long, merely conferring with Apricot’s father or picking up his mother’s supplies before departing. It was exciting to be around them, especially when the camel named Kaduat had asked him to help her get Mom’s bags packed on the cart. It wasn’t just the chance for Apricot to use his magic for something real; helping the mercenaries made him feel like he was part of something important.

Yet that wasn’t the reason Apricot had spent every morning with his snout pressed up to the window, waiting for them arrive. One mercenary had not returned since that first night. He’d seen no sign of the red-robed mage since then. Apricot sighed, turning over to stare at the wall.

“Quit rustling around,” grumbled Strawberry from the bed on the other side of the room. “I’m trying to sleep.”

Meekly, Apricot pulled the covers up over his shoulders. It wasn’t like he was trying to keep his brother up, but there was no way he was going to be able to sleep tonight. His parents and the expedition were leaving tomorrow. The next morning might be his only chance. His last chance.

Magic is his whole job, he ruminated, his thoughts running through well-worn grooves. He knows things even Mr. Strudel didn’t. Apricot tucked his chin down, feeling another pang of loss. While he missed his teacher, he couldn’t deny the desperate hope that Pollux had kindled inside him. This is the closest I’ve ever come to having a master like the ponies at the academy.

It would be almost a year before he was old enough to even apply for entry into the Canterlot Royal Magic Academy. They were the most selective institution in the north, and how was he going to get in if he couldn’t even lift a pot of vegetables without struggling? But if someone could train him before then, if an experienced battlemage like Pollux took him as an apprentice… maybe he wouldn’t even need the academy.

I’ve got to convince Mom to let me go to Elketh with them, somehow.

Of course, he was no further along with that plan than he had been a week ago. And now, he was out of time. Apricot twisted over to bury his face in his pillow, huffing in despair. This might be his only chance, and it was already slipping through his hooves.

Strawberry let out an aggravated groan. “Just count sheep or something, Pinky.”

Muffled by the pillow, Apricot retorted, “I’m not pink, I’m cerise.” He lifted his head and looked over at his brother. “I never even got the chance to ask that mage to teach me! He never came back to the house, not once.”

“Don’t you think that’s your answer?” Strawberry sighed, sitting upright. “I’m sorry, Pinky. I don’t think he wants a student. He’s a mercenary, not a teacher.”

“But they didn’t even let me ask!”

Uneasily, Strawberry gestured with a hoof. “Mom and Dad’ll find you a new teacher when they get back—”

“Ugh,” said Apricot, giving his pillow a frustrated thwack. “That’s what they keep saying, but it’s always later, later, and then it never happens.” He sat up straight, nervously nibbling a hoof. “They tell me to practice my magic, but whenever I do Mom says it’s too dangerous, or Dad tells me not to do it in the house, or they say there isn’t time right now. Mr. Strudel’s the only one who ever—”

He choked. Wiping his eyes, Apricot took a sharp breath. “He told me to never give up. Now that he’s… gone, Pollux is my last shot.”

Strawberry managed a sympathetic look. “There are plenty of mages out there. You’ll find another. Now let’s go to sleep, okay?”

“You don’t know if I’ll find another one,” shot back Apricot, gritting his teeth in frustration. “Besides, what are the odds the next unicorn is somepony who knows as much as him? He’s a mercenary, a real battlemage, someone who casts all kinds of spells, for real, not just in classrooms.” He gave his brother a pleading stare. “You got to learn flying from the captain of the Firewings. Who’s going to teach me?”

That hit home. Strawberry chewed his lip, thinking for a few moments. Suddenly, his eyes narrowed. Apricot watched curiously as his brother mulled something over, finally turning back to face him. “Apricot… How badly do you want this? Really?”

“More than I’ve ever wanted anything,” said Apricot wistfully, rubbing a hoof on his horn. He glanced at his bare flank, wilting. “I want to be good at it. Really good. The way you want to be as good at flying as Dad is.”

Strawberry sucked air through his teeth, then let it out with a resigned sigh. “I’m going to regret this…”

Apricot’s ears perked up. “Regret what?”

“Do you remember when we used to play the quiet game?”

Apricot frowned. “That wasn’t a game. You just wanted me to shut up.”

“And you were good at it, until you figured that out,” said Strawberry, dryly. “Point is, you think you could stay that quiet again?”

With a scowl, Apricot rolled his eyes. For a moment, he’d thought his brother was going to help, but he just wanted Apricot to be silent so he could go to sleep—

“For… say, two whole weeks?”

Apricot blinked. “Huh?”

Strawberry rubbed his chin. “They said it’ll be two weeks before they reach the island. If you get that far, they couldn’t just turn around and send you back…”

Apricot’s eyes widened. Not trusting himself to speak, he watched Strawberry pace, orange feathers fluttering. “We could hide some food with you…”

“What are you saying…?”

Strawberry rubbed his chin. “I’m still deciding.” He grimaced, raising an eyebrow. “You’re gonna owe me for this, Pinky. Big time.”

“Not pink, cer—”

“I mean it,” his brother cut him off, swatting a hoof. “Mom and Dad are going to kill us both. Aunt Tyria, too.” He snickered. “Although Uncle Rye might be impressed, if we pull it off.”

Apricot finally threw his covers aside and stepped out of the bed. “Pull what off?”

Strawberry rolled out of his bed and trotted swiftly over to their window. With a brief grunt, he hauled it up, letting the cool night air roll in. Peering out, he looked down. “It’s a bit of a drop. We’ll have to be as quiet as we can.” He looked back at Apricot. “I, uh… followed Dad to the warehouse a couple days ago. From the air. I just wanted to see what they were doing over there. Maybe, uh… see our grandpa.” Shrugging, he turned back out the window. “I remember how to get there, but we won’t have much time.”

With a gulp, Apricot nodded. Strawberry took it for assent and stepped out through the window, flapping his wings as he hovered. “You can’t take anything with you. We’ll work out how to hide you when we get there. And you absolutely can’t get caught, got it?”

“Got it,” said Apricot, springing toward the window. His heart was pounding. Is this actually happening?

Strawberry helped him clamber out, and managed to lower him down slowly enough that the two alighted on their hooves rather than an undignified pile. Apricot was trying not to hyperventilate, as the realization of how many rules they were breaking began to set in.

“What about Rye and Tyria?” Apricot whispered, as they started off into the night-shadowed city streets.

“Let me worry about them,” said Strawberry. “Now shh; we don’t want to attract any attention.”

“Okay. And Strawberry?” Apricot followed him with growing hope. “Thank you.”

Strawberry grinned. “Thank me when you’re a mage, Pinky.”

Apricot was too busy thinking about the red-robed unicorn to correct the name.

6. Extra Sugar

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The creaking planks of the Aurora woke Inger with gentle insistence. Yawning, he blinked in the bright morning sun. The tiny porthole at the end of the room was facing east, shining a beam right into his face. Inger shielded his eyes with a hoof, turning his head to see Cranberry’s golden curls flutter as she snored softly beside him.

Smiling, he toyed with a frizzy lock of her mane. The bunk was meant for one, so they were squeezed in tight. Though, he thought smugly, there are worse fates than waking up pressed against a gorgeous mare. She could have taken the top bunk instead, of course… but since the Aurora’s captain had been generous enough to give them the room to themselves, they’d taken advantage of the privacy.

Nuzzling her, Inger traced a hoof along the curve of her hip. She was always beautiful, but never more so than when she was asleep. Her face was wiped blank of all worry, her soft mane spooling across the pillow, completely at peace. It was the first time he’d seen her this relaxed in weeks.

Cranberry’s eyes blinked open, and she tilted her head incrementally with a faint smile. “Morning…”

Inger kissed her cheek, rubbing her leg. “Sleep well?”

“I never sleep well on ships,” she said, her smile turning coy. “Despite your efforts to exhaust me.”

“It’s still early,” he said, nibbling her ear. Cranberry inhaled sharply, closing her eyes. Inger’s hoof slid lower. “Plenty of time for a nap…”

Cranberry tensed, and then pressed her hindquarters back into him with a faint sigh. His hoof wiggled between her legs, teasing. Inger raised an eyebrow. “Or we could pass the time another way.”

“You…” she breathed, “are incorrigible.”

“What can I say, being on a ship with you reminds me of our honeymoon to the tropics,” he said, stroking his hoof gently. “Besides. Those tents we slept in on the way to Fillydelphia were too thin to… risk any noise.”

“Oho,” she purred, twisting over in the bunk to face him. “So, you’re all pent up, is that it?”

Inger bit his lip as he felt her hoof slip down beneath the sheets. “Mhm. Reminded me of being on patrol without you. I can never wait to get back home…”

Cranberry’s hooftip traced up along his sensitive skin. “And here, we don’t even have to wait for the kids to fall asleep.”

“Remind me to thank my father for the opportunity,” said Inger, exhaling with a happy shiver.

“Oh. Yes.” The hoof on him paused. Cranberry’s eyes unfocused for a moment, then she rapped his chest with her free hoof. “You were going to go cloudbreaking with him and Castor today, weren’t you?”

Inger had the sinking feeling that he’d made a mistake of some kind. “Um… if the need arises. But I don’t have to leave right—”

“No, no.” Cranberry rolled over and stepped out of the bunk, yawning and going into a catlike stretch. “I shouldn’t keep you.” She stood up straight after the stretch, with a smile that seemed a little too stiff. “After all… you came on this trip to spend time with him.”

Sitting up with the sheets spooled around him, Inger watched her tread over to the smudged mirror on the cabin wall, where she began fighting her mane under control. It was to spend time with you, too, he thought, but he wasn’t sure saying so would be wise. Instead, he threw the sheets aside and stepped out of the bunk onto the swaying floor.

Joining Cranberry by the mirror, he picked up the ship’s provided tooth-cleaning brush and began scrubbing the sleep out of his mouth. “Learn anyfing elfe about Locke laft nigh’?” he mumbled around his hoof.

“Not a lot,” she said, frowning. “I’m still poring over the reports he was sending back. They’re unusually terse, by Pad’s standards. Just dates, brief geography, and the barest descriptions of some ruins. Very vague. And very strange. Normally, he’s pretty wordy in his journals… even more than I am.”

“Mebbe th’ courier shervice made ‘im pay by the word,” said Inger, still scrubbing.

Cranberry let out a gratifying snicker. “It’s not cheap to send missives from somewhere as remote as Elketh,” she admitted. “Still, your father seems to have spared no expense on Pad’s expedition. They had a lot of material with them—a bunch of carts, supplies, and enough lumber to build a small village. The reports don’t mention anything about trouble on the way into the forest. In fact, it seems like everything went smoothly…”

Wiping his mouth and splashing his face in the small bucket of water they’d been given for hygiene purposes, Inger smacked his lips, freshened. “Don’t worry, honey. We’ll find them.” He gave her a kiss, drawing a reluctant smile out of her worried expression.

“I know.” She sighed. “I’m going to read through from the beginning again. Maybe I’ve missed something.” Cranberry nudged his shoulder. “Now, go on. Your father’s waiting for you.”

Inger nodded and stepped away toward the cabin door. As he pulled it open and stepped through, he cast a glance back over his shoulder. Cranberry was still gazing into the mirror, with a strangely resigned look. He wanted to say something, or tug her back into bed to make her forget all her troubles for a few minutes, but she noticed him out of the corner of her eye and turned with a smile. “Scoot!” she said, gesturing with a hoof.

With a grin that didn’t reach his eyes, Inger slid out the door and shut it behind him.

* * *

Though Inger didn’t love sea travel, he had to admit there was something invigorating about the brine-soaked oceanic air. It was somehow organic, carrying that faint salty odor of paradoxical freshness and decay. The water stretched out to infinity on all sides around the Aurora, broken by minor swells and rippling waves. The weather had been calm so far on their voyage. The expedition’s three pegasi had yet to encounter anything resembling an incipient storm while doing their rounds.

It wasn’t wasted time, though. Flitting through the thin wisps of cirrus together was a chance to get a real feel for the others. You never truly knew another pegasus until you’d flown together, as the old saying went. So far, Castor had proven as capable a flier as any Firewing. Attentive to the weather patterns, detail-oriented, yet calm and willing to let his fellow pegasi do their job without micromanaging. Inger’s estimation of him as a commander rose daily. It was little wonder that Katabasis Company was still around even after a decade of activity.

Tybalt, too, was revealed by his efforts. While obviously not as practiced at weatherforging as the two soldiers—Inger doubted that the noblepony had done much of his own climate maintenance back home in Silverglen—he had admirably kept pace with them despite his age. More tellingly, he did so without complaint. When Inger had obliquely questioned him about it, Tybalt had grinned and replied, “I’m a part of this expedition, aren’t I?”

The two had returned from the most recent afternoon flight only a few minutes ago, alighting on the long yard holding the mainsail. Castor departed to see to some logistical matter, leaving them alone in a peaceful quiet. Tybalt relaxed by draping his hooves over the yard, while Inger leaned back against the mast and watched the waves lap against the sides of the hull.

The sun had sunk low enough in the sky that dinner couldn’t be far off. Enough time to talk. Glancing at his father, Inger grinned. “You ever been on a ship this big before?” he asked, idly toying with a loose bit of line.

“Only once,” said Tybalt, fluffing his wings. He smiled down at the deck, where a few members of the ship’s crew and some of the mercenaries were playing cards. “I took a ship from the Delta up to the Duchy of Norhart with my father back when I was a colt. We passed quite close to the coast of Wyrmgand on the way around the peninsula. I remember it vividly, especially when a dragon flew over the ship. Just a little one, not even the length of the vessel, but I’ll never forget it. All those glittering blue scales, those vast, featherless wings… I’ve never seen its like since.”

“They are beautiful,” Inger mused, scratching his chest. “Terrible, but beautiful.”

“Hmm,” said Tybalt, raising an eyebrow. “They say Celestia still keeps the skull of the dragon you killed in the castle sublevels.”

Inger nodded with a shrug. “It’s down there, in some storage chamber. We weren’t really sure what to do with the body after the battle. It was huge, at least thrice the length of the Aurora.” He gestured below at the ship, for a sense of scale. “No chance of burning it—dragons bathe in liquid rock for fun. Once it started to rot, though, we had to do something. You could smell it everywhere in town, and it was bad enough to make your eyes tear up.”

“Eugh.”

“I think it was Windstreak who came up with the idea of hauling the carcass up into the mountains. It took over a hundred pegasi, forty mages from the academy, and the Nordpony king’s entire retinue, but we managed to shift the whole bulk out of the field and into the peaks. We let the vultures have it, like an old griffon sky burial.”

Tybalt looked simultaneously nauseated and fascinated. “Then how did it end up beneath the castle? Did Celestia take it as a trophy?”

“Er, no… I don’t think that’s really her style.” Inger shook his head. “Nature stripped the carcass clean in a few months, but the bones were too big for wild animals to cart off, and they wouldn’t decay. The princess didn’t want such a macabre tourist attraction right next to the capital, so she had them disassembled and collected. Some went to mages’ towers across the nation—I know the archmage of Whitetail was eager to get his hooves on some. Tremendous magical properties, dragonbone. We never did find a place for the skull, though, so it’s just sitting in the basement with the rest of the royal junk.”

He’d walked in on it, once. It was dark down there, with no light except what you brought with you. Inger had been searching for some mothballed Firewing training equipment, and stumbled into the storage room with his torch to find the massive, grinning skull staring at him with empty eye sockets flickering in the torchlight. Merys’s teeth were still as huge and sharp as the day Inger had fought him. Shivering at the memory, he knocked a hoof against the mast behind his head. “If the dragons had a government, I’m sure she’d return the remains to them. But the dragons don’t really do… nations.”

“No,” said Tybalt, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Imagine how much trouble we’d be in if they ever organized.” He grinned at Inger. “You’d have to ask the nordponies to lend you that hammer again.”

Inger snickered. “I don’t know how many more dragonslayings I have in me.” Sobering, he exhaled. “Besides. Even with the hammer, the only reason I won against Merys was because Celestia had wounded him so badly already.” Fraud, whispered the tiny dragon. He ignored it.

“So humble! You know, you’ve got noble blood,” Tybalt teased, “you’re allowed to be a little full of yourself.” He returned his eyes to the waves below, his warm smile turning sour. “A shame it took a dragon setting her castle on fire for Celestia to enter the war.”

Inger blinked, momentarily wordless. “Father!”

“Hm?”

“You shouldn’t talk about the princess that way,” Inger said, nervously rubbing his shoulder. “It’s… it’s…”

Tybalt’s mouth thinned. “Entirely warranted, I think.”

“She’s our goddess!” Inger gaped at him.

“That doesn’t make her infallible.” Tybalt calmly raised an eyebrow, giving Inger an even look. “Does it?”

“Well… no, of course not…” Inger fidgeted. “I’ve seen her make mistakes. But—”

Tybalt nodded once, sharply. “And her dithering at the start of the war was a mistake, the worst she’s made in our lifetimes. If it weren’t for Celerity Belle, we would have lost to the griffons without so much as a fight.”

“The princess was trying to avoid a civil war,” protested Inger. He sat forward on the yard, wings fluttering anxiously. “One that did nearly as much damage as the griffons, in the end.”

“I know,” said Tybalt, shaking his head, “but her inaction helped cause that war. Good intentions dig mass graves.”

“So do cold calculations,” said Inger, with a bleak sigh. He’d talked enough with Rye about diplomatic crises to know that high-stakes politics were usually more about holding on to the reins than choosing a destination. “No one can see the future. Not even a goddess.”

“True…” Tybalt acknowledged this with a rueful nod. “In that, she’s not so different from us.”

Encouraged, Inger pushed on. “Emmet Blueblood and Celerity Belle caused that war, not Celestia. And she did as much as she was able to, in the circumstances—she sent me and Ambassador Strudel to Sleipnord, and the Firewings to Trellow.”

“Oh?” Tybalt’s eyebrow arched further, his voice extremely dry. “I thought the Firewings were acting on their own, by going to Trellow…”

That was the official story, and if anyone believed it, then Inger had a bridge to sell them. He gave his father a deadpan look, and Tybalt snorted, amused. “Fair enough, then. But she doesn’t get many points for that. If she’d come to Trellow herself, the griffon invasion would never have passed the river.”

“She didn’t bring down a flood of fire on the griffons at Trellow for the same reason she didn’t crush Emmet and Celerity.” Inger could see he wasn’t convincing his father, and tried to find better words. “She wants us—not just ponies, but all mortals—to be free to make our own choices.”

“If that’s so,” said Tybalt, giving Inger a curious look, “then why does she remain Equestria’s ruler? Why not let us self-determine our own leadership?”

Inger was thrown yet again. “You mean like the Antellucíans?”

“I don’t mean a parliamentary system,” said Tybalt, frowning thoughtfully. “I’m not sure mob rule would be an improvement over monarchy. But the council of lords ought to be invested with their nominal authority in truth.” Frustrated, he shook his head. “Equestria has a whole aristocracy, raised to serve their subjects as capable rulers, only to realize as they come of age that they have no true power. Is it any wonder that so many turn to money-grubbing, like Emmet Blueblood? Or wasteful extravagance, like Lady Weatherforge? Or social climbing like the Bellemonts? Whole generations of us become wastrels because Celestia asks nothing better of us. She’ll take care of things for Equestria.”

Tybalt suddenly sagged a little. “We could be so much better, Inger, if only we were allowed to rise to the task. Surely we can rule ourselves—the Antellucíans and Zyrans don’t need a goddess to lead them, so why should we?” The question was mild, his voice gentler than Inger expected after such fiery words.

Inger wasn’t convinced. “Celestia’s wiser than you give her credit for. Before the War of Whitetail, we had three hundred years of peace. No other nation can match that record.” He chewed his lip. “I admit, she’s not perfect; but you don’t live for six thousand years without having a lot of mistakes under your belt.”

“That’s my point, Inger,” insisted Tybalt. “I won’t be around that long. One way or another, in twenty years I’ll be dead. The ponies who come after me will have changed to fit the times, more capable leaders for their era than I or anyone else alive now could hope to be. They’ll have new perspectives, new directions for Equestria to pursue… but it won’t matter, because the crown will still rest on Celestia’s head.”

“You think we’ve stagnated,” said Inger, quietly.

“I know we have.” Tybalt waved a hoof. “Look at how quickly the world is changing. The nordponies have united under a king. The griffons are developing new technologies with vast destructive potential. The Zyrans are building a sea-spanning economic empire. When was the last time Equestria acted, instead of reacting? We’re following the elk into the footnotes of history.”

Inger was at a loss for a response. Rye would have some counterargument, he was certain, but heady political matters weren’t something Inger spent enough time thinking about to come up with anything convincing. “I…”

Tybalt sighed with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to push so hard. Political griping is what sustains us old nobles, you know.” That managed to draw a nervous chuckle from Inger. Tybalt nodded to him. “Never be afraid to test your beliefs against others. Especially if you disagree. It’s a good habit.”

“I just… Celestia’s more than my princess,” said Inger, fiddling with his hooves. “She’s my friend.”

“Ah.” Tybalt softened. “I’ve never been quite sure what to think of all her talk about friendship. How can an immortal alicorn have any true companions? We’re like mayflies to her.” He gave a mystified shrug. “I always assumed it was a trick to encourage loyalty among her servants. After all, the pay can’t be that good.”

“It’s not a trick.” Inger lifted an eyebrow. “You think she really needs a full guard retinue? This is the mare who fought a dragon the size of a fortress by herself, and nearly killed it. When the Firewings aren’t on deployment, we’re mostly there for her company, not her protection.” He grinned. “And the pay’s not that bad…”

That got a laugh out of Tybalt, as well as a thoughtful nod.

“You only see her as the princess, but to me…” Inger smiled. “When she’s alone with her Firewings, she relaxes. There’s a side to her that most ponies never see. Warm, casual, even a little silly—and obsessed with tea. I think she goes through two kettles a day.” He laughed, shaking his head. “And she can pull a prank like no one else. One time, she had the new recruits thinking there was a vampire goose lurking somewhere on the castle grounds. She says her sister was even better at it.”

“Hm…” Tybalt contemplated the setting sun with a faint smile. “Perhaps she’s more mortal than I give her credit for.”

A sound of wood scraping over wood drew Inger’s attention downward. Glancing below at the deck, he saw camels hauling tables into position on the deck. “Looks like it’s dinnertime. Let’s go help them set up.”

Tybalt groaned, but smiled. “More work…? My wings are sore from all that flying.”

“Come on. Beatriz and Kaduat will appreciate it.” Inger winked. “Think of it as a… trick, to encourage loyalty.”

“Oof!” Tybalt laughed, standing up and flexing his wings. “You get that tongue from your mother.”

“The work ethic, too, apparently,” chuckled Inger. “You were just saying it’s a noble’s duty to serve.”

“Serving carrot stew wasn’t exactly what I meant,” Tybalt muttered with a lofted brow, making Inger snicker as the two leaped off the yard to flutter down to the deck.

* * *

The tables were heavier than they looked. After fifteen minutes, Inger was beginning to regret volunteering himself. He puffed out a weary breath as he prepared to start moving yet another up from the hold, when the other end of the table was taken by a familiar pony.

“Tsk, tsk,” murmured Cranberry, lifting up her end of the table, resting it over her back with a foreleg raised to steady it. “What happened to my big, strong pegasus?”

Bashfully, he cleared his throat. “He’s hungry! I’m sure he’ll be back after dinner.”

“A likely story,” she teased. “Come on, or we’ll miss the stew while it’s hot.”

Together, they hauled the table through the hold, stepping past the racks and racks of supplies the mercenaries had brought on the Aurora. Near the barrels just before the steps up to the deck, they crossed paths with Castor. He was peering intently at one of the barrels, rubbing his chin. Inger paused beside him, hefting the table. “What are you looking for, leaks?”

Castor grunted. “Rat droppings. Beatriz tells me more supplies have gone missing. Another loaf of bread, which makes three since we left Canterlot.”

Cranberry shivered. “Oh, no. I hate rats.”

“I haven’t seen any vermin…” Inger frowned. “You’d think we’d hear them scurrying around at night.”

“We would,” muttered Castor, standing up and rapping the barrel’s lid. “And we’re not just missing bread. I’ve never known rats to steal a canteen.” He stretched his wings with a grimace. “I think we have an unlisted passenger.”

Inger tilted his head, puzzled. “Who would want to stow away on a ship to the Elktic Commonwealth? There’s nothing out there but trees and rocks.”

“More likely they’re trying to get away from Equestria.” Castor’s frown deepened. “A fugitive criminal, I expect. Could be dangerous, if cornered. Just keep your eyes open, hm? If either of you see anything strange…”

“We’ll tell you right away,” said Cranberry, peering curiously around the hold. Inger couldn’t help but smile. Now you’ve done it, Castor. Once she has a mystery to solve, she’ll never give up…

Castor sighed. “Enough searching for now. Come on, I’ll help you get that table up the steps.”

As they hauled the table out of the hold, Inger looked around at the deck. The tables were set up in the usual evening configuration: four making a square around the main mast, within which Beatriz had the cauldron of boiling stew set up and stirring. The ladle moved steadily in the blue grip of her magic, as the antelope poured drinks for the mercenaries. The camels passed by the square to grab their mugs before heading to the other tables, arranged around the deck to give open views of the sea.

Kaduat was seated at one of the tables constituting Beatriz’s countertops, seemingly determined to make it into a bar. As usual, she already had a mug of rum in one foot, sipping from it and joking with Virgil beside her. She kept trying to convince him to let her show him some sort of knife trick, but Virgil always declined—and privately warned Inger and Cranberry to do the same. “She usually doesn’t miss,” he’d admitted, “but last time, I nearly lost a talon.” Kaduat had taken his lack of faith in good humor. That crooked smile almost never left her face.

The other mercenary officers were less garrulous. Zaeneas, the zebra alchemist, had barely said five words to Inger since leaving Canterlot. She was always deep in some tome or another, idly mixing things with a mortar and pestle between page flips. Pollux was more amenable, but very reserved. He only really came to life when he was talking to Castor—when not in his brother’s presence, the pale unicorn spent most of his time near the bow of the ship, gazing out into the sea. Inger still couldn’t suss out what Pollux’s place in the mercenary chain of command was—despite being the mercenaries’ XO, Kaduat never issued him orders, yet Pollux didn’t ever command anyone.

Beatriz, the final member of the team—at least, the final member who didn’t communicate entirely in Dromedarian—was the group’s quartermaster, armorer, and cook. Inger had approached her a few times already, seizing the chance to get some old dings banged out of his armor plates. She was friendly, and unmistakably knew her way around a hammer and anvil, but they hadn’t spoken much beyond that.

The ship’s galley was only large enough for the Aurora’s crew to eat in, so Katabasis had been using the deck. Most of the crew came up to join the mercenaries in the evenings, as much for the food as the company—Beatriz had been producing good grub, especially by naval standards. Inger had eaten a lot worse on assignment. Even Tybalt, no doubt more used to fine dining, looked forward to meals with unmistakable enthusiasm.

Speak of the devil, thought Inger, as Tybalt walked up with a legful of burlap seating pads, setting them by the table as Cranberry and Inger arranged it. “You were right about helping to set up,” Tybalt said lightly, adjusting a cushion. “Kaduat’s thanked me twice already tonight. A good trick.” He winked.

“See? Nothing like doing chores to make someone happy.” Inger grinned at Cranberry, but found her staring somewhat stonily at Tybalt. Recalling how closed-off she’d been that morning, Inger felt his stomach sink. What’s wrong? It’s something about my father, that’s clear. “Honey, I think I forgot my, uh, mug, down in our cabin. Could you help me find it?” He wanted to get to the bottom of this.

Cranberry’s mouth thinned, but she nodded. From behind Inger, he heard Kaduat whistle, “Don’t take too long, you two.” Inger turned and forced a grin for the camel, who gave him a broad wink. “I’ll save seats for you both.”

With a wave of thanks, he followed Cranberry toward the steps, and descended after her to the crew deck. Wood creaked under their hooves as they tread in silence. They hadn’t gone far toward their cabin at the other end of the ship before Inger stopped and rested a hoof on her shoulder. “Is something wrong?”

Cranberry looked away, pursing her lips for a moment, then sighing. “Inger, let’s not…”

“I’m just worried about you.” That sinking feeling was getting worse. “If you’re not feeling well, you can tell me…”

“I’m fine.”

“Then why do you freeze up whenever my father’s around?”

Her shoulders hunched. “Inger, I don’t want to fight.”

“Fight!?” Inger’s hoof jerked back as if pricked. “About what?”

She put a hoof to her forehead. “Can we just drop it?”

“I think he’d like to get to know you more,” said Inger, earnestly. “He likes you. I think you remind him of his wife.”

“The one he cheated on?” Cranberry asked flatly. “Look, Inger, I’m glad the two of you are getting along so well. Just don’t expect me to pretend we’re all a big, happy family, now. Not after all he’s done.”

“You’re angry about him and my mother. I get it.” Inger tapped a hoof, frowning. “You think I’m not? He’s got a lot to make up for, Cranberry. But he’s trying. He’s trying so hard it hurts to watch, sometimes. Can’t we try, too?”

“Inger—” she began, but a sudden noise interrupted her. Wood clacked against wood, but muffled, coming up through the deck below them. Both of them froze, ears twitching. “What was that?” she whispered.

“Castor’s thief?” hissed Inger.

Cranberry’s eyes lit with excitement. “We can catch them in the act. Come on!” she darted past him, back toward the steps. Inger sighed, suspecting that her enthusiasm was more about ending the conversation than catching a stowaway.

Inger followed as quietly as he could. “Wait up! Be careful.” If it really was some Equestrian fugitive, then they could be armed. He wasn’t worried about himself—no thief or highwaypony alive could handle a Firewing—but Cranberry could get hurt if there was any fighting. “Maybe you should go get Castor.”

“Nonsense,” Cranberry whispered. “Shh! There it was again. It’s coming from the cargo hold.” She crept down the stairs.

In the hold, the dim lantern swung slowly from its hook. The lower deck was cast in shadow, quiet but for the creaking of wood and the sea beyond it. The barrels stood arrayed in formation, like a sinister line of troops. Inger’s pulse quickened as his ears craned for any hint of the intruder.

Something pattered in the far reaches of the hold, hidden in the darkness. Hoofsteps. Inger’s wings rose like hackles. “Cranberry,” he whispered urgently, “get behind me.”

She obeyed, though staying closer than he’d have liked. Creeping into the dark, the two inched after the sounds. The unmistakable sound of a door opening and closing sounded from further into the ship. Inger paused to grab the lantern, holding it aloft with a forehoof. The heat flickered uncomfortably on his face.

They crept to the bow end of the hold, finding a set of doors. Utility closets, Inger realized. Mops and buckets for swabbing the decks were stored inside… it wouldn’t be hard to make enough space for a stowaway in one of them. The unmistakable sound of chewing came faintly through the nearest door. Inger set the lantern down, motioning Cranberry to step back.

One, he counted silently, holding up a hoof. Two. His legs slid out into a combat stance. Three!

He burst forward, slamming his shoulder into the door—which turned out not to be locked. It banged open as the occupant yelled in surprise, and a canteen clattered to the floor. Inger stopped cold as he laid eyes on a unicorn colt, staring up at him and Cranberry in absolute panic. The colt covered his mouth with a bright pink hoof.

No, not pink. Cerise.

His son’s hoof dropped to his mouth as he nibbled on the tip. His eyes flicked to Cranberry, then back to Inger. “Uh… h-hi, Dad…”

* * *

There were only two times in Apricot’s life that he’d seen his father truly furious.

The first time, two years ago, Strawberry and some of his friends had been out in the street playing with a low-hanging cloud. Strawberry had been trying for weeks to produce lightning, and Apricot had been eagerly waiting for him to succeed. Their father had always warned Strawberry not to weatherforge so low to the ground, but at his friends’ prompting he’d ignored the rule and kicked out some lightning at last. Their mom had seen it too… and nearly been struck by the bolt.

When their dad found out, he’d thrown the others out and grounded Strawberry for a solid month—no flying at all. Apricot had actually enjoyed the chance to play with his brother without him soaring off for once.

The second time had been just a couple weeks past, that night they’d come home from Mr. Strudel’s funeral. When they’d found Grandpa and Pollux sitting at the table, Apricot had thought for a moment that his father was going to fight them. The way his wings had gone straight out, that tension coiled in his spine; he’d never seen his dad like that before.

Now, watching Inger’s rapidly purpling face and twitching wings, Apricot realized with rising panic that he had a third addition to the list.

Fortunately—perhaps—his mother was the first to speak. “Apricot Sugar!”

He straightened, trying to ignore the ice creeping up his spine. “Hi, Mom,” he said, with a sickly smile.

It wasn’t often that Cranberry was lost for words. “I can’t believe—!” She lifted a hoof, and Apricot winced in anticipation of a smack, but she stamped it down hard on the floor instead. “What are you doing here?”

Biting his hoof again, he, stammered, “I—I, um… you know, I just…”

“Answer her.” His father’s voice was low and dangerous. Apricot gulped, looking deep into his eyes and finding no mercy. Inger was glaring at him so sternly he could have cowed a dragon. Suddenly Apricot had an inkling of why everyone seemed to find his gentle, patient father so intimidating.

Apricot had one tried and true escape plan. When in trouble, blame your brother. “S-Strawberry said he’d help—”

“Don’t even try it.” His father’s steely gaze would brook no foolish attempts to weasel out of this. “Apricot, what—” air hissed from Inger’s snout. “What madness possessed you to come here?”

Excuses rose in his throat and withered on his tongue. Apricot’s mouth moved wordlessly for a moment. Unwanted, the truth leaped out of him. Desperately, he shouted, “I want to be that mage’s apprentice!”

Inger turned his head, failing to restrain a snarl. Cranberry marched furiously forward, looming over Apricot. “Do you have any idea the trouble you’ve just caused us all?”

“I’ve only taken a few loaves of bread and some water,” he protested, but she cut him off with a fierce stomp of her hoof.

“I don’t mean the supplies! This is a rescue mission, Apricot, not a game. We can’t focus on saving the others if we’re trying to keep you from getting hurt. You’ve made everyone’s job harder, especially your father’s.” She closed her eyes, face filled with a disappointed anger that cut him deeply. “I can’t believe you’ve been so selfish.”

Apricot wilted. “But—”

“Rye and Tyria must be worried sick that you’re missing. Did you even think about them before you stole off?”

That brought a little indignant defiance back to him. “Of course we did! Strawberry told them I was sick in my room, and didn’t want to talk to anyone but him. He said he’d tell them the truth after, uh, well, after it was too late for them to do anything about it.”

“Gods,” muttered Inger, shaking his head. “No doubt their letter’s still chasing us from Canterlot.”

Cranberry’s chest puffed out. “Young stallion, you’re turning around the instant we get back on land and going straight home.” She put a hoof back to her head to fend off a headache. “I suppose your father or I will have to take you.”

Apricot jerked forward, aghast. “What? No! You can’t send me back until I talk to Pollux—”

“We can, and we will.” Cranberry’s eyes were harder than iron. “This is no place for a colt.”

“I’m almost four! I’m not going to be a colt that much longer.” Apricot gritted his teeth. “You went adventuring with dad when you were a kid!”

She stamped an indignant hoof. “I was much older than you are now, Apricot, and—”

“Two years isn’t much older, Mom!”

Inger coughed, covering his mouth with a hoof, but Apricot thought he saw a small smile behind it. Sensing a point had been scored, the colt pressed on. “Please. You’ve always said you didn’t regret following dad to Sleipnord. Let me take my chance!”

Cranberry reared back, clearly ready to begin a full-blown tirade, but Inger placed a foreleg across her chest. “Cranberry,” he said calmly, shooting another frown at Apricot, “Let’s talk about this outside.” He gestured out of the cramped utility closet.

She looked between the two of them, favoring her husband with a glower. “Apricot, stay.” She left first, her teeth grinding. Inger followed her out, firmly shutting the door behind them.

In the darkness of the storeroom, Apricot leaned up against the wooden door, craning his ear to eavesdrop.

“Gods,” muttered his mother, “What the hell has gotten into him?” Apricot winced. When his mother reached the point of swearing it usually meant that he was in for a legendary punishment, like sorting all of Aunt Tyria’s paints, or copying down a thousand lines of translated nordpony poetry…

“Exactly what he told us,” said his father ruefully. “He’s set on learning spells from Pollux.”

“Yes, but to follow us out of Equestria—I thought he was smarter than this.”

“Smarter? Or just more timid?”

Cranberry’s reply was tart. “Don’t you dare say you’re proud of him.”

“Not for disobeying us. But… you have to admit, this proves how serious he is about his magic. This isn’t just some passing childhood interest. It’s only going to get worse if we don’t get him a teacher.” Inger paused for a moment, snorting. “And to think,” he said dryly, “you were talking about having a third one.”

“A girl,” muttered Cranberry. She sighed. “Strawberry was never this—impulsive.”

“Well, we know where he gets it from…”

Apricot heard his mother splutter with embarrassment. “He’s—I’m not—” Inger laughed. Cranberry growled and stomped her hoof again. “It’s different, Inger. I was older when I snuck off after you and Rye, and even then it was a stupid thing to do—”

“Oh, now you think so,” said Inger, still chuckling.

“And we weren’t going into some Sisters-forsaken elken ruins where forty people have already vanished—”

“No, just an icy wasteland full of ponies trying to kill us.” Inger’s tone was gentle, but insistent. “It was just us and Rye, back then. This time, we’ve got a whole mercenary company between him and danger.”

“I don’t know if it’s enough,” whispered Cranberry, her voice trembling. “What if he tumbles off the boat in the night and drowns? What if he brushes up against some poisonous plant in the forest and drops dead before we can get the antidote? What if Pollux teaches him to hurl fireballs, and he blows himself up?”

Apricot nearly rubbed his hooves together with glee at the thought of learning fireball spells, but paused when he heard his father speak again. “Cranberry… we went through this when Strawberry started flying, too. If we don’t let them out there, let them take some risks, they’ll never learn to use their gifts and grow.”

“I just—I can’t—” She sounded disturbingly close to bursting into tears. Apricot slid slowly down the door, suddenly ashamed. He’d never wanted to make her cry.

“Honey…”

Cranberry took a shuddering breath. “I can’t lose any more of my family, Inger. I cannot.”

“I’ll keep him safe. You too, and my father, all of us. It’ll be all right.”

“You don’t get it, Inger. That’s not good enough.” Cranberry’s hooves rapped the wood as she paced. “You remember the Antlerwood? You and I would both have died without Rye there to save us. And neither of us could have even put up a fight. Elken forests are not safe, and the dangers aren’t always things you can hit with your hooves.”

There was a short silence. “Do you think the Elderwood will be the same way?”

“I don’t know, Inger. The ancient elk were powerful blood mages. They did terrible things in the forests they called home. There’s a reason today’s elk hate their ancient forbears.” She gave a frustrated sigh. “Locke told me a long time ago that atrocities like those leave echoes. I have no idea what we’ll find in the Elderwood, but I guarantee you that if it was safe, Pad wouldn’t need a rescue party in the first place.”

“If—” Inger made a frustrated groan. “If you thought things would be this dangerous, why didn’t you say anything earlier?”

“Because I care about Locke, and—” Cranberry’s voice caught, suddenly brittle and angry. “And because you were so excited about the chance to spend time with Tybalt that I didn’t want to start a row about it.”

“This is about our son,” said Inger, his voice darkening. “Not my father.”

Apricot nibbled his hoof again. His parents bickered all the time, but always with smiles and winks. This argument sounded different. Uglier.

“Oh, please. Everything on this trip is about him.”

“What’s that mean?”

Cranberry’s pacing stopped. “I thought we were doing this together, Inger, but you keep spending every free moment you get with that pompous, selfish, disloyal—”

“Every time I try to spend time with you, you push me away! What did he do to make you hate him so much?” Inger sounded aghast. “I know he’s a little stuffy, but he’s humble, and principled—”

“Dangerously principled,” muttered Cranberry.

“What?”

“Something Tyria told me,” she said quietly. “You know what? Forget it. Do what you want. If you think it’s best that our son learns how to set the ship on fire, so be it. I’ll just do my best to clean up the pieces.” Her hooves thudded as she abruptly galloped away toward the stairs.

“Cran—” Inger broke off with a gloomy sigh.

Apricot waited in the dark for a few nervous moments, his heart beating rapidly. An uncomfortable sinking feeling settled in his stomach. He’d just wanted to learn magic, not make his parents fight. Sure, he and Strawberry had expected them to be mad, but not at each other. Tentatively, he cracked the door open to see his father standing with his shoulder slumped and his head hung low.

The door creaked, and Inger’s head whipped up. He fixed another stern gaze on his son. “All right, Apricot. Come on out. You can stay—for now.”

The uneasiness burned away in a sudden blaze of excitement. Apricot pulled the door all the way open and darted out. “Really?”

“Really.” His father’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t think there won’t be hell to pay. I’m sure your mother can come up with something. But…” he softened, “you can ask Pollux if he’s willing to train you a little.”

Apricot couldn’t stop himself from bouncing. “Yes!”

“You’ll have to wait until after dinner,” said Inger, frowning, “and if he says no, that’s that.”

“He’ll say yes, I know it!” Apricot raced forward and flung his forelegs around his father’s leg. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Inger rested a gentle hoof on his back. “Just make sure you earn it. If he agrees to teach you, you’d better give it your all.”

“I will. I want this, Dad, so much…” Apricot’s mind raced, thinking of all the incredible things Pollux could show him. Fireballs, invisibility, lifting huge burdens without a hoof and Sisters-knew what else…

“And you need to apologize to your mother,” said Inger, his eyes turning away toward the stairs. “She’s very upset.” His voice lowered so much that Apricot could barely hear him. “With both of us.”

That nervous, bad feeling suddenly returned. Apricot gulped and nodded, before beaming again. Despite getting caught, he’d done it! Days and days spent cramped up inside a barrel, sneaking out at night to take food from the stores, not making a peep all day even though he was so bored he’d resorted to counting rivets in the wood; all worth it in the end. When they returned to Equestria he’d do anything Strawberry wanted to pay him back, even doing all his chores for a month.

A bell pealed from the deck above. Inger looked up. “Well, dinner’s started. Let’s go join the others. If I’m lucky, your mother’s already explaining this to Castor…”

Prancing with delight, Apricot followed him toward the upper decks, and the unicorn in the crimson robes.

7. The Song

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Half an hour later, the deck still buzzed with activity. Dinner was well underway, as mercenaries and sailors jostled each other in line for second servings. Cranberry was seated at the central square of tables, sourly staring into her half-finished bowl of stew. With the wooden spoon clenched tightly in her teeth, she toyed with a floating chunk of carrot, thoughts churning.

Unbelievable. Am I the only sane adult on this ship?

Surely, she’d thought, the mercenaries would take the unexpected arrival of her son seriously. Yet, one by one, she’d found that none of them seemed to care. Beatriz had groused about an extra mouth to feed, but she’d done so with a smile—they’d brought enough food for both Katabasis and Locke’s team, so one additional colt wouldn’t even make a dent in their stores. Virgil had just shrugged, clearly uncomfortable with children, and Zaeneas hadn’t even looked up from her books.

Castor was the one pony she’d expected to agree with her, sending the vulnerable civilian home at the first opportunity, but he’d had a quick, hushed discussion with Tybalt and then merely said that her presence here was too invaluable to lose, so they’d merely make sure Apricot stayed out of trouble. It was a cold reassurance, at best, not helped by the curious look Pollux had given her son from across the deck when she’d explained his foolhardy quest. She’d at least put her hoof down about letting Apricot talk to him until after dinner.

The worst of all was Kaduat, who seemed downright pleased to have the colt along. Apricot was sitting between her and his mother, eagerly explaining his caper to the appreciative camel.

“So Strawberry snuck into the warehouse through the second floor window and managed to find an empty barrel. Then we packed it in with the others in the water cart, and I squeezed in.”

Kaduat, shaking with mirth, slapped her mug of rum back down on the table. “In a barrel! So much for our perfect security,” She wiped her eyes. “Kiddo, you’ve got a knack for infiltration.”

Apricot’s grin was bashful. “It was really my brother’s idea…”

“Oho, I see,” said Kaduat, elbowing him. She glanced up at Cranberry with a conspiratorial wink. “Well, by the time you get back, maybe you’ll have some new tricks to show him.”

“I hope so.” Apricot looked wistfully toward the ship’s bow, where Pollux was doing his usual survey of the empty ocean.

Cranberry grimly let her spoon rest. “You’ll be learning more than magic.” She looked up as the antelope cook whisked past, handing off another bowl of stew to a Dromedarian mercenary. “Beatriz, you wouldn’t mind teaching Apricot the finer points of scrubbing all those pots and pans after dinner, would you?”

Beatriz grinned. “Not at all.”

Apricot grimaced and turned back to his dinner, as Kaduat laughed. She nudged him amiably. “Win some, lose some, kiddo. Could be worse.” She took a swig of rum, wiping her lips as she gave a nostalgic sigh. “One time on patrol duty in the Ceracen ocean, I was supposed to tie cargo down to the belaying pins while we did a series of maneuvers, but I used the rigging line by mistake—when the sail turned, the barrels went flying. Potatoes all over the deck. My old CO had me gather them all up, and then I was stuck preparing them every night. Weeks of peeling potatoes. I couldn’t get the smell off my feet until we made port a month later…”

As Apricot giggled, Cranberry glanced around at Kaduat and the other Dromedarians. “Did all of you serve on the same ship?”

“Nope,” said Kaduat, shaking her head. “Most of these boys were ground pounders; general infantry. That’s why I’m the only one that speaks much Equestrian—navy wanted us to know the basics, since we had more of a chance of running into ponies. I met up with the others near the end of the civil war, and we all came to Equestria together.” With a snort, Kaduat grinned at her troops. “And to think, my brother always said the army and the navy couldn’t work together.”

“Is he here?”

“No.” Kaduat’s smile vanished for the first time. She looked into her mug with cool disinterest, frowning as she found it empty. “Fadil got tapped for that damn fool mission to Zyre a couple of years ago.”

“Oh…” Cranberry swallowed. “He didn’t make it?”

“All I’ve got left of him is this,” mused Kaduat, reaching into her jerkin and withdrawing a glittering silver knife. “Taught me how to use it when we served together on the Aten-Re. I was never as good as he was, though.” She smiled at her reflection in the brilliant blade.

“So… is that why you left the military?”

“Not exactly…” Kaduat sighed, giving her empty mug a shake. “The Zyre operation was a total fiasco. Dozens of ships lost, thousands of dead soldiers, and then the zebras cleaned out the treasury in the peace settlement. The pharaoh’s cousin decided that Dromedaria had suffered enough under his rule, and that it was time for… new leadership.”

She plunged the tip of the dagger into the table with a thunk, waving Beatriz down. “More rum, eh?”

“Madame Zenubia, at your service,” said Beatriz dryly, reaching into her stores and withdrawing a bottle with an elegant zebra mare imprinted on it.

As Beatriz poured her a refill, Kaduat returned to Cranberry. “It was a short war… but I picked the wrong side.”

“I see,” said Cranberry, carefully neutral. “You survived, though.”

Kaduat shrugged, nodding thanks to Beatriz and taking a long drink. “Aye,” she said, slamming the mug back down on the table with a satisfied grunt, “along with the rest of these unlucky sods.” She swept a foot at the other camels. “Life’s not been so bad in Equestria. We ran into Castor in Norharren a year ago, and since then we’ve been doing good work. Things we can be proud of.”

“Like what?” chirped Apricot, eyes wide.

Warmth returned to the mercenary’s face as she grinned at him. “Fighting bandits, rescuing princesses, that sort of thing.”

“You rescued Princess Celestia?” he asked, tilting his head dubiously.

Kaduat laughed. “No, it wasn’t a princess, technically. We did a job for some noblepony out in Helmfast. His daughter had been kidnapped by a group of lumber-cutters turned highwayponies…”

Cranberry let Kaduat’s animated storytelling slip from her attention as she looked over to her right, where Inger and Tybalt were still deep in conversation. They’d been talking about the Vallen vineyards for what seemed like ages. Apparently, her husband had discovered a sudden fascination with wine-making.

Mhm. Or he’s avoiding me. Cranberry restrained a sigh. They hadn’t had a chance to talk in private since their fight belowdecks. She couldn’t blame him for not wanting to continue it—she’d been surprised by her own vehemence. But just like the mercenaries, she couldn’t understand why Inger didn’t seem to realize how dangerous this was. The thought of losing Apricot, so much worse than losing Papa just a few weeks ago—Cranberry closed her eyes tightly, taking a deep breath.

I can’t tell him why I’m so angry, she thought, shamefully. It’s not fair to him, or to Tybalt. And saying it aloud would make me sound insane.

Blearily, she opened her eyes and resumed stirring her bowl. But it’s not fair to me, either. Why did I have to lose my father for Inger to find his?

It was such a petty, ugly envy. She wished bitterly that she was above this hollow jealousy, but every time she saw that light in Inger’s eyes when he talked about his father, she wanted to throw something, or cry, or scream how unfair it was for him to find such happiness while she was in so much pain. She still woke up weeping some mornings, recalling that chilly morning by the grave. And now Inger, who had been her rock, the pillar she could always count on to keep her standing, had abandoned her for the stallion who’d abandoned him.

He hasn’t abandoned me, she chided herself. How hurt would he be if those words left her lips? Inger can’t know I feel this way. No one can. And so, she kept her silence—a silence she feared would soon swallow her up.

“—and then, when I broke down the door, this mare comes flying at me out of nowhere with a broken bottle. Nearly got me, too, I barely dodged.” Kaduat pointed to a thin scar across her shoulder. “Turned out our little ransom victim had been doing a pretty good job of escaping on her own. She had the bottle for a weapon, she’d built a rope out of her torn-up dress, even gotten into some of the lumberponies’ wood oil and painted herself up with it, so her white coat wouldn’t be as visible in the woods at night.”

Apricot was enthralled. “Was she going to make it?”

“Well…” Kaduat waggled an ambivalent foot. “They’d caught her in the escape attempt and locked her in that room until their leader got back from foraging. It’s a good thing we got there when we did. Made a clean getaway before the rest of the bandits returned. Still, we were all impressed. I thought Castor was going to offer her a job,” she chuckled.

“Why didn’t he?”

“She was a noble’s daughter, after all. Her father wouldn’t have approved of her roughing it with a bunch of mercenaries.” Kaduat snickered. “In fact, he paid us extra to leave the same night we returned her. ‘Course, that might’ve been because she kept making doe eyes at Virgil over there…”

Across the deck, Virgil’s head swiveled at the sound of his name. Primly, he cleared his throat. “Entirely unreciprocated, you know,” he called over. “It’s not my fault we had to skip town…”

“I know it wasn’t,” said Kaduat with a grin, “because that was the night I went to get some booze from the cart and found you bending Bea over a—”

Cranberry coughed emphatically, jerking her head toward a curious Apricot.

“Er, right.” Kaduat shrugged sheepishly. “Sorry, kiddo.” She ruffled Apricot’s mane.

Beatriz placed her hooves on the table and leaned over it, smiling tightly with a deadly glint in her eye. “Anyone need a refill? Or a smack to the head?”

Kaduat grinned and pushed her mug toward the antelope. “Hey, Bea, I don’t judge. I like boys with wings myself.” For an instant, her eyes glanced to the right, past Cranberry.

At Inger.

Cranberry planted her hoof on the tabletop and jerked her head into Kaduat’s line of sight, glaring daggers. Fortunately, Inger and Tybalt were still blathering about fermentation, and hadn’t noticed.

Kaduat’s spine instantly straightened, and her smile was wiped away by a nervous frown. “Ah, on second thought, Bea—maybe that’s enough for tonight.”

“Agreed,” said the antelope dryly, whisking away the empty mug with a glow of blue magic. “Let’s try to at least make it to the island before you get yourself murdered, mm?”

Cranberry’s smile was mirthless and flinty. “I spend a lot of time digging up bodies in my line of work. I’m sure I could bury one.”

Kaduat rubbed the back of her neck, laughing anxiously as she tried to parse whether Cranberry was making a joke or a threat. “I’d rather not find out.” Cringing, she mouthed sorry. Cranberry frowned, but gave her a single, terse nod.

Apricot, apparently having missed the conversation’s subtext, took a drink of water from his cup. “What’s it like?” he asked.

“Er…” began Kaduat, blushing.

“The island, I mean.” he continued. “And the elk, what are they like?”

Cranberry nudged her spoon, giving up on the stew. “What we call elk are actually a variety of species,” she said, watching the ripples. “There are the true elk, who are enormous—some are three meters high, counting the horns. They can get even taller than Princess Celestia. Then there are their cousins, the deer, who are a lot smaller. White-tailed and red deer are the most common, and the most likely to travel—my colleagues at the University of Cariboulla are all deer. There’s also the caribou, who are the most reclusive of the lot—they all live in the forests of the commonwealth islands, in elaborate treetop towns linked by bridges. They’re not fond of outsiders. I doubt we’ll run into any of them; there aren't any caribou settlements on Elketh.”

Apricot looked up at the sails, clearly trying to visualize them. “What do they look like?” He glanced at Beatriz, who was wiping a mug down with a rag. “Kind of like antelopes?”

“Our horns aren’t as fancy as elk antlers,” said Beatriz, looking up with a smile. “But they don’t fall off, either.”

“Their horns fall off?” Apricot paled, reaching up to touch his own, as if to assure himself it was still there.

“Every year,” affirmed Cranberry. “They grow a new pair in the spring and summer, then lose them in the winter. And that’s just the males; female elk don’t grow antlers at all.”

“So they can’t do magic?” he looked into his mug, crestfallen. “That’s sad…”

“Oh, they can do magic,” muttered Kaduat. “Pollux hasn’t shut up about it for weeks…”

At the mention of his idol, Apricot perked back up. “How?”

“Necessity’s the mother of invention, so they say.” Cranberry was beginning to feel enthused, now that the conversation had turned to the subject of half a lifetime’s study. “The ancient elk carved talismans out of fallen antlers, using them to channel magic in new ways. They developed the art of spellsinging, to weave enchantments more intricate than any of the other magical races. And they discovered the magic-storing properties of glass, using their homeland’s native veins of volcanic glass to create vast devices and marvelous architecture.”

Twirling her spoon under a hoof, she shifted with growing excitement. “Records from the Anno Dominium era tell of incredible things like the great floating city of Caomh and automated transportation systems. More than one source claims it was possible to travel from Elketh to Grypha in the blink of an eye, and that the whole empire of the Dominion was united by a single language.”

“A floating city…” Apricot’s eyes were wide. “Are we going to see it?”

“No…” Cranberry’s enthusiasm dampened. “It’s long gone. All the ancient wonders of the elk were destroyed or crumbled to dust thousands of years ago. The only things we have left are fragments…”

Apricot frowned. “There’s got to be something left.”

Well, Cranberry mused, perhaps there is. Not that Locke’s reports describe it very well… They were so vague that she was growing convinced that Pad was hiding something on purpose. Soon enough, she’d have the chance to find out for herself.

“In a way, we still have one legacy of the elk,” she said, lifting a hoof toward the setting sun. “They were the first to raise and lower the sun each day.”

Kaduat shifted. “Hm. I thought your princess had always done that.”

“The gods fought the dragons for rule over the new world at the beginning of time,” said Cranberry, enjoying the rapt attention of the small group. It reminded her of teaching. “The creation wars spanned a hundred years, ravaging the earth. Weather, seasons, and the movement of the celestial bodies were all thrown out of their natural cycles. The gods saw the destruction they’d wrought and agreed to leave the earth, giving it to the mortals to heal. Celestia and her sister, Nightmare Moon, the goddesses of the sun and stars, departed with the rest, ascending to their heavenly home.”

Cranberry could tell this was new to Beatriz and Kaduat as well, who were both listening with interest. “They returned eventually, when the disunity of the pony races they’d created in their image threatened to drive us all to extinction. But there was a long, long time between their departure and their return. When the gods first left—abandoned, some said—the world, the mortals found themselves trapped in a world of eternal winter and night.

“In Elketh, the first home of the true elk, their nascent empire was about to form. The islands were disunited, as the deer warred against the elk, but the vanishing of the gods brought the conflict to an abrupt halt. With the moon frozen in the sky, and the snow failing to melt, the mortal races began to despair. Without the sun, famine and death seemed inevitable, and all was lost.”

Really getting into the story now, Cranberry leaned in. “The elk called a council between their warring tribes. All their anger at each other finally had another outlet—the gods who had left them. Peace seemed possible at last, and they signed an accord to unite as one people. They called it the Triarchy of Cervida, ruled by three kings or queens, one from each of the major islands. For a year, the fragile alliance held, but the food was quickly running out. There could be no harvest in the endless night. Things were beginning to fall apart.

“Then, from a small village on the coast of Cariboulla, an elken astronomer claimed to have made a discovery that could save them all. By studying the shadows on the surface of the moon, he had learned that the moon was reflecting light from a single source, somewhere on the other side of the world. The sun had not vanished after all, he claimed. It was still there, lighting up the moon from the far side of the earth, locked in the sky as it had been at the moment of elendriolanera’s—the Lady of the Sun’s—departure.”

Beatriz, the mug she’d been cleaning long forgotten, leaned against the table. Kaduat, too, was watching intently, cleaning her teeth with the tip of her knife.

“In their private chambers, the triarchs argued over what they should do. One wished to flee the islands, carrying the whole of the elken people across the sea in ships to seek the sunlight. Another felt that salvation lay underground, where at least edible mushrooms could grow without sunlight. The third simply left them to fight, and stepped out of the chambers. While the others squabbled, he addressed the gathered lords of the elk. I can save us, he told them, but only through unity. We must be one people, one nation, if we are to survive.

“He outlined his plan to the gathered elk, and it was agreed. That very night, he was proclaimed the sole ruler of the new Elken Dominion, Spéir Leighis, the Sky-Healer. He had a flair for the dramatic,” Cranberry said, raising an eyebrow. “The rival triarch who wished to leave on a ship was drowned, and the one who wished to retreat into the caves was buried alive.”

Apricot shivered. “Then what?”

“Spéir brought the greatest mages from across the islands together, and showed them his grand designs. They would build a vast device to channel their magic into the sky, arcing around the world to the very point where the astronomer had calculated the sun’s position. Construction took forty days, a miraculously short time driven by the desperation of the elken people. When it was ready, the elk poured all their magic into it, reaching for the heavens and grasping the sun.”

Cranberry’s eyes sparkled. How it must have felt, to hold the heavens in their hooves. “They pulled the sun and the moon around the planet, recreating the natural orbits they had once possessed. The world was saved, and the elk were united like no mortal race had ever been before. And the Dominion was formed, with a purpose: to maintain the movement of the sun and moon, to take the gods’ place as rulers of the world.”

Beatriz blanched, lifting her rag and resuming cleaning the mug. “Obey us or starve, right?”

“A lot of power for one nation,” said Kaduat, sliding her knife back into her jerkin. “I guess we should be grateful the pony queen doesn’t have the same ambitions, eh?”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” said Inger, giving Cranberry a jolt of surprise. She looked over to find him smiling. “Celestia’s got no interest in world domination. If anything, the griffons keep trying to dominate us.”

He winked at Cranberry. “I love hearing you talk about history,” he murmured. “It’s cute, the way your eyes light up.”

She blushed a little, returning the smile. Oh… it’s hard to stay mad at you, she thought, with a tiny sigh.

Past her husband, Tybalt was watching her with an enigmatic look. His golden irises seemed hazy with thought. “So the elk were able to move the sun with a machine?” he asked, absently.

“For a time. Later on, they created techniques that could be used anywhere in the world, as long as enough mages joined their powers together. When the Dominion collapsed, the unicorn tribe was already familiar with some of them, and they inherited the task of moving the sun and moon.”

Tybalt said nothing in reply, merely steepling his hooves and sinking his chin behind them. He had a strangely hopeful smile. Before Cranberry could inquire further, the sound of scraping tables drew everyone’s attention. Toward the bow, the sailors and mercenaries were swiftly pushing a couple of tables toward the ship’s gunnels, clearing the forward section of the deck. Pollux had stepped down from his perch at the prow, and stood alone in the open space.

“Ah!” breathed Beatriz, batting her smock to shake off soot, before removing it. “I’m needed elsewhere.” She ducked out of the central square of tables and trotted toward Virgil, who was holding up two strangely shaped black cases. She took the smaller one, before the the two headed toward the bow to join Pollux.

Kaduat nudged Apricot with an elbow. “How well could you hear things in that barrel, kiddo?”

“Not very…” Apricot blinked curiously.

“Good.” Her smile broadened. “Then you’re in for a treat.”

Virgil set his case down, kneeling beside it to open the latches. “Are we still playing Faleirin?”

“Mhm,” said Pollux, with a subdued smile. “I need to practice my elkish.”

All around, mercenaries were scrambling to finish the last of their dinners. Those who were done turned to watch the trio eagerly. Cranberry watched Apricot lean forward, peering at Pollux, his curiosity plain. Inger nudged her from the side, and her heartbeat quickened. Flashing her a small grin, he winked. Cranberry managed a smile in return.

The whistle of a flute broke over the quiet rumblings of anticipation. Beatriz closed her instrument case before blowing another few notes. Her horns glowed as she adjusted the flute’s length. On Pollux’s other side, Virgil slipped a half-glove over his left claw, the padded tips safely blunting his sharp talons. Swiftly, he rosined a long horsehair bow, then with the casual ease of long practice, he reached down to grab the neck of a lovingly-kept violin. Hopping up onto a barrel, he hoisted it to his shoulder, leaning his cheek against the chin rest. The strings groaned as he pulled the bow across them, tuning the pegs with his gloved claw and an absent expression.

Pollux sat, lifted his hooves, and let down his hood. These evening performances were the only times Cranberry saw him do so, and it was always striking. The long white tresses of his mane hung loose around his head and neck, a sharp contrast to his vibrant robes. His crimson eyes glimmered in the dying sunlight, and his horn glowed a faint red to match. He hummed a few notes along with Virgil’s fiddle.

The bow ceased its movement, and the entire deck fell silent. Virgil’s beak twitched once, and he began tapping his hind right paw against the barrel. He swept the bow suddenly into motion, a low rolling rumble that grew like a wave, cresting without warning and exploding into a flurry of short strokes.

Cranberry instantly felt the urge to tap her hoof to the jumping melody. She found her head nodding, and smiled. Beside her, Apricot’s eyes were bouncing as they followed Virgil’s bow, his mouth half-open in delight.

The flute fluttered down to join the violin, and the lilting music swayed to life around them. Virgil’s bow danced a jig across the strings, scattering triplets and sliding through glissando jumps. The beat of his tapping foot quickened, and the world seemed to breathe with it. A sudden cascade of notes descended, and the song lulled for a brief measure. The violin and the flute paused for an instant. Cranberry twitched forward instinctively.

Then Pollux began to sing.

Apricot’s eyes opened wide, and his hoof dropped to the table. Cranberry would have laughed, if the music hadn’t stolen her breath.

Pollux’s voice was like liquid honey, a warm, bubbling, sweet sound that filled her head and heart and left no room for anything besides the joyous melody. It seemed impossible that his normal half-whisper could give way to this glowing alto that poured out rich, vibrant strength into the crowd. The whole deck stared in universal rapture.

The lyrics, delivered in flawless elkish, bounced along with Virgil’s tapping foot.

“Va feinn valeri arinn,

va men talen faleirin,

amet apenrimela,

va men valeri tairen…”

Kaduat was grinning, waving a tipsy hoof along like a conductor’s baton. The other camels’ heads were nodding in time, a few trading eager glances. Castor watched his brother with a proud smile. Even Zaeneas looked up from her book, her eyes torn away from the page by the power of Pollux’s voice.

Cranberry glanced right and met Inger’s eyes. He cleared his throat quietly, with a hesitant look at Apricot. “Be my partner?” he whispered. Am I forgiven? she heard.

She was still angry about Apricot’s foolishness, and hurt that Inger hadn’t supported her, but at this point she had to admit it was a fait accompli. Her son was coming along, so she could either accept it or be angry for the rest of the trip. Pushing her misgivings aside, she nodded and brushed his cheek. “Of course.”

Pollux’s golden voice sprang into the second verse, drawing her attention back like a moth to flame. Sisters, but that stallion can sing. She’d dropped her bowl the first time she heard those notes shaking the air. They resonated in her chest as the chorus neared.

“Amell valen dulani, mareill va feinn etrani;

mari velannona, alen tilen vemaney, EY!”

Abruptly, every mercenary leaped to their hooves and feet. Inger did likewise, offering her a hoof. Cranberry took it warmly, hopping up to join him.

The expedition circled the musicians, pairing off. Kaduat dragged Apricot with her, yelling, “I hope you can dance, kid!”

Virgil lifted his bow off the strings and slammed it back down with gusto. Hooves and feet struck the deck in time to the music as the chorus arrived.

“Alla mena teneirn, vafamme na la faleirin;

Olandriolanera, dula neman petrenna…”

Cranberry felt an irrepressible smile creep onto her lips as she and Inger went through the steps, whirling around each other. They’d learned the dance from the mercenaries on the road from Canterlot. It had taken her a day or two to master the step-ball-change, but it all seemed like second-nature now, listening to that golden melody fill the air around them.

“Amana felbriner ta nem,

vasem le saoreh fin brolem,

salehm viseir arin adsu kaliarmena vildranen…”

The song entered the bridge, and everyone spun once and clapped. Cranberry and Inger beamed at each other, breathing hard as their hooves rapped the planks to the rhythm. Past her husband, Cranberry could see Kaduat laughing and clapping appreciatively as Apricot stumbled through the steps.

Every voice rose in song to join the mage in another ringing ey! as the tempo leaped upward again. A hundred frantic hooves pounded the deck in unison as the dancing rose to a fever pitch with the final chorus. Cranberry’s legs ached, but exhilaration carried her onward. Inger pressed a hoof against hers, lifting it over her head as they both spun again.

Tails swinging, heads swaying, the dancers whirled and clapped. The notes of the violin and the flute exploded around them as Pollux reached the climax. The crew belted out the final words with him as hooves crashed down in an inelegant, exuberant flurry of raps and taps.

“Vallan afeir vaneirin,

ta ten ri val faleiriiiiiiiin!”

Cranberry flung herself forward, twisting around to throw her hooves in the air with a final ey! Her husband caught her effortlessly, sitting heavily on his hindquarters with her in his forehooves. He leaned down and kissed her, and she pulled his head closer to return it eagerly.

Lifting his head, his eyes twinkled. “Love you,” he murmured, panting for air.

“I know,” she whispered, grinning as she pushed his cheek to turn his head. “Right back at you, Dragonslayer.” As she giggled, he pulled her back up and kissed her again.

“Blech,” said a young voice from behind them. Cranberry snickered. Gently extricating herself from Inger’s hooves, She stood up and brushed off her chest. “All right, Junior, I’ll stop embarrassing you in front of your new friends.” Apricot rolled his eyes.

Kaduat laughed, though there was a slightly brittle edge to it. “You’ll think it’s cute when you’re older, kid.”

The colt shrugged, but his eyes kept darting away from his parents toward the trio. Through the crowd of laughing, clapping mercenaries, Pollux and his fellow musicians were taking bows to scattered applause. Pollux dipped his head to the crowd, quiet and unassuming once more. Apricot stared at him, all but licking his lips with anticipation. Cranberry shared a brief look with Inger, who nodded.

“All right, Apricot.” she said begrudgingly. “You can ask him tonight. But first, we’re going to help Beatriz collect all the dishes for the wash. And you’re going to help her in the galley after you talk to Pollux.” It was a mark of how excited Apricot was that he didn’t even complain.

Leftover stew was tossed overboard, though there wasn’t much that hadn’t been greedily devoured. Together with Beatriz, the Sugar clan dashed to and fro across the deck, grabbing bowls from tables and snagging a few that had fallen under the furniture during the dance. Beatriz thanked them all, especially Apricot—the antelope seemed enthused at the prospect of a minion to help scrub everything clean.

As they worked, Cranberry lifted an eyebrow and turned her head toward her son. “So, what did you think of the song?”

“It was beautiful,” he said, looking back at Pollux with awe. The mage had bid his fellow musicians farewell after the song and retreated back to the prow. “What was it about?”

“In new elkish, Faleirin means ‘seashells’. It’s about a seashell merchant arguing with his daughter’s would-be suitor. The buck asks him for her hoof in marriage and he refuses for the first two verses, but at the end of the song the girl shows up and says that she loves the buck enough to leave her family if her father won’t give them his blessing. Of course, her father relents to let the two be together.” She hummed the final bars. “And that’s the way a father’s love gives way like sandy seashellllllls…”

Apricot gave his head a quizzical tilt, and she laughed. “It rhymes in elkish. As for the name, ‘sandy seashells’ are an old elk idiom. It means clinging to something after a change renders it pointless, like sand on a seashell after it’s been taken from the water. Fascinating history, actually—”

Seeing her son nod in the vague way that meant he was just pretending to listen to her ramble on about her work, she smiled and rolled her eyes. Clearly, his mind was over with the red-robed mage. “All right, you’ve been patient. After this table we’ll go ask him.” Apricot beamed.

They finished in short order, and Inger rejoined the two of them. Together, the Sugars made their way across the deck toward the mage. Pollux had his forehooves placed on the ship’s railing as he let the ocean breeze carry his mane back. He turned his head as they approached, reaching instinctively to pull his hood back up, but paused when he saw Apricot.

“Hello, Pollux,” said Inger, dipping his head. “We came to ask a favor…”

“I see…” Pollux peered down at Apricot, rubbing his chin as he looked the young unicorn over. “Hello there, Apricot.”

He remembered his name, thought Cranberry, as Apricot brightened. She patted his shoulder. ““We were wondering if you might—”

“Can you teach me magic?” burst Apricot, straining forward as if against invisible bonds.

“Hmm.” Pollux kept looking him up and down, evaluating. His eyes narrowed curiously, squinting at the young colt. “That depends on you. Tell me, why do you want to learn from me?”

“You’re a proper mage, and you’ve seen so many different lands and magics…” Apricot fidgeted. “And I want to be like you. A mage.”

Pollux rubbed his chin. “Why?”

“Why?” Apricot glanced uncertainly at his parents. “Magic’s… a part of me.”

“It’s part of every unicorn,” said Pollux, shrugging. “What makes you different?”

“I don’t just want to learn some tricks,” Apricot insisted. “I want to learn it all. To be good at it, really good. Not just lifting pots and pans, or threading sewing needles, I want to know how it works.”

“Curiosity, then?” Pollux’s eyes narrowed further, piercing. “I don’t think that’s all. You didn’t stow away on this ship because you’re curious. Why are you here, Apricot?”

Apricot looked at his father, pressing his lips together, before his eyes fell. “Because…” He turned back to Pollux, shaking his head. “Because my dad’s the Dragonslayer. My mother’s got songs written about her. My brother’s going to be a Firewing, and I’m just… just…” He looked up, deflated. “Me.”

Pollux’s eyes looked briefly past them all. Cranberry followed his gaze over her shoulder and landed on Castor, who was still packing up one of the tables at the far end of the ship.

The mage’s mouth grew firm. “I see.” He watched Apricot for another moment. “And what kind of teaching did you have in mind?”

“Everything,” said Apricot, his eyes wide. “Like—like that spell you were doing when you sang!”

Pollux’s eyebrows rose. “You felt that?”

“Yeah! It felt like the one Mr. Strudel cast on his ovens before he baked in them. Except you were doing it to the whole ship.”

Cranberry raised an eyebrow. “You were casting a spell?”

“A very subtle one,” murmured Pollux, looking at Apricot with renewed interest. “I was warding the ship’s hull against water, to prevent leaks. A small favor I offered the ship’s captain when we set sail. It’s very similar to a ward against flame.” He nodded to Apricot. “Something a baker might cast on an oven, to keep it from losing heat at the seams.”

“I knew it!” Apricot hopped, thrilled. “Can you teach me how to do that?”

“I believe I could,” said Pollux, slowly drawing a colorless hoof across his chin. “Not many unicorns could have felt a spell that quiet, you know. Even with training. Have you ever met a spellsinger before?”

“A spell-what?”

“Interesting.” Pollux’s head abruptly snapped back up to Cranberry and Inger. “I’ll teach him.”

The couple blinked. “Just like that?” asked Cranberry.

“Just like that.” Pollux’s hoof dropped back under his robe. He looked more alive than she’d ever seen him. His usual languid air of confidence had been replaced by alert drive.

Inger rubbed the back of his neck. “Do you want us to pay you, or…”

“No need.” Pollux met Apricot’s eyes, and he nodded. “You need to learn how to use your abilities, Apricot. Anyone attuned enough to hear that warding spell is going to need training for their own safety. Not to mention everyone else’s.” He tilted his head, red eyes flicking between the two adults. “It’s strange… If I didn’t know better, I’d guess that your parents were both powerful unicorns.”

His chest puffing a little with paternal pride, Inger beamed. “He must get it from his mother’s side. Her father Strawberry was a unicorn.”

Cranberry’s misgivings weren’t entirely quelled, but she was at least convinced that some instruction from a real mage would be good for Apricot. She ruffled her son’s mane. “Do us proud, Junior.”

Apricot blushed, grinning. “When can we start?”

“Right now,” said Pollux, before pausing. “Unless you have other duties to attend to…” He gave Cranberry an amused look, flicking his ear.

He must have heard me giving Apricot cleaning duty, she realized wryly. With a stern look at Apricot, she pursed her lips. “His penance can wait a little while. I’m sure Beatriz will still have plenty of dishes left when you two are finished.”

“Very well, then. I’ll send him to the galley when we’re done.”

Inger leaned in and whispered into her ear. “We’d better go make room for him in our quarters. Looks like we’ll be sharing a bunk for the rest of the trip, after all.” He didn’t sound enthused.

Cranberry gave a suffused sigh, already mourning the end of their privacy. They’d have all the discomfort of the cramped bunk without the pleasure of any activities beyond sleeping. “Let’s go, then…”

As they departed, she cast one last look over her shoulder toward Apricot, trying to ignore the icy worry in her stomach.

* * *

I did it, I did it, I did it! Apricot could barely restrain himself from dancing. He was an apprentice now, a mage-in-training, taking the first steps on the road to… whatever his future would be. An archmage, he thought greedily.

Pollux turned toward the ocean, placing his hooves back on the railing. “Let’s begin with a fundamental question.”

Apricot joined him, eyes alight with excitement. He had to rear all the way up on his hind legs to get his chin over the rail, but he managed. “Okay.”

His new teacher stared out at the horizon, where the sun had finally disappeared completely. The stars were already visible above, the waxing moon still just beginning to rise. He pulled his robes tighter around his neck. “What is magic?”

Eagerly, Apricot lifted his head as high above the rail as he could. “It’s the special talent that unicorns—”

“No. What is magic?”

Hesitant after such a quick rejection, Apricot pondered the question more seriously. Biting his hoof for a moment, he tilted his head and tried again. “Magic is a… a metaf… metaphysi…physical framework of, um… energy, and—”

The pale mage snorted, but gave Apricot’s messy mane a friendly tousle. “No, no. Forget whatever book you read that in. It was written by scholars, not mages. What is magic?”

Feeling a little desperate, Apricot searched for the answer. If he couldn’t even get this right, would Pollux decide he wasn’t worth teaching? “Magic is—” he paused, suddenly relaxing. “Magic is a river.”

Pollux smiled. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Who taught you that?”

“Mr. Strudel,” said Apricot, his voice sinking. He watched the sea split around the bow of the ship as they cut through the waves. “He taught me everything I know about doing magic. And other things… like baking, and numbers…” Something seemed caught in his throat. “I miss him.”

“He sounds very wise,” said Pollux quietly. He looked out over the waves, letting the wind carry his mane behind him. “And he was right—many unicorns experience magic as flowing liquid, be it a river, a waterfall, or a stormy sea.”

His horn glowed, and soft motes of light streamed between them. Apricot’s eyes widened in delight as the pattern resolved into a magical river of red sparkles.

“I can feel the river, the real one,” said Apricot, brightening a little. He reached out with his mind and plunged into the magical current. “It’s… cool to the touch, if that makes sense. And I can do things with it.”

Pollux traced a hoof through his river of light, causing a whirl in the surface. “To an extent, yes… You can splash in it, swim in it, even channel trickles of that power to perform spells. But can you divert the river itself? Change the course of the flow?” Pollux met his eyes, tilting his head expectantly.

“No, I…” Apricot shook his head, suddenly puzzled. “Nopony can do that.”

“You’re right.” Pollux’s horn glowed brighter as he dipped his hoof into the image of the river. The flow spread around his hoof, before rejoining on the other side. “Changing the course of a river isn’t something a single pony can do. That’s why you can’t think of magic as a river.”

Apricot blinked, completely lost. “Then…?”

Pollux set his hoof down, and the river of light vanished. He stared into Apricot’s eyes with sudden intensity. “Magic is a song.”

“Why is that different?”

Pollux looked up, as if mulling over the words. “A song flows like a river, but it has parts, pieces, elements that can combine to create a thousand different melodies. You could try with all your might to block the course of a river and fail, but all it takes to change a song is a single voice.” He blinked, returning to Apricot. “Your voice.”

Apricot felt a chill race through him, licking his lips in anticipation. “So… who’s playing the song?”

That intense look suddenly vanished as Pollux laughed. “Now there’s a question for the philosophers. I’m afraid I can’t answer—all I can do is teach you to sing.” He smiled. “But first, you have to learn how to listen.”

Nodding, Apricot stepped back from the railing, lifting his chin in determination. “I’m ready!”

“Good. Close your eyes. Reach out for the river, the way Mr. Strudel taught you.”

“Okay.” Apricot shut his eyes tight, and his horn began to shimmer with rose light. He felt the eddies and currents of the magic around him, and sank slowly into it. “Now what?”

“Listen to the water. The way it rushes around you, the waves lapping gently against the banks. Do you hear them?”

“I think so…”

And he could, in a way. It wasn’t hearing, exactly. The sound wasn’t in his ears, it was in his head. The same way that the cool water didn’t touch his hooves, but his mind. Yet there it was, all the same, the calm motion of the river.

“Shh. Listen closer.” Pollux’s voice was hushed.

Apricot’s eyebrows furrowed, and then he gasped. “I hear—”

His teacher whispered, “Yes?”

“I hear a beat.” Apricot opened his eyes and looked up at Pollux, shocked.

The pale mage grinned. “What is magic?”

Apricot closed his eyes again, feeling the rhythm of the water—of the magic itself—thrumming inside him. He could follow it with his hoof, mouth slack with wonderment. “Magic is a song…”

8. Music Theory

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Over the next few days, things on the ship settled into a new routine. From sunrise to noon, Apricot spent most of his time up on the deck with Pollux, learning musical theory out of a ponderous tome the mage had lent him, written by some pony named Kemholtz. He still wasn’t sure how knowing scales and harmonics was going to help him cast spells, but he wasn’t about to question his new mentor.

In Apricot’s eyes, the real lessons only began after lunchtime. The two unicorns sequestered themselves at the Aurora’s prow, where Pollux showed him more about listening to the song, and demonstrated what it sounded—felt—like when a mage cast spells within it.

After dinner, while he was helping Miss Beatriz down in the galley, Apricot would do his best to practice listening, feeling the rhythm of magic all around him as he scrubbed pots and pans. It made the time pass quickly, but more importantly, he was getting better at it—for the first two evenings, it had taken nearly a minute to transition from the river to the song, but now he could latch onto the beat in moments.

Cleaning dishes was boring, but at least it gave him an excuse to delay going to the cabin he and his parents were sharing. Though the top bunk was inarguably more comfortable than the barrel, sleeping in his parents’ room was embarrassing—he hadn’t done that since he was a tiny foal afraid of thunder and lightning. And then there was the strange way his mom and dad kept acting…

He wasn’t sure what was wrong, but whenever he started on an excited explanation of his latest lesson, his mother had a tendency to go quiet and close off. His father was more supportive, but Apricot didn’t miss the way Inger’s eyes kept flicking toward Cranberry, or the worry buried within them. And sometimes, late at night while he stayed up late, skimming through Kemholtz under the covers by faint hornlight, he could hear urgent whispers below him. More than once, he’d heard his name, but whenever he tried to catch the words they fell silent again.

It was easy to forget about it in the light of day. Gradually, he felt something approaching, some new knowledge that he’d been skirting the edges of with Pollux. Even the combination of the northern ocean’s frigid winds and a particularly dull chapter on time signatures weren’t enough to quell his enthusiasm for the lessons.

“Tempo is vital,” said Pollux, rapping his hoof rhythmically on the deck. “It’s the way you pour energy into your spellwork. The faster the tempo, the more energy. But you must keep it controlled to perform spells with precision. If you don’t pay attention to the time of the music, your grasp will slip and you’ll lose the magic like water through a sieve.”

Pulling a loaned blanket emblazoned with the Katabasis logo tightly around him, Apricot shivered in the cold. “Are faster songs hard to control?”

“Yes. Aside from the mental strain, energetic magic is difficult to handle by nature. That’s why we practice time signatures until they’re an unconscious skill.” Pollux pointed down to the open book on the deck between them. “This one, 4/4 or common time, is what you’ll use most often. It’s simple to keep track of, and gives you plenty of room for variation. More complex spells might use 5/4, 7/8, or esoteric ones specific to the individual enchantment.”

Pollux raised an eyebrow as he lifted a strand of his hair. “I once came across a spell for growing out manes that was in 13/5. I didn’t have the courage to try it out before I forgot it… I’ve spent years wondering if it actually worked.” He chuckled, shaking his head.

Apricot nodded hesitantly, wondering how he was going to keep track of all these numbers while doing magic. Casting a simple spell already took all of his concentration; he didn’t think he could count some strange beat out at the same time.

Pollux calmly closed the book with a thump. “I’d say that’s enough theory for one day. Are you ready to get some practice in?”

“Already?” Instantly, Apricot berated himself for questioning his good luck. Of course he wanted to leave the book behind and do some real magic.

“That’s right. It’s time you did more than listen. I think you’re ready to try it for yourself.”

Apricot straightened so sharply that Pollux laughed. “Don’t get too excited. You’re not going to like this: it’s time you unlearn what you know about casting spells.”

His stomach sinking, Apricot tugged his mane. “What do you mean?”

“How did Mr. Strudel teach you to lift something with magic?”

“Well…” Apricot lit his horn. “I touch the river, and then… I just think about the thing lifting, and it does. I can make it do what I want by kind of… picturing what I want it to do, and then letting the river flow through my horn.”

Pollux nodded. “That’s called instinctive or visual spellcasting. A lot of mages, even professional ones, can go far with that alone. But there are deeper ways to use magic. Harder and more complex, but in the end, more rewarding.”

“Spellsinging,” said Apricot, echoing the word his mentor had used so many times.

Smiling, Pollux gave him a nod. “Thousands of years ago, the elk were the first to discover the art. Your mother knows all about their government and their artifacts, but it’s their magic that’s long interested me. I’ve spent most of my life learning the techniques they passed down to their descendants. At first, from an old book—a grimoire of spellsongs that my brother gave me when we were children. Later, I sought out living masters.”

“How? Aren’t they all… gone?”

“Not all. Their descendants have forgotten much about their ancient kin, but spellsinging survives in the remote villages of the commonwealth. I traveled there with Castor a long time ago, after we left our homeland Alastria.” Pollux gazed fondly toward the horizon and the islands of the elk that lay somewhere beyond it. “I spent two years learning from the great spellsinging masters in the treetops of Cariboulla. They humbly call themselves bards; but they’re mages without equal.”

Apricot tugged his blanket tighter as a chill breeze passed. “Why’d you leave?”

“Castor wanted to return to the mainland. Katabasis was already a gleam in his eye, and he was certain I was ready to put my new skills into practice. I wasn’t so sure, but I owed him.” Pollux smiled toward the stern, where Castor stood conversing with the other pegasi. “I’d never have made it this far without my brother.”

With a hesitant grin, Apricot fiddled with the hem of the blanket. “Me either. Strawberry’s the only reason I’m not stuck back in Canterlot.” The smile grew strained as he looked over his shoulder toward the pegasi, whose wings were still glistening with condensation from cloudbreaking. Inger laughed at something Castor was telling him and Tybalt. “I hope my parents don’t get too mad at him…”

Pollux raised a sly eyebrow, not taking his eyes off Castor. “Oh, when my brother and I were colts, we broke plenty of rules. That book he gave me? Stolen, from a passing merchant.”

Apricot blinked, appalled. “He’s a thief!?”

“No, no,” said Pollux, laughing. “A bit full of himself, maybe, but he’s not in the habit of stealing things. That merchant had it coming.” His eyes narrowed. “No decent pony would refuse to spare a few scraps of bread to starving orphans just because one was red-eyed and pale.”

Curiosity at last overpowered Apricot’s manners. “Why is your coat like that?”

“Ah,” said Pollux, calmly. “You’ve never seen an albino before, have you?”

Grateful that his teacher wasn’t angry, Apricot shook his head. Pollux nodded, lifting a white hoof and turning it idly back and forth. “Whatever it is that makes your fur pink—”

“Cerise!”

“Cerise,” amended Pollux, with a chuckle, “I don’t have any of it.” He tugged his hood down further, shielding his face with shade. “Bright lights hurt my eyes, my skin burns easily in the sun, and at times I find it difficult to stay warm. But other than that? I’m the same as you.” He sighed. “Of course, not everyone sees it that way. Like anything rare, we’re surrounded by rumors.”

“Uh… like what?”

“Some say we’re vampires,” said Pollux dryly. “It’s the red irises, I think.” He pulled his lip back, revealing a set of ordinary flat teeth. Rolling his eyes, he let the lip fall back into place. “Others believe we’re evil from birth, the chosen ones of a dark god. And some…” he shivered, huddling deeper under his robes, “some think our bodies have unique alchemical properties, and want to collect.”

“Oh…” Apricot rubbed his foreleg uncomfortably. “Well, you don’t seem evil to me. My dad says I shouldn’t believe rumors about my uncle Rye, either. He’s a pegacorn.”

“Your father’s a wise stallion,” said Pollux, nodding. “Those who do believe such things…” His eyes lost focus for a moment. “Let’s just say if it wasn’t for Castor, I’d likely be dead by now.”

Awkwardly, Apricot nibbled a hoof. “Sorry I asked.”

“Don’t be,” said Pollux, suddenly cheerful. “You’re my apprentice. It’s my job to answer your questions. Now, back to the lesson.” His horn glowed, and Apricot instantly felt the sound of his magic. It was like his voice, bright and golden, sung with skill and grace. “Are you ready to try it?”

“Yes!” Apricot leaned forward, then hesitated. “So… how do I do it? I have to think about a song?”

“No,” said Pollux, lifting an eyebrow, “you have to sing one.”

Apricot’s ears flattened in embarrassment. “Out loud?”

“Well, that might help at first, but it’s not necessary.” His teacher’s horn glowed, and his robes fluttered. He lifted his hem with a hoof to let three small wooden blocks float out, each bearing a carving of one of the traditional signs of the pony tribes: a tall, thin horn for the unicorns; a pair of spread wings for the pegasi; and a five-petaled flower for the earth ponies.

The cubes settled in a row between the two unicorns. Pollux swept a hoof over the blocks. “All right. Go ahead and lift them. Do it the way Mr. Strudel taught you.”

Apricot nodded, his mouth suddenly dry. He’d lifted things heavier than these blocks before, but… he still had trouble levitating more than one thing at the same time.

Screwing his mouth up, he squinted fiercely at the blocks. This was the first time Pollux had asked him to cast a spell. He wasn’t going to botch something this simple. His horn glowed a soft rose.

It was still more natural to dip into the river than the song, so he followed his old habit and felt the coolness rush around him. Picturing the center block lifting, he was gratified to see a rosy sparkle around it as the block leaped into the air.

There’s one… He licked his lips, trying to loosen up his legs. Why was he so tense? He’d done this spell a hundred times.

Not with your new master watching, whispered an unhelpful voice in his head.

His eyes flicked between the other two blocks. The left one wobbled, before jerkily rising from the deck. The other gave a spastic twitch, before flopping limply over onto another side. Apricot’s brows knit in frustration. He squinted harder, his horn flaring with light. The third block quivered, its corner lifting a few millimeters from the wooden panels.

Suddenly, he felt a searing heat in his horn, and a brilliant white flash forced his eyes shut before the light winked out entirely. The blocks clattered to the deck as he yelped, holding his forehead. A familiar pain was already setting in.

“Horn overload,” said Pollux sympathetically. “Sorry, kid. Take some slow, five-second breaths; it’ll make the headache fade faster.”

Apricot inhaled deeply, and let the breath out slowly. To his surprise, it worked. After a few repetitions of the breathing exercise, the dull throbbing that always followed one of those flashes had lessened to a slight ache. Normally he was out for at least five minutes after one of those.

As the pain faded, his cheeks burned. Levitation was basic stuff, hardly the kind of mastery he’d wanted to learn from—and, if he was honest, show off to—Pollux. Mr. Strudel could lift a dozen different pots, pans, and silverware settings at the same time while he flitted about the kitchen, doing the work of a whole restaurant staff by himself. If Apricot couldn’t even handle some stupid foals’ toys, how was he ever going to match that kind of skill?

A nudge on his shoulder drew him back to the present. Pollux gave him one of those quiet head tilts. “You’re getting lost inside your head.”

“Sorry.” Apricot looked away, humiliated. “I must’ve—not been paying attention.”

“Hm.” A sudden freezing wind passed them, and both unicorns hunched against the cold. Pollux shook a few drops of sea-spray from his hoof. “You know, most unicorns your age have difficulty with spells.”

“I’m not—” Apricot bit back a foolish like most unicorns. Everyone always said his brother was an exceptional flier for his age. As much as he wished for it, no one had ever said the same about his magic. Glum, his shoulders slumped under the blanket. “I just thought…”

“You feel like it ought to be easy for you,” said Pollux.

Apricot looked up at him warily, but the older unicorn sounded warmly understanding, not accusatory. Unable to hold his gaze, Apricot turned back down to his hooves. “I know how that sounds,” he said, scraping one against the deck with guilt.

“After all, this is what you’re supposed to be good at, right?” Pollux hefted the unicorn block with a hoof, looking down at the horn symbol emblazoned on its faces. “Your brother and father have their wings…” He tipped the pegasus cube over. “And your mother’s got her knowledge…” He nudged the earth pony block. “But you’re the only one with magic.”

“It just—” Apricot stared down longingly at the carved pegasus wings. “It just seems so easy for them.” He shook his head, feeling rebellious tears at the edges of his eyes. He took a deep breath and buried the urge to cry. He was embarrassed enough. “I know Strawberry practices all the time, but sometimes it seems like he never has any trouble learning things. And I… I can’t even lift a stupid block.”

“I know what it’s like, believe me.” Pollux’s horn flashed, and the wing block leaped up into his other hoof. “I know how it feels to lie awake at night, burning with envy, wishing you were something else. Someone like your brother, strong and confident, able to do anything or get any gir—ahem.”

Clearing his throat hastily, he turned the block in his hooves. “The hard truth is that you’ll always have to work more for it. The road to true mastery is longer for unicorns than pegasi or earth ponies. Our gift is complicated, dangerous, intangible. Few ever learn more than basic telekinesis and a few spells related to their marks.”

He lifted the unicorn block up to the sun. “But those who do can move the stars.”

Apricot’s mouth was dry. He remember the way Princess Celestia’s magic had felt that day in the cemetery. “Even me?”

“Well, not if you give up.” Pollux stood and lightly tossed the unicorn block down to join the other two. “But you’re not the kind of pony to quit, are you? Come on, let’s go again. This time, just lift one of them.”

Holding the blanket around his neck, Apricot stood and took another deep breath. Focusing, his horn blazed to life, and the block hovered a half-meter into the air.

Slowly pacing a circle around him and the blocks, Pollux nodded. “Now, listen to the spell you’re casting.”

Apricot closed his eyes, maintaining the image of the block. He sank into the magic, listening for the beat. And there it was, calm and steady, but… there was something new. Something shaky and hesitant, but familiar. His eyebrows lifted in surprise as he found the sound of his own voice amid the rolling drumbeat of the current.

It was a faint, simple tune. He liked the sound—his magic was light and filled with verve. Smiling, he listened to the notes. “Hang on… didn’t we hum this together yesterday?”

“That’s right. You’re hearing the melody of levitation.” Pollux whistled the short, repetitive ditty, somehow perfectly in tune with the one in Apricot’s head. “It’s one of the simplest songs.”

“Simple, huh?” Apricot opened his eyes, watching the other two blocks gloomily. Not simple enough for me to lift three foal’s toys…

“Don’t let your guard down just because it’s not complex. Simplicity is strength. You can easily alter a simple song, make it louder, softer, faster, weave other music into it…” Pollux pushed the floating block with the tip of his hoof, and Apricot felt a sudden pulsing chord as it spun. “Now, instead of focusing on the block, concentrate on the song itself. Keep the magic flowing.”

A little confused, Apricot obeyed. He let the block fade from his attention, focusing entirely on that song. Unconsciously, he hummed the melody under his breath. “This isn’t so hard…”

“Good. You’re singing the spell—you’ve gathered all the power you need, and you’re ready to release it. For complex enchanting, you’ll lay the groundwork for releasing that magic ahead of time, but for simple spells like levitation or ones that require speed, like battlemagic, you can just visualize the spell as you did before.”

“But how’s that any different than using the river?”

Pollux’s smile had a triumphant edge. “It’s the difference between throwing a rock and aiming a loaded trebuchet. Before, you were wasting most of your energy just summoning up the magic to do what you wanted. Now, you’ve already got it primed in your horn, just waiting for you to let it out. Lift the block.”

Not quite understanding the distinction, Apricot shrugged and looked back at the unicorn-carved block. Still singing the song, he pictured it rising. It shot into the air, hovering instantly at eye-level without a quiver of motion.

“Good. Now…” Pollux tapped the block again, but this time it didn’t spin. Apricot’s eyes widened slightly. The intrusive chord had appeared again, but he was so deep in singing that it didn’t shake his magical voice at all. Pollux smiled. “Lift the others.”

Apricot’s heart beat faster. This is it, he suddenly realized. This was why he’d come to Pollux. Almost fearfully, he envisioned the other blocks rising.

Immediately, they flew up to join the first, bobbing to the rhythm of the song. Apricot stared, transfixed.

“Now you see it,” said Pollux, hushed. “It’s not that spellsinging makes you stronger. It’s that it gives you control, letting you use all your magic to do exactly what you want. Skill trumps power every time.”

Still singing, Apricot sent the blocks spinning around each other in a circle. Fascinated, he quickened the pace of the song, and watched them whirl faster. It wasn’t even a struggle… all he had to do was keep the melody going.

Slowly, his eyes slid toward a coil of rope lying by the railing of the ship. I wonder how hard it would be…

In the magic, he raised his voice, and a glimmer of rose light surrounded the rope. The entire coil lifted, drooping in his magical grip. Still, there was no strain, just a slight increase in tempo. The blocks continued spinning.

“All right.” Pollux smiled. “I think you’ve got enough to practice on your own tonight. Tomorrow we’ll pick up time signatures again before we move on to harmonics.”

Only half-listening, Apricot nodded. Turning around as the blocks swirled about him, his mouth hung open in wonderment. It was so easy this way…

A few nearby barrels scraped the deck before rising into the air. Pollux turned, noticing them, and his eyes widened. “I think that’s enough for now, Apricot.”

“Please, just a little more,” said Apricot, lost in the song. He wasn’t even thinking about the objects anymore. The notes rose in crescendo as he sang, feeling his magical voice ring through his horn. The blanket fluttered around him, lifting from his shoulders.

“Careful, now. Don’t try too much, too fast. Take it slow.”

“Just a little—”

“Apricot. Slow down.”

Apricot’s eyes snapped back down to see his teacher’s robes billowing around him, glowing rose. He froze. “Y—your clothes… I’m not trying to do that.”

“You have to control it,” said Pollux, his steely red eyes calm, yet full of buried urgency. “Slow the tempo.”

He tried, but the music was so loud and quick that it was hard to concentrate. Apricot clenched his teeth, trying to hum slowly under his breath, but it was as if the song was carrying him away. “Pollux… I think something’s wrong—”

“Sing with me,” said his master, horn glowing. Apricot felt Pollux’s voice join the song, and tried to follow, but he couldn’t seem to match his teacher’s lethargic tempo. It was like running down a hill, trying to stop before crashing at the bottom. His own momentum carried him forward.

The blocks climbed upward, passing the forward sail. Apricot spaced his legs out, trying to balance in the swirling magic. “Pollux!”

“Listen to my song!” Pollux’s horn flared brighter, his eyes locked intently on Apricot’s. “Slow it down. 4/4!”

Apricot focused on his teacher’s voice, heart pounding as he grasped for it, but the moment he reached out, his own song surged forward faster than ever. Frantic, he looked around at barrels, loose yardage, belaying pins, and their own clothes, all floating as if gravity had vanished. At the far side of the deck, his father and the other two pegasi had all turned to watch with bafflement.

“Control, Apricot, you need control,” said Pollux.

The deck lurched beneath his hooves, and he cried out, “Dad!”

* * *

Inger snorted. “You’re telling me that actually fooled the guards?”

“Oh, my brother’s disguise was very convincing,” said Castor, grinning. “Had them eating out of his hooves. Pollux looks good in a dress. At least, that’s what I say when I want a rise out of him.”

“You’re making this up…”

“If you ask Pollux, he’ll say I am.” Castor shrugged, still smirking wickedly. “Once we were past the guards, finding our employer’s stolen ledger was easy.”

Tybalt’s snort was eerily similar to Inger’s. “Where was this, anyway? I’ve never heard of Brackwater Village.”

“Alastria,” said Castor, his smile souring. “It was our last job before leaving our homeland. If we’d stayed any longer, then we’d have been there when the griffons marched into the protectorate and seized the capital.”

“Ah,” said Tybalt, nodding grimly. “I expect there was plenty of work for mercenaries after the—” He paused, looking at Inger, who was staring at him in puzzlement. “What? Have I got something on my face?”

Inger pointed mutely at his father’s locket, which was floating above the collar of his summer robe. All three pegasi stared in confusion.

“What the—” Castor suddenly spread his wings, watching water droplets drip up off of them into the air, where they hung like beads. His head whipped toward the bow of the ship, where Apricot and Pollux were in the midst of their afternoon lesson. Inger peered at them, suddenly alert.

His son’s horn was glowing a brilliant rose, and debris was floating all around him. Inger’s mouth went slack. Were the two unicorns casting some spell together? He’d never seen Apricot do anything like this. He’d never seen anyone do anything like this.

Suddenly Tybalt’s locket jerked upward, choking him. His wings flapped. “Gah—!”

“Dad!” cried Apricot.

Inger exploded into motion, galloping across the deck toward his son. Wind rushed past his face, forcing him to squint at the searing light attached to Apricot’s head. Soap bubbles from a spilled bucket floated past him, casting his frantic reflection back.

Beneath him, his hooves lost traction on the deck as gravity seemed to wither. For a moment, his legs scrabbled uselessly at the air as he hovered, before his wings flared wide and he streaked through the air. Pollux was reaching a hoof out to touch Apricot, his own horn blazing red. “Cut off the spell,” he shouted. “Stop the song, before you—”

There was a tremendous flash of white and a vast tectonic rumble. A spherical shell of rose light burst outward over the entire deck. Inger’s wings froze for a moment as he plummeted back down, landing on wide-spaced legs with catlike grace. Barrels and loose tools clattered to the deck as gravity reasserted itself. Ahead, Apricot had fallen too, clutching his head with both forehooves.

Inger reached them in moments, wrapping a hoof beneath his son and lifting him. “Apricot!”

“He’s all right,” panted Pollux, head hung low with exertion, but face turned up with alert eyes. “Another horn overload. Bit more intense than the last one…”

Apricot was huffing and puffing, his eyes still squeezed shut. “S-sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”

Inger wasn’t even sure what had happened. All he knew was that Apricot apparently wasn’t injured, and that was enough for a flood of relief to crash over him. He hugged his son tightly, tucking Apricot’s head under his chin and releasing a heavy breath that puffed through the colt’s mane. “Are you hurt?”

“Just a headache,” said Apricot, opening his eyes at last and letting his hooves drop. He winced, glancing up at Pollux. “I didn’t mean to…”

“And that,” interrupted the older unicorn, sounding worn but bizarrely cheerful, “is why we memorize time signatures.”

Wide-eyed, Apricot nodded. He squirmed against Inger, who let him go and stood back. “I—I understand. I’ll learn them all, I promise.”

Pollux raised his head at last, brushing the front of his robes. “Good!”

All three of them looked around, surveying the damage. One of the barrels had cracked open along one side, spilling liquid—water, fortunately, not flammable alcohol—across the deck. Others were still slowly rolling as the ship swayed. The ship’s crew were all staring at them from the deck and the rigging above, giving the unicorns a wide berth as they secured loose pins and rope.

Apricot looked pale and shaky under all those wary eyes. Inger stood between him and the others, tipping his son’s head up with a hoof. He peered into Apricot’s pupils, which were wide and dilated. “I think you should go back to our cabin for a while.”

Mutely, the colt nodded. He lifted his heavy book from the deck—with his hooves—and tucked it under one foreleg. Pausing, he looked up at the other unicorn. “Pollux…”

“Don’t worry,” said the mage, beaming as he tugged the hood of his robe back on. “No one got hurt. Just make sure you keep it small and slow when you practice from now on, okay?”

“Okay.” Apricot hesitantly trudged past Inger toward the stairs to the lower decks. Inger moved to follow him, but paused as he saw Cranberry standing at the far end of the ship. Their eyes met, and she gave him a tight-lipped shake of her head.

All eyes followed the young unicorn as he crossed the deck to meet her. She ushered him down the stairs, casting another worried look back at Inger, before she disappeared after him.

Tybalt and Castor breached the gap between them and the rest of the crew, trotting up to join Inger and Pollux. “All right,” said Castor, raising an eyebrow. “Mind telling us what the hell that was about?”

Pollux favored his brother with a breathless grin. Turning to Inger, he said, “Lord Vallen, your son’s the most powerful unicorn I’ve ever seen. For a moment there, I thought he’d send the whole ship floating off into the sky.”

Inger blinked, stunned. That lurch he’d felt beneath his hooves, all the floating objects—his son had done that? “That’s not—Apricot’s—I mean, until now he’s had trouble levitating pans and opening doors. How could he do all that?”

“Spellsinging. I’ve never seen someone pick it up so quickly,” said Pollux, shaking his head in wonder. “The kid’s a natural. If he actually starts doing the readings I assign, in a few weeks he’ll be putting the apprentices at the Celestial Magisterium to shame.” His smile faded at last. “Which makes it even more important that he learns to control his abilities.”

“I’ll say.” Castor whistled, looking around the deck. “You’re not planning on teaching him any battlemagic, are you?”

“Not until he’s had a lot more practice with the basics.” Pollux puffed out an apprehensive breath. “At any rate, Lord Vallen, you ought to be proud. He’ll be a fine mage someday.”

If Inger was feeling any pride, it was still buried by cooling terror. Grimly, he watched the shattered fragments of a barrel rock on the deck. “I’ll make sure he takes your lessons seriously.”

Pollux gave him a brief nod. “Now, if you gentlecolts will excuse me, I’d like to give the ship a thorough examination, make sure there’s no leftover magic lingering anywhere.”

“Go ahead,” said Tybalt, looking around at the mess on the deck with fascination. “Please, report back if you find anything.”

Castor gave Inger a nudge with his hoof. “Guess it’s a good thing we’ve got him along after all, eh? Nothing in the Elderwood’s going to trouble us with two mages around.”

Inger swallowed, hearing Cranberry’s voice echo in his head. The dangers aren’t always things you can hit with your hooves…

“I’m going to go check on our supplies,” said Castor, turning to leave, “make sure nothing moved around or broke open down below. I’ll see the two of you at dinner.”

After he departed, Inger stood silently, head whirling with thoughts. A touch brought him back to earth. Tybalt was standing beside him, looking curious. “Quite impressive.”

“I didn’t know he could…” Inger slowly shook his head. “He’s been struggling with the simplest spells for months. Mr. Strudel told us that some unicorns don’t master levitation magic until they’re five or six.”

“I wouldn’t call it mastery yet,” said Tybalt, glancing at the broken barrel. “Still. Such power… and neither you nor Cranberry are even unicorns. Where did he inherit such a gift?”

“Cranberry’s father was a unicorn,” said Inger, fluffing his wings with a puzzled frown. “I’ve heard it skips a generation.”

Tybalt stared off the bow, unreadable. “So it would seem.”

Inger folded his wings tightly, taking a bracing breath. “I’ll need to talk with Cranberry about this. She wasn’t happy with him coming before, and now…”

“Now, she ought to be thrilled to have somepony as competent as Pollux teaching him.” Still expressionless, Tybalt touched a hoof to his locket. “Surely leaving him untrained would be even more dangerous.”

Doubt gnawed at Inger. “This might sound ridiculous, but did the first expedition report any strange feelings in the Elderwood? Any kind of… magical weariness? Any suspicion that they might have been enchanted?”

“No.” Tybalt’s enigmatic facade finally dropped as he scoffed. “To tell the truth? I’ve come to believe that the tales about these old forests are all myths. The elk are notoriously private. They spin those wild tales about monsters and renegade magic to keep visitors from poking around their homelands, nothing more. I doubt we’ll be in any more danger here than we would be in the glades outside Canterlot.”

“They’re not all myths.” Inger swallowed, remembering the stifling darkness under the trees of the Antlerwood. “And Apricot’s gifts might make him a target.”

“A target for what?” Tybalt laughed warmly, patting Inger’s shoulder. “There’s nothing in there but trees and elken ruins.”

“I—” Inger caught himself, sighing. “You’re right, you’re right.” The reassurance was more for himself than his father. “And clearly, the lessons are working. He’s learning so quickly…”

A loose barrel slowly rolled past them. Inger’s gaze followed it, as he felt something strange stirring in his breast. Pollux was right, he realized, with a belated smile. I am proud of him. With a faint smile, he murmured, “The most powerful unicorn he’s ever seen…”

9. Port Faeloch

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“Inger, if that had been a different spell—”

“But it wasn’t. And now that we know what he can do, it just makes it even more important that he—”

“Then what happens when he starts learning dangerous magic? Imagine if he’d set the whole ship aflame. Someone’s going to get hurt, Inger.”

“That’s what Pollux is here for. Just give him a chance to—”

“I gave him a chance, Inger, against my better judgment, and our son nearly—”

Apricot’s ears flattened as he sank against the wall beside the cabin door. He’d been gently but firmly ejected from the room before his parents started talking, but their voices were so loud that he didn’t even have to press up against the door to hear them.

He could still scarcely believe what he’d done. That spell was bigger than any he’d ever cast, even if it was just a levitation charm. In a week, he’d made more progress than the last year. Pollux was giving him everything he’d wanted. He couldn’t stop now…

Beyond the door, a hoof thudded angrily into the floorboards. “He’s not a soldier, Inger! He’s our son!”

“I know that!” A deep breath. “He might not need training to fight off griffons or use battlemagic, but he needs to know how to use his gift, for everyone’s safety. Including his own.”

“So Pollux insists. But this wasn’t an issue before he started teaching him.”

“Cranberry—” Inger’s voice sounded suddenly weary. “Are we going spend our whole lives fighting about the kids? They need to grow up someday.”

“We’re not—” Her voice cut off. When she spoke again after a few moments, she was muted and anxious. “I know. I know they do. I just—I’m scared, Inger. Terrified. We could lose him to this.”

“If we stop him now we really will lose him. He’d never forgive us if we sent him home.” Apricot heard the lower bunk creak as Inger sat on it. “It scares me, too. I don’t understand these gifts of his, but… if we want what’s best for him, then we need to let him take the leap.”

Apricot smiled hesitantly. Deep down, he sometimes wondered if his father wished he were a pegasus instead, like his brother. Yet here he was, fighting for Apricot’s right to be a unicorn. He’d never expected him to stand up to Mom like this.

The smile faded. Of course, he wished they weren’t fighting at all. They were supposed to be angry with me and Strawberry, not each other…

The bunk creaked again as Cranberry took a seat beside her husband. “And if you’re wrong?”

He’d sat listening for long enough. Suddenly determined, Apricot thrust open the door, stepping into the cabin. “He’s not.” Both of his parents looked up at him, surprised. Apricot’s gaze met his father’s for a grateful moment, before turning to Cranberry. “Mom, I know you’re worried, but I can do this. I’m not a baby anymore.”

Cranberry put a hoof to her mouth, eyes creasing with concern. Clearly, she still saw a little foal standing in front of her. “Honey…”

“The things I’m learning, I can use them to help,” he insisted. “We’re going to find your friend, right? I can help with that!”

“Apricot…” Cranberry closed her eyes and slowly exhaled. “Since I’m the only one who—I don’t want to be the one that…” She swallowed. “Okay. I won’t argue any more.”

He hugged her, nuzzling his cheek against her chest. “Thanks, Mom.”

She embraced him back, resting her chin on his head. “Don’t grow up too fast,” she whispered.

Pulling back, Apricot nodded. “I’ll make you proud. I promise.”

Inger smiled. “Every day.”

A little bashful, Apricot stepped away. “Well… I need to learn, uh, common time by tomorrow, so…”

“Of course,” said his father, standing out of the bunk. “Let’s give him some quiet to study, honey.”

While Inger led Cranberry to the door, Apricot clambered up into his bunk and flipped open Kemholtz to the chapter on time signatures. He paused at the chapter heading, looking up at his parents as they exited the cabin. Inger gave him a wink, and shut the door.

As their hoofsteps faded away through the wood, Apricot heard his mother mutter under her breath, “He looks just like you when he gets serious…”

Reddening, he turned back to his book.

* * *

To Cranberry’s combined relief and dread, the last few days of the voyage passed quickly. She was still unhappy with Apricot’s presence, but there were no more incidents. His lessons with Pollux remained subdued, although he was practically glowing whenever he explained to her what he’d learned that day. Apricot hadn’t been this happy since before Papa’s death. Her own misgivings were starting to melt away.

Things between her and Inger were still uncomfortably frosty. Twice now, they’d fought over Apricot, and she’d lost. Every time she felt like properly reconciling, delivering a heartfelt apology, she’d seek him out only to find him deep in discussion with Tybalt over some trivial matter or another, and the moment would pass. Does he feel more at ease with that deadbeat than his own wife? Frowning, she’d give the two a terse nod and go elsewhere.

It wasn’t fair to begrudge him this time with his father. Like any new relationship, they were still in the heady early days of getting to know each other. Give it time, she assured herself hollowly, and the shine will wear off. The noblepony himself had been markedly chilly toward her since Apricot’s magical accident. Cranberry wasn’t sure what had changed, but more than once she’d caught those golden irises watching her with blank neutrality. She tried not to think of him as a rival for Inger’s affections—How petty, she thought—but with Apricot in the cabin at night, there was now scarcely any time to be alone with her husband.

She passed her time by poring over Locke’s enigmatic reports at a table in the galley. The third read was proving no more enlightening than the first.

29 November, 329 A.C.

Our guide, Pwyll, has departed the encampment to return to Port Faeloch. He promised to return with the first resupply run. By then I hope to have made progress on the door. We’ve circled the carts to give some shelter from the wind in the gorge. Hermia has been helping Arrian with the repairs. Hobb and I have been spending all our time in the cave. He thinks that the door engravings are bloodlines, and I believe he’s correct.

No signs of snow, yet. The aspens still cling to their leaves. Nothing else to report.

Cranberry frowned, flicking the corner of the letter. It was definitely Pad’s hoofwriting; she recognized the little curls of his gs and is; but it didn’t sound at all like him. The niggling feeling that something was wrong wouldn’t go away no matter how many times she read the words.

If she had been the one funding the expedition, and these reports were all she’d been receiving, then there was absolutely nothing to suggest they’d run into problems. A cessation of communications ought to have prompted a courier or two, not an entire mercenary force. Why had Tybalt spent so much on a rescue team at the first sign of trouble? Frowning deeper, she pushed her hoof into her snout, pondering the text. I don’t think he’s telling me everything.

“Why the long face?” asked a cheerful voice.

Cranberry glanced up as the antelope mercenary, Beatriz, took a seat across the table from her. Cranberry’s lips twisted wryly. “Was that a horse joke?”

“Guilty as charged.” Beatriz winked. “I see you in here every day, reading those things. And I haven’t seen you smile much while doing it. What’s the matter?”

“I’m not sure,” murmured Cranberry, sitting back and stretching her forelegs over her head. With a sigh, she rested them back on the table. “I’m worried about Locke.”

“We’ll find him,” said Beatriz, with quiet confidence.

“But are we too late?” Cranberry asked, swallowing. “It’s been months without word.”

“He’s still alive,” said the antelope. “And we’ll save him, along with the rest of them. I’ve seen Castor pull off rescues more impossible than this one.”

“Is that so…” Easy for the mercenaries to have confidence. They’re paid to… Tilting her head, Cranberry folded her forelegs on the table. “How long have you been with the company?”

“Longer than any save the brothers,” Beatriz said, swiping a hoof along one of her curved horns. “My husband and I joined up with them back in Alastria.”

“Oh! I didn’t know you were married.” Cranberry had seen her and Virgil sharing a kiss or two, but hadn’t realized it was so serious.

“I… was,” said Beatriz, her eyes flitting away. “His name was Simone. We met back in Antellucía, where he was a smith. That’s where I learned the trade—he taught me everything I know about armoring and smithing. At first, he handled armorer duties for Katabasis, and I was just the quartermaster.” She smiled briefly, but it swiftly went away. “I lost him in the War of Whitetail.”

Good job, thought Cranberry, wincing. You’ve put your hoof in it now. “I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t even the fighting,” said Beatriz, with a shaky sigh. “About a month before Lionsclaw’s holdouts officially surrendered, Simone cut himself on a rusty speartip while oiling it. Such a small cut; he didn’t think anything of it. A week later… an infection took him.” Slowly shaking her head, Beatriz looked down at the table. “Such a little thing…”

“I’m sorry,” repeated Cranberry, miserably. “I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s fine,” said Beatriz, patting her hoof. “You didn’t know. And it was a very long time ago.” She laughed, but it was fragile. “And here I thought I would be cheering you up.”

So that’s what this is. Even the mercenaries can see how lonely I feel. Cranberry rubbed the back of her neck, ashamed. “Sorry…”

“It does get better,” Beatriz said, with a knowing look. “I… heard about your father. I’m sorry for your loss.”

Not trusting herself to speak, Cranberry merely nodded. She appreciated the gesture, though she didn’t feel like opening that wound again. Not with Beatriz, not yet. But—it was nice to talk with someone. “What was Simone like?”

“A poet,” said Beatriz, snorting with a little smile. “Not a very good one, mind you. But I loved his little sonnets. He was a much better artist in the smithy. The things he could make—Oh! I’m afraid I’ll never be on his level. I can bang together repairs, forge new armaments and even do plate armor, but the little touches he’d put on things… there was this breastplate he made for a general down in Antellucía. It looked more like silver than steel, with a thousand paisley curves etched into the metal with acid. It took months to make, and when he finished it he was strutting around the smithy like a peacock.”

Cranberry grinned. “He sounds like quite the character.”

“He was. Well-traveled, too. The tales he could tell you about other places… I was never sure if half of them were true. The huge buildings of Elefala were a favorite. And the giant wooden walls of Saddlestead.”

“Those are definitely real,” said Cranberry, leaning forward. “I’ve seen them myself.”

“Really?” Beatriz blinked. “Ah… right! So, those songs about your journeys are true.”

“Mostly. They leave out some important parts.” Cranberry shook her head. Not the time or the place to be that hobbyhorse. “Saddlestead’s walls are bigger than you’d expect. Entirely made of wood—at least, the facade. There’s some stone shoring them up from behind. But the faces are still enormous—they were built with trees from the Giant’s Forest, over a hundred kilometers away. Every plank stands nearly thirty meters high. It’s right beside the lake, so it’s constantly coated with brine spray—they have to chisel off the salt when it gets too caked on. And the carvings!”

Cranberry cast her eyes up, wistfully recalling the sight. “The whole history of Sleipnord is up there. The creation wars, the revolt that cast out the elk, the three tribes and the coming of the great winter…” Coyly, she grinned. “And I’m up there, too, believe it or not.”

Beatriz arced an eyebrow. “Uh huh.”

“It’s true! Along with Inger, and our friend Rye. We did play a critical role in King Eberhardt’s coronation. It ended decades of clan warfare. I’m not sure you could say we brought peace to Sleipnord… but the nordponies wouldn’t care much for total peace, anyway.” She chuckled. “They had the three of us carved into the walls to commemorate the reunification. I got to see the finished art for the first time a couple years back, when I passed through Saddlestead on my way to the Tyorj excavation.”

“Wow,” said Beatriz, visibly impressed. “That’s quite a legacy. Like Virgil’s always saying: stone, wood, and steel will outlive us all.” She snickered. “Engineers, you know.”

“He’s not wrong,” mused Cranberry, looking back down at Locke’s reports. “The ancient elk have been gone for nearly five thousand years, but the things they left behind still speak to us…”

There was a rap on the wall from the door. Both their heads swiveled to see a harried-looking Castor, gesturing toward Beatriz. “One of the water barrels sprung a leak, right over the hardtack stores.”

“Oh, damn,” muttered Beatriz, leaping to her hooves. “I’ll be right there.” Castor nodded and raced off. “Sorry,” she said, turning back to Cranberry, “I need to take care of this.”

“Of course. Thanks for the talk, Beatriz,” said Cranberry, more grateful than she’d realized.

“Call me Bea.” The antelope winked, before trotting off after her captain.

Cranberry gathered up her papers, smiling faintly.

* * *

With her concentration well and truly shattered, Cranberry gave up the effort to decipher Locke’s notes for the day and retired up to the deck. After dinner, she found a spot at the port gunnel to surreptitiously watch Apricot’s latest lesson with Pollux. She was too far to catch many of the words, but she could see the wooden blocks held by her son’s sparkling roseate aura. They spun around, looping in different patterns, as Pollux calmly delivered instructions.

She was still incredulous at the progress Apricot had made in just a week. How many months had she watched him struggle to open their front door with magic? Now, he was making objects dance through the air. The near-permanent awestruck look on his face said that he was as surprised as his parents.

Perhaps having another unicorn along with them would be a good thing. Dominion civilization ran on magic; it was entirely possible they’d need some simply to progress. Locke, a unicorn himself, had puzzled for years over the stone gates that had led him on this expedition in the first place. Inverted stone triangles with cores of obsidian glass, they were frustratingly inactive.

It was possible they hadn’t worked at all, even when new; just a failed attempt to solve a growing problem. At its height, the Dominion had become too large to govern effectively. The distance between the Elktic Isles and the mainland was—as everyone on the Aurora had now personally experienced—lengthy enough that communications across the sea were slow and difficult.

A magical transportation network could have solved that problem, but Cranberry wasn’t sure it had succeeded. Or even if that’s what the gates were for. The towers that contained them weren’t located in obvious travel destinations. If they’d been for transport, then surely they would have resided in elken cities, not desolate mountainsides like Middengard…

Chewing on the mystery that had consumed her professional life for the last several years kept her busy as the sun sank toward the horizon. She was musing over mental maps of the Dominion, staring over the waves, when a tap on the wooden railing beside her snapped her back to reality.

“Hi, Mom.” Apricot had planted his hooves up on the railing beside her. His lesson for the evening had ended, she surmised… and he was stalling before being sent to help Beatriz with the dishes. “You okay? You look a little seasick.”

“No,” she said, laughing, and tossed her mane. “Just thinking.”

“Me too,” he said, looking off at the dusky sky. “I heard Castor say we’ll reach the island soon. What’s it like there?”

“I’ve never actually been, myself,” she said, leaning over the railing and resting her chin on her hooves. “Only to Cariboulla. But there are thousands of poems about Elketh. That’s the Equestrian name for it, but the elk call it Ellanon, an ancient word meaning home. They’ve never forgotten where they came from.”

Apricot nodded, chewing his lip. “Is it pretty?”

“Beautiful. It’s a special time of year, too. All throughout winter, the forest is dark and empty, dusted with snow, but on the first day of spring the entire island bursts into bloom. Right now all the hills are covered with flowers. The ancient cities of the Dominion have all turned into gardens.”

Her son peered off toward the bow with delight. “You think we’ll see any flower-cities?”

“We might,” she said, shrugging. “It depends on where my friend’s path takes us.”

“I hope we do…” Apricot’s hoof bounced eagerly on the rail. “I can’t wait to tell Strawberry about all of this.”

Cranberry’s lips thinned dryly. “You’ll have plenty of time to catch up while the two of you sort every shelf in Aunt Inkpot’s library.”

His ears flattened as he gave her a pleading look. “Come on, isn’t the dishwashing enough?”

“We’ll see. Maybe, if you stay on your best behavior once we make landfall.”

“I will! I promise. I can even help unload the boat.” He stepped back from the rail, beaming. “I can lift whole barrels now. Pollux thinks I’m ready to start doing more than levitation tomorrow.”

Cranberry couldn’t refuse the earnest hope in his eyes. “Then why don’t you ask Castor if you can help out? After your chores with Beatriz.”

“Yes!” Apricot nearly pranced at the thought of using his magic to do something useful. “I’ll ask him when he comes down.”

“Down from wh—” Cranberry followed Apricot’s eyes upward. “Oh,” her voice cooled. Castor was perched above the mainsail… along with the other two pegasi. So that’s where Inger’s been hiding all day. Returning to Apricot, she cleared her throat. “Now go on. Those plates won’t clean themselves.” She shooed him off toward the stairs leading into the hold.

Turning back to the ocean, she rested her chin once more upon her hooves, watching the gentle waves break around the ship. For a moment, she wished she had wings, to fly up and join them. She glared up at Tybalt, watching as he laughed at something Inger said.

A chuckle distracted her, along with the sloshing of liquid in a bottle. She lifted her head as Kaduat passed by, another bottle of Madame Zenubia-branded rum swinging between her toes. “Hard luck, Professor,” said the camel, not unkindly. “You can’t choose your family.”

“No?” Cranberry frowned. “I’ve always thought you could.”

“The problem with that,” Kaduat smiled in sympathy, before taking a swig from her bottle, “is that they can choose you, too.” As she walked on, Cranberry looked back up at the pegasi, her frown deepening.

* * *

“Fifty-one hundred meters,” said Castor, smugly. “Hard to say exactly, of course, but at least that high. The clouds were all stretched out below me. Felt like there was barely enough air to flap my wings.”

Inger nodded appreciatively. “Not bad. Not bad.” He grinned slyly. “Some of our recruits top out around fifty-two.”

Castor snorted. “Sure. And when they pass out from anoxia, who catches them?”

“The senior officers, on our way up to the moon,” said Inger, grin widening.

“Ha!” Castor rolled his eyes. “Come on, then. What’s your highest?”

“Depends.”

Scoffing, Castor tilted his head back. “Depends on what?”

Inger turned and flashed his father a knowing wink. “On whether you mean with my hooves on the ground or not.” Tybalt chuckled at the allusion, but Castor looked puzzled, so Inger explained. “I once climbed Mount Jormundr. The peak stands ten kilometers high.”

Making an indignant noise, Castor waved his hoof. “Doesn’t count!”

“All right, all right. Fair enough. The highest I’ve flown on my own? If I remember right…” Inger tilted his head, reminiscing. “Oh, about… fifty-six hundred meters.”

“Pff. I don’t believe you.”

Tybalt chuckled again. “Oh, it can be done, Castor.”

Inger shrugged with mock humility. “This was back during the fighting in Southlund. Around Fort Verdanfeld, if you’ve heard of it—”

“Right,” said Castor, nodding, “Katabasis saw some action around there during the later months of the war. We were working with General Aubren’s forces.”

“Oh! Then we must have been in the same encampment at one point,” said Inger, surprised. “So, then, you’ll recall that team of griffon commandos giving Aubren so much trouble. The remaining Firewings were sent in to root them out before the main push on the fort. Nasty fight.”

Waving a hoof, he continued. “Well, one of the griffons fancied himself a height junkie—I found myself tangling with him high above the clouds, both of us totally cut off from our support. Higher and higher and higher. He kept trying to get above me so that he could plunge down with those talons like a hawk. I’d seen the tactic before. I had to stay higher than him, or he’d have ended the fight in a single strike.”

Castor still looked dubious, but Tybalt nodded appreciatively. Inger leaned forward, gesturing dramatically. “We traded a few blows along the way. The oxygen depletion was getting to us both by the time we passed four kilometers. What is that, half normal air pressure?”

“Sixty percent,” offered Tybalt.

“Anyway, I was starting to black out, but he was having just as much trouble. At some point, the fight turned into a chase. He was trying to get away, and I was too oxygen-starved to realize I ought to just let him run. Up and up and up, so high we were brushing through those wispy cirrus clouds that hang around over the scrubland.”

Castor whistled. “Fifty-six hundred… you’re lucky you survived.”

“We both did, actually. I’m not sure who passed out first, and I’ll never know just how high we got. Thankfully the wind rushing around me as I plummeted woke me back up, along with the griffon. Neither of us were in much shape for fighting, so we both peeled off to head back down toward the ground. That afternoon, the griffons started their retreat.”

“And you’re saying that was your doing, hm?” said Castor, raising an eyebrow. “He was that intimidated?”

“I think they were more worried about the two thousand ponies Aubren had camped outside the fort,” said Inger wryly, giving Castor a nod.

“Heh.” Castor stretched his wings. “How about you, Count Vallen?”

Tybalt had a small, triumphant smile. “Seven thousand, thirty-three meters.”

Inger and Castor both stared. “Bullshit,” said Castor, flatly.

“That does seem…” Inger began, but his father grinned.

“I was young and daring once, believe it or not,” said Tybalt. “And unlike you two, I brought an altimeter.”

A sudden noise interrupted them. Above the three pegasi and their perch along the mainsail yard, the wooden planks in the crow’s nest creaked. A sailor craned over the side, cupping his hooves to his mouth. His voice loud enough to carry through the whole ship: “LAND AHEAD!”

Instantly, the ship swarmed with activity. Below on the deck, ponies and mercenaries rushed toward the bow, craning to see the tiny dark smudge on the horizon. It would have been unnoticeable if not for the minuscule flicker of light that signified the port town. Inger peered at it through the dim, dusky sunset, feeling a twinge of anticipation. The mysterious land of the elk, at last…

Castor brushed his wings off. “I’ve got work to do, gentlecolts. I’ll see you later.” He gave them a lazy salute as he twisted sideways and fell off the spar, dropping toward the deck. He landed with a flourish of his wings, instantly trotting off and barking orders to the mercenaries.

“Show-off,” grumbled Tybalt, but he was smiling.

“We’d better help them unload,” said Inger, standing and cracking his neck. The port was rapidly approaching, as the Aurora cut smoothly through the water. “How long do you think it’ll take to reassemble those carts?”

“Sorry, but I can’t assist you tonight,” said Tybalt. He stood up beside Inger, balancing easily on the yard.

Inger cleared his throat. “Ahem. What happened to inspiring loyalty?”

Tybalt snorted. “Sisters! I must be the only father in Equestria whose son gives him chores. Don’t worry, I’m not trying to wriggle out of helping. There’s expedition business to take care of in Port Faeloch. I need to speak with the ealdordeer, Lady Ciaran.”

“At this hour?”

“Oh, she’ll be awake.” Tybalt stepped off the yard, gliding down. Inger followed, circling the mast. “Ciaran’s been expecting us. She’s got some materials that Zaeneas requires for the journey, and we’ll also be picking up our local guide.”

“Then I suppose I’ll see you tomor—”

“Actually,” his father interjected, “I was hoping you’d join us. Zaeneas is not the most… conversational zebra.” He grinned. “Please. Don’t leave me alone with her.”

Inger snorted, exactly the same way as his father, which made both of them laugh. “All right.”

“Good, I’ll go let her know. Meet the two of us on the pier after we make land.” Tybalt’s hooves touched the deck as the two pegasi landed, and he groaned. “We’re all staying at the inn tonight. These might be the last real beds we get for a while. We’d best enjoy them.”

The two walked past busy sailors and mercenaries, staying out of the way. “The tents between Equestria and the coast weren’t so bad.” Inger rubbed his neck. “I wake up a little stiffer than I used to, maybe…”

“It only gets worse,” said Tybalt morosely. “One day you’ll rise and all your bones will ache. It happens to all of us.” He raised an eyebrow. “Even Celestia, I’ll bet. Does she creak in the mornings?”

“Ah,” said Inger, grinning. “So that’s why you don’t like her. You’re jealous.”

Tybalt chuckled. “No. Even if I could take what she has for myself, I wouldn’t.”

“No?”

Shaking his head, Tybalt smiled. “No one should escape time’s march.”

“Then maybe you could buy her a pocketwatch,” said Inger dryly.

“Ha!”

Inger spotted Cranberry by the gunnel, and paused. “You go on ahead. I’ll meet you and Zaeneas later.” Tybalt gave him a nod and headed for the hold. Trotting up behind his wife, Inger’s tail swished with anticipation. Real beds tonight, he thought slyly.

“Hey,” he said, sliding up to the railing beside her.

“Oh, hello.” She exhaled, looking out toward the approaching island. “Almost there, huh? Feels like we’ve been on this ship for months, not a week and a half.”

“Well… a lot’s happened.” Inger looked around. “Where is Apricot, anyway?”

“He’s down in the hold,” she said, with a reluctant smile. “He wanted to help Kaduat unload cargo. A chance to show his progress…” Cranberry sighed slowly. “These lessons with Pollux are really working. I guess you win, after all.”

Inger swallowed, resting a hoof on hers. “I wasn’t trying to win,” he said softly.

“I know. I’m just…” Cranberry grimaced, as if in pain, then restored an expression of neutrality. “It’s been a hard month, Inger.”

As the Aurora pulled into the port, Inger tried to think of something to say. Calls rang out across the deck as the crew’s activity reached a frenzied pitch. Chain rattled as the anchor dropped into the water, and the boat shuddered as it came to a complete halt. Below, Inger caught glimpses of a few young deer in the orange glow of the lanterns that hung from poles above the pier. Ropes were cast overboard to them, and he heard wood scraping as the crew hauled a boarding plank over to the side.

“Cranberry…” he began, still not sure what could make her feel better.

“You were right, I was wrong. Let’s leave it at that.” She sounded tired, but smiled. “And… it’s nice to watch him spread his wings a bit. Figuratively speaking.”

Inger nodded, pulling his hoof back and forcing a smile. “Does this mean you’ll give my father a chance, too?”

Her faint smile vanished. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“Why not?” Inger made a frustrated noise. “He’s been nothing but polite to you. And he’s really quite charming when you get to know him.”

Cranberry’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t trust him.”

“Why not? What’s he done to make you hate him so much?”

“You mean besides abandoning you? He’s the reason my friend is missing,” she said, with sudden ferocity. “If it weren’t for his secrecy and his scheming, Locke would still be safe in Canterlot with me.”

“Come off it,” said Inger, irritated. “You’d have leaped at that chance in a heartbeat, too. Locke wasn’t forced into it.”

“Wasn’t he? You think he cut off all contact because he didn’t want to tell me about his search for the elken ruins we’ve been hunting together for years?” Cranberry kicked the bag at her hooves, containing her colleague’s notes. “Those reports of his are worthless. He was hiding something, Inger. Something they discovered down there. I don’t know why, or from whom. But I think Tybalt does.”

“This is ridiculous.” Inger’s face was getting hot. “He’s a good pony. You’d know that if you’d said more than six words to him.”

“And then there’s the way he treats you,” she snarled. “That, that doting act of his, I can’t believe you’re falling for it.”

“Doting act? Cranberry, we argue all the time. He’s not buttering me up. He just wants to understand me. And I enjoy talking to him, even the arguments. Which, again, you’d understand if you actually talked to him.”

“He’s lying to you.”

“About what? I haven’t seen the stallion break his word once.”

“How about his wedding vows?” Cranberry shook her head. “If you really believe—” Her mouth clapped shut.

“What?” Inger’s brows furrowed, his voice lowering dangerously. “If you’ve got something to say, then say it.”

“Fine,” she said, angry words spilling out in a rush. “You know what I think, Inger? Tybalt’s wife is gone. His children died in the war. No respectable noblemare would marry an anti-royalist, especially not one so old. When he goes, his entire family line will end, and all his property will be divvied up among distant nieces and nephews. His ego couldn’t stand the thought of it. And then he remembered his bastard child, the one he abandoned two decades ago. A chance to save his family name.”

Her voice cracked. “Don’t you get it, Inger? You’re the spare.”

The dragon hissed. Discarded, unwanted, forgotten. Only dug up to be used. Blood rushed in his ears. Inger stamped a hoof. “And you’re just jealous!”

Cranberry stepped back, her face frozen. “What?”

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed. You wince every time I say father. You can’t stand it, can you?” Inger was surprised at the strength of his own bitterness. “You can’t just let me be happy, because you’re in pain.” His chest rose and fell roughly. “I lost hope a decade ago. Now that I’ve got a family after all, the only thing you can do is accuse him of—of—you don’t even know what,” he sputtered.

“I’m not—” Cranberry was ashen. “Inger…” Tears leaked down her cheeks.

Didn’t you talk her into this trip to stop her tears? whispered the dragon, snidely. Instantly, far too late, the flames of his anger guttered out. The emetic taste of regret lingered on his tongue. He hadn’t meant to throw it in her face. He understood her pain, he understood it, he’d told himself that a dozen times… this was the last thing he’d wanted.

Raising a hesitant hoof, he said, “Cranberry…”

“Just go,” she choked.

“Cranberry, I’m sor—”

“Go,” she whispered. Inger turned, ashamed, and his eyes widened. He could feel the sweat on his neck freeze.

Apricot, his horn lit a brilliant rose, and a large barrel hovering behind him, stood staring at the two of them. His horn dimmed and the barrel settled to the deck as his parents went deathly silent. Apricot’s eyes darted between the two of them, wary and questioning. “I, um,” he mumbled, very quietly, “I got the barrel up the stairs all by myself.”

Inger’s heart was pounding. “That’s… very good,” he managed, gesturing limply at the barrel. “You’re getting so much better.”

“I’ve been practicing,” he said, almost inaudible. “Like I promised.” His gaze flicked to Cranberry as she wiped her eyes.

You’ve made a mess of everything, Inger thought, feeling his stomach sink into the ocean. He ought to stay and clean it up, but he had no idea where to start. If only she wasn’t so stubborn…

But then, that was half the reason he’d fallen in love with her in the first place.

Inger turned to his wife, apologies on his lips, but found only cold stone waiting for him in her face. Cranberry spoke to Apricot, but her eyes stayed on Inger. “Get our things from the cabin, honey, would you? Your books, my materials, your father’s armor. See they get loaded onto the carts, please.”

“Okay,” he mumbled, turning and slinking away. He cast a look back at his parents, his ears flattened. Inger felt guilt settle around his neck like a plowing yoke.

“You should go,” said Cranberry, still toneless. “Your father’s waiting.” She jabbed a hoof over the side, toward the pier.

“I…” Inger wasn’t sure staying would do any good, now. “I’ll see you later at the inn. We’ll… we’ll talk.”

Her only answer was to tighten her mouth.

* * *

Dragging his hooves beneath him, Inger trudged down the plank. His father and Zaeneas were already at the far end of the pier, deep in discussion about something. He’d never seen the zebra so animated before.

As he reached them, the alchemist nodded and scribbled something down in the tiny notebook she always carried. Withdrawing it into the pocket of her vest, she flicked an ear at Inger in welcome. Tybalt brightened at the sight of him. “Good, you’re ready. If I remember the map of the town correctly, the ealdordeer’s hut is this way.” The trio set off into the village as dusk finally gave way to night.

Outside the docks, there was a long dirt road leading up toward the village proper. Inger watched lamplight flicker in the windows of the small houses as they passed, wondering why no one was outside. He’d seen plenty of sleepy backwater towns in Equestria, but even the most rural farming communities didn’t go to sleep the instant the sun set.

The quiet made him uneasy. It left him too much time to dwell on his words with Cranberry. Fumbling for a distraction, he asked, “Seems like a sleepy town. I don’t see any farming fields… Do either of you know what the elk here do for a living?”

It was Zaeneas who answered. “Pearl diving off the coast,” she said, her sentences clipped and brusque. “Traders come here to buy the pearls for jewelry, or alchemy. Elketh pearl dust is top quality. Use it myself, when I can afford it. Very high purity.”

“Huh. Interesting.” Inger felt another pang of guilt. Cranberry would have known that. And the whole history of the profession and the cultural significance of pearls, no doubt… He could almost hear her chattering away with her wide smile and bright eyes. Wincing, he fluffed his wings anxiously. “I wonder where everyone is.” The dirt road was completely empty, aside from their little party.

“Well…” Tybalt peered around them curiously. “As I said, the elk are reclusive.”

Inger spotted a doe watching them from an open window as they passed a small house. She straightened abruptly and shut the window with a thunk. “I get the impression we’re not welcome. I thought you said they were expecting us.”

“They’re not fond of foreigners, out here. We’ll only be staying one night.” Tybalt shrugged. “The innkeep, at least, will be happy to see us. This far out, I doubt he gets thirty paying customers a week, let alone in a single night. Elketh is practically the end of the world.”

They turned off the main dirt road onto an even rougher path. This one led up a small hill toward an isolated hut. Smoke rose from a small stone chimney, carrying the scent of boiling potatoes. Stars glimmered overhead as they arrived at the doorstep. Inger eyed the door, unevenly set in its frame, wondering if his father had gotten the wrong building.

Tybalt lifted a hoof and knocked twice on the door. “Greetings, Lady Ciaran,” he said loudly. “It’s Count Tybalt Vallen, of Equestria.”

There were a series of hoofsteps and a scratching sound from the other side of the door, followed by the rasp of a deadbolt sliding open. The door swung inward to reveal not one, but two elk. The larger of the two by far was a wizened female. She bowed her head gravely to the newcomers. “Good evening, Rose Lord. You’re early.”

Like all true-blooded elk, she was huge, even taller than Inger. Shaggy brown fur, the last remnants of her winter coat, hung from her neck. Cool, dark eyes took in the two stallions and the zebra mare. The straightness in her back was almost regal—despite her humble surroundings, she reminded Inger of the princess. The other one was a young white-tailed buck rather than a true elk. He stared at them with open curiosity. His antlers were still short and stubby, covered in soft velvet. He met Inger’s eyes and nodded with a smile.

Inger returned the nod, marveling at his antlers. They were just as complex and twisty as Cranberry had described, though lacking the elegance they’d possess once hardened and sharp. Inger counted four tines on each antler, all curving gently upward. His eyes slid back toward the female elk, and the intricate talisman dangling from a cord around her neck. A focus, no doubt; the magical instruments the elk used to cast their spells in the off-season. It was smooth and lacquered, the color too uniform to be wood. Inger shuffled his hooves, trying not to stare too long at either of them.

“It’s good to finally meet you in person,” said Tybalt, raising a hoof. Ciaran slowly took it and shook. “And you must be Pwyll,” Tybalt continued, turning to the deer.

The buck’s head bobbed eagerly. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Rose Lord.”

“Please, call me Tybalt.” The noble gestured to his companions. “This is Zaeneas, our team’s alchemist, and Inger Dragonslayer…” He straightened with pride. “My son.”

“I-I’m Pwyll,” said the buck, nodding nervously to Inger and Zaeneas. “I helped Professor Locke through the forest when he came to Elketh.”

“I’m told you spend a great deal of time in the Elderwood,” said Tybalt.

Pwyll bit his lip. “Only the edges. The deeper you go, the more dangerous it gets. The only times I venture further than the outer trees are when Lady Ciaran asks me to gather herbs…”

“We should discuss this inside,” Ciaran gently interrupted. “My old bones are starting to chill.”

The group entered the hut, nodding thanks. Ciaran shut the door behind them, and Inger felt the welcome heat of the fireplace wash over them. The ealdordeer’s home was plain and unassuming, with little more than a main living area next to the firepit and a bedroom with no door. A pot hung over the crackling fire, bubbling with oil. A rug, covered with elaborate curling designs spread across the center of the floor.

Ciaran and Pwyll took their seats on the rug, gesturing for their guests to follow suit. “How was your journey?” she asked. Her voice was wispy with age, almost ethereal.

“Long and tiring, though the company made it bearable.” Tybalt flashed Inger a smile. “I wasn’t exactly expecting a warm welcome, but there’s been virtually no one to greet us. Did you decide we weren’t coming?”

“Quite the opposite.” The elk looked over each of them slowly. Inger fidgeted under her steady gaze, wishing she’d blink. “My whole village knows about the mad foreigners heading into the forest. They want no part of your doomed quest.”

“Doomed?” Inger lifted an eyebrow.

Tybalt gave a brittle laugh. “Superstition is contagious. Tell your people to relax, Lady Ciaran. They won’t have to deal with us for long; we’ll be departing tomorrow.”

Ciaran’s lips thinned. “Pwyll, would you check on the potatoes? Don’t let dinner burn.” As the young deer nodded and leaped to his hooves, Ciaran’s eyes returned to Tybalt. “The last we saw of the previous expedition was that young griffon, Hermia. She said that she thought Locke might be in trouble, and that she was going back in to look for him. We haven’t heard anything from them since.”

Inger’s eyes widened. “Did she say what kind of trouble?”

“No. She didn’t seem sure, herself,” said Ciaran, her dark eyes focused on Tybalt.

“That’s why we’ve come.” Tybalt frowned. “I’m here to find out what went wrong and rescue the lot of them.”

Ciaran shook her head. “I will give you the same warning that I gave the scholar, Rose Lord. The road you’ve chosen will end in sorrow, for you and the ones you love.” For a brief moment, her eyes flicked toward Inger, before returning to stare evenly at Tybalt. “Our ancestors birthed blasphemies in the dark forests of the world. Those who seek them out rarely succeed. And those who find them regret it forever.”

Pausing, she touched her talisman. “The only thing waiting for you in those trees is death.”

Tybalt looked at Inger, and a shadow of doubt crossed his face. It was the first time Inger had ever seen anything but righteous surety in his golden eyes.

His father’s face hardened with resolve. “No one can see the future,” he echoed softly. “Not even a goddess.” Tybalt turned back to Ciaran, raising his head. “I won’t let fear stop me from doing what’s right.”

The elk gave a long, weary sigh. “So be it.” With a disappointed shake of her head, she looked at Zaeneas with defeat. “No doubt you wish to take the materials you requested in that letter.” She gestured to Pwyll. “Show the alchemist our stores, if you would…”

“Right away.” Pwyll stepped away from the fire to the large cabinet on the wall beside it. Cracking it open to reveal dozens of vials and pouches, he glanced over his shoulder. “What all did you need?”

Zaeneas was on her hooves in an instant. Her eyes devoured the cabinet greedily. She walked briskly over to join him, one hoof raised as she counted. “This is going to be a difficult brew. I’ll need drakeroot, talliweed, erynia, a smooth pearl still wet with seawater, and three grams of elyric essence.”

As Pwyll retrieved ingredients for her, Zaeneas watched with obvious respect. “Quite the stock you’ve got, Lady Ciaran… many of these items are difficult to find, even in Zerubia.” She looked back to Tybalt. “My stocks of yarrow and powdered sapphire are still in storage. Did you want me to begin the process tonight?”

Tybalt steepled his hooves. “How long will it take to finish?”

“Six days, assuming all goes well. The heating has to be done in phases. It can cool in my cart during the day, and boil over a fire when we make camp at night.”

“The travel won’t affect its potency?”

“Not if the elyric essence has the promised purity.” Zaeneas raised a brow toward the elk.

Ciaran nodded sternly. “It does. I ground it from Pwyll’s own antlers myself.”

Pwyll sheepishly scraped a hoof on the floor. “They didn’t grow very big, last year.”

“Smaller is better for alchemy. Makes the mixture stronger,” said Zaeneas, stuffing the vials and pouches into the pockets of her bandolier. She took the slender beaker with a pearl suspended in seawater with special care. “Count Vallen, I’m ready to leave when you are. I can get started portioning out the ingredients as soon as we get back.”

Inger cleared his throat. “Mind filling me in?”

Tybalt nodded grimly. “Another… precaution. It’s very possible that whatever’s befallen Locke is magical in nature. Zaeneas here is one of the few alchemists in this hemisphere capable of brewing the most powerful defense against magical dangers—Elyrium. Actually, it’s why I hired Katabasis over their larger competitors.”

Inger blinked in shock. Elyrium? After the mess in Zyre, Inger had heard all about the stuff from Rye and Tyria. His eyes widened. Why on earth are they cooking up that witch’s brew? A powerful magical grounding substance, it could be lethally dangerous, especially to mages. Like Apricot…

Uneasily, Inger rubbed his neck. “How much are you making?”

“About a gallon,” Zaeneas said brusquely, tucking away a shining peal. “That ought to be enough to handle anything.”

A gallon! According to Rye, even a drop of the stuff was enough to kill an unwary unicorn. The blackpowder had been worrisome enough, but this… his father must be more worried about Locke than he’d realized. “I’ll warn Apricot to keep his distance,” said Inger, shifting uncomfortably. “Cranberry’s not going to like this…”

“Cranberry?” said Ciaran, her eyes swiveling to land on him. “You don’t mean Cranberry Sugar?”

Inger nodded hesitantly. “She’s my wife. We came here together, to help her friend Locke.”

And to make her feel better, laughed the dragon. Inger ignored it. “How do you know her?”

Pwyll bounced on his hooves. “Professor Locke told us all about her. I didn’t realize she’d be coming with you—do you think you could introduce me?”

“Uh… I don’t see why not,” said Inger, baffled.

Ciaran sighed wistfully. “Then you’re still set on going with them, child?”

Pwyll nodded firmly. “I’ve made up my mind.”

“I’ve said my warnings. It’s in your hooves, now. May the gods guide you.” Ciaran bowed her head to him, before turning to Tybalt with sudden sternness. “Pwyll has agreed to take you into the forest after the others. You will be in his care… and he will be in yours. Protect him with your life, Rose Lord.” She shrank back, looking at the young deer. “He is precious to the people of this village.”

“Not so much that you have to baby me—” said Pwyll, before shutting his mouth tight and looking away.

“I know. That’s why I’m letting you guide them.” She took a deep breath. “Just… please, be careful.”

“I’ll be fine,” he said, with a sunny smile. “And they’ve got Cranberry Sugar with them! Professor Locke said she knew as much about our ancestors as he did. More, about some things.”

Inger felt a little warmth in his chest at that. Cranberry always spoke highly of Locke; it was nice to know their respect was mutual.

“We’ll take good care of him,” said Tybalt. Turning to Pwyll, he bowed. “And of course, pay you for your time.” He reached into his robe and tossed a small pouch toward Pwyll, who caught it with a clink. “There’s a small advance, in case you’d like to join us for a round or two at the inn tonight and meet the others.”

“Of course! I can’t wait to meet Professor Sugar.” Pwyll tied the pouch to a thin drawstring around his neck.

“Farewell, Rose Lord.” Ciaran gave him one last, long look. “I don’t believe we will meet again.” With that ominous parting, she bent her head and closed her eyes.

They gave Pwyll a chance to collect his things and say a more private goodbye to Ciaran. She spoke a few words to him quietly before giving him a satchel and one of the cooked potatoes. After they’d finished, the four left the hut, closing the door behind them with a click. As they headed back down the dirt path toward town, Tybalt huffed. “What a gloomy old cow.”

Pwyll scratched his antlers. “She’s not normally so serious… she just isn’t happy about me going into the Elderwood with you.” He made an annoyed grunt. “They all still treat me like a kid. Until Saoirse had her fawn last autumn, I was the youngest one in the village by a decade.”

Inger was reminded uncomfortably of Apricot’s words earlier in their cabin. “Why do you want to come with us so badly?”

The buck lifted his head, looking up at the night sky with eager eyes. “I’ve been saving up for almost two years. With the payment from helping the professor and his team, I nearly had enough—thanks to this expedition, I’ll finally be able to get off this island.”

Tybalt made an approving murmur. “Locke said that you got them to the black valley without any trouble. He was very impressed. Do you think our journey will be as smooth?”

Pwyll scratched his antlers again, scrunching up his mouth with annoyance at the itch. “Should be. The wet season isn’t here yet, so I’m hoping there won’t be any mud for the carts to stick in.”

“Excellent. I don’t suppose you have a map for us to look over?”

The pace of Pwyll’s antler-scratching intensified for a moment before he sighed with relief and set his hoof down. “No maps. They don’t really work in the Elderwood.”

Inger tilted his head. “I’m not sure I follow.”

Rather than explain, Pwyll shrugged. “I wouldn’t worry about it. As long as we’re slow and careful, respecting the forest, we’ll make it through just fine.”

“Not too slow. Haste is of the essence,” said Tybalt. “Are there any dangers besides bad weather?”

“Hard to say.” Pwyll frowned. “The Elderwood is… strange. I wouldn’t say it’s aware, but there is a… will to it. The trees all look alike sometimes. It’s easy to get lost. Compasses don’t always point north. Sometimes you’ll walk in a straight line for hours only to end up where you started. And the deeper you go, the more it feels like you’re not wanted.”

Tybalt snorted. “You think we’ll be attacked by walking trees?”

“They don’t walk.” Pwyll shook his head. “But… I try not to spend much time there after nightfall. We should be able to pass through the outer regions in a few days and reach the black gorge by the end of next week. That’s where I left Locke’s team. They tried putting up guide posts for their supply runs, but the posts kept disappearing. I had to lead in the first couple of couriers, too, before they got the hang of it.”

Up ahead, the inn had come into view. The small group rounded the corner at the base of another hill, arriving at the largest building Inger had seen in the village yet. It was still quite humble, merely two stories tall, but it looked well-kept and the yard was lovingly maintained. Half a dozen carts stood beside the building, all emblazoned with the flaming hoofprint of Katabasis Company.

“Looks like Castor’s people moved quickly,” said Tybalt, pleased. “They’re already done unloading…”

The inn’s windows blazed with lantern light. Inger could hear the noise of a bustling crowd even from outside. A lone camel stood guard over the carts, giving them a nod as they passed. Tybalt reached the door first, holding it open for the others with an after-you gesture.

Stepping inside after Zaeneas, Inger’s ears flattened slightly at the noise. Virgil and Beatriz had their instruments out, playing a ditty over on the other side of the room. Several of the camel mercenaries were stomping their feet to the song, cheerfully waving flagons of ale. Most of the others were seated at various tables or the bar, cheerfully chattering away. Everyone looked relieved to finally be out of the cramped quarters on the ship.

“I’ll start mixing and retire for the night,” muttered Zaeneas darkly, scowling at the musicians. She quickly swept off toward the stairs to the building’s upper floor. Tybalt yawned and, after bidding them good night, followed suit. Inger was left standing at the entrance alone with Pwyll.

“So, um,” began the young deer, with badly contained excitement, “do you think you could introduce me to the Professor?”

“Of course,” said Inger, cringing internally. Not what I wanted to talk to her about, he thought, but if he refused Pwyll would naturally ask why, which was a conversation he wanted even less. “See a pink mare anywhere?”

“Over by the bar,” said Pwyll, pointing as casually as he could manage.

“The bar? She doesn’t drink,” said Inger, confused. But sure enough, Cranberry was perched on the stool at the very end of the bar. He jerked his head for Pwyll to follow, and approached.

The innkeep, a weathered old true elk, swept up on the other side of the counter as they reached it. “Can I get you lads anything?”

“No thanks,” muttered Inger.

“Evening, Eoin. Nothing for me, thanks,” said Pwyll. Cranberry looked up at his unexpected voice, catching Inger’s eye.

Inger sent silent apologies toward her, hoping that tempers had cooled. “Drinking…?” he ventured.

“Tea,” she said quietly, shaking her little mug. “It calms me down.” Turning to the deer, she tilted her chin up. “Who’s this?”

Gesturing vaguely, Inger said, “Pwyll. He’ll be our guide.”

“It’s thrilling to finally meet you,” gushed the buck, darting forward with an extended hoof. Cranberry shook it, smiling despite herself. “I’ve heard so much about you from Professor Locke. He lent me copies of a few of the studies you two have done on my ancestors. I must have read them all five times over by now.”

Intrigued, she lifted an eyebrow. “Ah, I’ve seen your name mentioned in his logs. You two were friends?”

“We spent a lot of time together on the way into the forest. And we kept up correspondence until he… stopped.” Pwyll’s face darkened with worry for a moment, before brightening again. “I—Well, that is, if you don’t mind, I had some questions about that I was hoping you’d be able to answer…”

Inger could see her inner lecturer awaken fully as she sat up straighter on her stool. “I’d be delighted.” She glanced at Inger.

“I, uh, should go check on Apricot.”

“We’ve got a room upstairs,” she said. “Fourth door on the right. He went to bed early. Said he wasn’t feeling well.” There was no accusation in her eyes, but Inger felt a stab of guilt all the same.

Nodding, he left her and Pwyll to chatter about archeology. The last thing he heard as he ascended the stairs was Pwyll asking, “I was hoping you could tell me more about glass bloodlines…”

Upstairs, the noise of the partying below was muted. Inger found the door Cranberry had indicated and pushed quietly inside. There were two beds within, but the room was dark. He hadn’t seen the telltale rose glow of his son’s horn under the door, so perhaps Apricot really had gone to sleep early. He was resting in the far bed, his back turned to the door.

“Apricot?” whispered Inger. No response. His shoulders sank as he trudged over to the empty bed, rolling into it on the side he usually took.

What was he going to say to Cranberry? A simple apology wasn’t going to cut it. He had a terrible feeling that, heated as they may have been, both of them had meant what they’d said. Thumping his head into the pillow, he rehearsed a dozen different ways to say I’m sorry, but none had the same venomous truth as you’re jealous. Words of repentance were still swirling uselessly in his mind as sleep came for him, stealing him away in the half-empty bed.

10. A Crown of Flowers

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Springtime in Elketh was an explosion of color. Miles of verdant, rolling hills were covered with an endless sea of flowers. They covered every inch of the grass, burying the path under a carpet of blossoms and petals. White, scarlet, violet, blue; every color of the rainbow and more, with even golden and ink-dark flowers nudging through the crowded field to spread beneath the sun. There had to be millions of them, far more than anyone could hope to count. They swayed in the breeze like ocean waves, rippling across the buried road.

Sailing languidly across the floral sea, the train of carts and camels trundled along through the petals. The only landmarks amongst the gentle hills were occasional islands of rustling trees. The stands of oaks and cedars, their branches already burgeoning with leaves, waved slightly in the ceaseless, shifting breeze. Faeloch had long since vanished into the hills behind, along with the inn and the room where Cranberry had spent much of the night lying awake, staring at the wall as she listened to Inger’s soft breathing.

She and Inger still hadn’t spoken about their fight last night on the Aurora. In the bustle of leaving the port, it had been easier to focus on the task at hoof, both of them too busy helping to get the carts hitched and underway to talk. Once on the road, it was likewise easy to focus on walking, with Inger naturally taking up a position near the head of the caravan alongside Castor and Pwyll, and Cranberry falling back between the carts with Apricot.

Pollux had given his apprentice the task of tying various knots in a length of string, which kept Apricot’s horn aglow and his eyebrows knit in concentration. Cranberry kept having to gently readjust her son’s course to keep him from walking off into the flowers. Every time he got one of the knots, he’d burst out with bubbly excitement, drawing a smile from her. When his brother Strawberry had learned to fly, he’d been dedicated and intense, but Apricot’s flavor of study was like a mirror to her own. She recognized the delight of not simply discovery, but sharing what he was learning.

He seemed to have forgotten all about witnessing his parents’ argument, or at least was pretending to. Cranberry had waited all day with dread for him to bring it up, but he’d only spoken about his magic lessons, and how proud he was to help with the mercenaries’ logistical efforts. Whenever he caught a falling barrel or helped one of the wagon wheels over a ditch in the rough road, he’d earn an appreciative mane ruffle from Kaduat, who seemed to already consider him part of the team.

Cranberry still wasn’t sure what to think of the camel. Kaduat was in many ways her opposite. She was a soldier, where Cranberry was a scholar; she seemed effortlessly relaxed at all times, while Cranberry felt more wound up by the day. An undeniable alcoholic, whereas Cranberry had been stone cold sober for years. Frowning at the unwanted memory of her last drink, Cranberry watched Kaduat strain at the yoke of the lead wagon, taking her turn pulling the cart as the afternoon wore on.

“A florin for your thoughts?” asked a friendly voice, and Cranberry smiled as she turned to see Beatriz walking beside her. “You’ve got that scrunched-up look again.”

“Just thinking about last night,” Cranberry temporized.

“Ah. I saw you and that young deer huddled over in the corner.” Beatriz laughed. “Academics. You can spy them launching into a lecture from a kilometer away.”

Embarrassed, Cranberry’s ears flattened. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No,” Beatriz snickered. “Just a funny one. So, what were you two talking about?”

“At first he wanted to hear about bloodline writing. It’s an ancient elken technique,” she explained, pausing to nudge Apricot back on course. “A fairly obscure one, at that. The knowledge of making bloodlines has been lost for millennia. When I asked where he’d heard of it, he said that Locke had brought it up. Turns out the two of them were exchanging letters after he led the expedition into the forest.”

“Oh,” said Beatriz, lifting an eyebrow. “So you think Locke might have run into some of those, uh, bloodlines, then?”

“Exactly.” Cranberry pursed her lips. “So then Pwyll and I spent the rest of the night trying to figure out what was going on down there from the rest of Locke’s letters. It still isn’t very clear, but it paints a different picture than his official reports. Or at least, a more interesting one.”

Beatriz nodded curiously. Cranberry chewed her lip, recalling the conversation. “Pwyll said Locke seemed focused on magical storage. The word reservoir came up several times in their letters. Something about finding an inordinate amount of glass in the caverns. Unlike anything I’ve ever seen, Locke wrote.”

“Glass?” Beatriz blinked. “Well, they probably weren’t building windows underground…”

“Glass makes a good storage medium for magical energy,” said Cranberry. “If he found that much down there, then the elk must have been using it to store quite a lot of power.”

“For what?”

“The gateway network, I expect. It would take incredible amounts of energy to send travelers across the globe with magic. But it raises another question—where were they getting all that power from?” Cranberry frowned unhappily. “I’ve got a bad feeling that serious blood magic was involved. Especially if Locke found bloodlines.”

At that, Apricot’s ears perked up. For the first time all day, he emerged from his shell of concentration on the knotted cord. “Blood magic?”

Cranberry nodded, grimacing. “The modern elk despise their ancestors, and for good reason,” she said. “The Dominion was powered by blood magic, and lots of it.”

Apricot’s eyes widened. “But what is it?”

A new voice joined the conversation from behind them. “It’s power,” said Pollux, uncharacteristically stone-faced. Cranberry stepped to the side to let him walk forward between her and Apricot. There was no sign of his usual easy smile. “Spellsinging gave the elk unparalleled control of magic. Blood gave them the raw power to use it.”

His scowl deepened. “Every living creature has a connection to the song, especially those with horns. That connection runs in our blood… which means it can be tapped into. Stolen. In the moment blood is spilled, that creature’s link to the song is lain bare for anyone to touch, to steal, to burn as fuel for their own magic. It’s the ultimate act of selfishness.”

Apricot shivered. Grimly, Pollux looked down at his apprentice. “All you need to know about blood magic is to stay far away from it. Now,” his voice lightened again as he poked a hoof at the hovering little cord, “those knots won’t tie themselves. Back to it.”

Subdued, Apricot nodded, returning to his task. Pollux gave Cranberry and Beatriz a nod, before continuing ahead toward his brother at the front of the caravan.

Cranberry’s gaze lingered on him for a few worried moments, before she returned to Beatriz. “Something strange is going on,” she muttered. “With this whole expedition. With Locke. I think he was hiding something.”

Beatriz’s eyebrows knit together. “From who?” she asked, hushed.

“I don’t know, yet.”

Tybalt, said an eager voice in her head. Frowning, she suppressed it. She had no proof, yet. Besides, she was too much of an academic not to admit that her suspicions of him revolved around his relationship with Inger, rather than anything to do with her missing friend.

Oh, but wouldn’t it be perfect? Vallen the villain, out to destroy your marriage, steal your husband, and kidnap your colleague. Then you could prove Inger wrong. Prove that you’re not just jealous.

Huffing, she shook her head. “Just keep an eye out for anything strange, Beatriz.”

“Hey, I told you,” said the antelope, winking, “call me Bea.”

Cranberry couldn’t help but smile in return. “All right, Bea. Thanks.”

* * *

Inger heard it before he saw it. At first, it sounded almost like running water, faint and constant in the distance. But a river wouldn’t shift with the breeze, nor grow louder as the wind rushed faster. The sound grew in a crescendo and then lulled to quiet, over and over, like a faint whisper at the edge of hearing. As the caravan climbed over a tall hill, the source was at last revealed by the evening sunlight.

The Elderwood spread out before the travelers. A line of white-trunked trees rose like a forbidding cliff against the ocean of flowers, stretching out to either side for kilometers to disappear over the horizon. A few oaks and hickories dotted the treeline, but the vast majority of the trees were quaking aspens. Huge ones, bigger than any in Equestria, some nearly thirty or forty meters tall. True to their name, they shivered in the wind, fresh green leaves quivering and creating the rushing sound that filled the air.

The leaves whispered on the wind, seemingly stealing the warmth from the air. Inger shivered in the chilly evening breeze. This place was old. He’d known that already, of course, from Cranberry’s descriptions, but now that he was actually seeing it for himself he could feel it deep in his stomach. Before they’d even set a hoof beneath the trees, Inger already felt like an unwelcome intruder.

Pwyll was the first to break the silence. “We’ll be heading in through there.” He pointed a hoof at a slight gap in the trees, off to their right. “Although it’s getting late. I don’t recommend we move through the forest at night.”

“Agreed,” said Castor. “Last thing we need is a wheel getting tangled with roots in the dark.” Putting a hooftip in his mouth, he gave a sharp whistle that carried over the entire caravan. “Circle ‘em up, people! We’ll camp at the forest’s edge tonight and get an early start tomorrow morning.”

Kaduat barked orders in Dromedarian, and the caravan began descending the hill toward the treeline. Inger found his pace slowing, as if his hooves were unwilling to approach the aspens. He stepped aside, letting the carts pass as he surveyed the forest. The eerie, whispering leaves made the hair on his neck stand up. From the top of the hill, he could see for what seemed like kilometers over the treetops. There were no mountains in the distance to provide scale, or tall conifers poking through the canopy; just an infinite, verdant sea.

“Magnificent, isn’t it,” said Tybalt. Startled, Inger turned to see his father standing beside him, gazing out across the trees. Tybalt slowly nodded, scanning over the endless green. “This forest has been here longer than the princess herself, you know.”

Inger braced himself for more griping about Celestia, but the expected complaint never came. Tybalt glanced sideways at him, then cleared his throat hesitantly. “How are you feeling, Inger?”

“Uh.” He shifted uncomfortably. “Fine, why?”

“You’ve been very quiet ever since we left Faeloch.” Tybalt idly dipped a hoof through the flowers. It was merely an observation, but Inger heard the invitation in it: You can talk to me.

“I, um…” Inger took a deep breath. “It’s Cranberry.”

Tybalt did not press, waiting patiently for Inger to gather his thoughts. With another fortifying breath, Inger continued. “We… we had a fight.” Wincing, he amended, “Are having a fight.”

His father looked down to the forest’s edge, where the mercenaries had circled up the caravan carts, and were busy erecting the tents. Tybalt slowly nodded. “Over Apricot?”

“That’s how it started,” said Inger, shaking his head. “But then it turned into… something else. She… she doesn’t like you. She said that you’re—that I’m just a replacement heir for you.”

Tybalt jerked as if struck, before giving him a dismayed look. “Is that what you think?”

“I don’t know,” said Inger, with a forlorn glance. “I can’t stop thinking about what she said.”

“She’s wrong,” said Tybalt, firmly. “Whether you become my legal heir or not is up to you.”

Inger gave him a puzzled look.

“I had a scribe draft the official forms to claim you as my heir before we left Canterlot, but I haven’t filed them yet. I instructed the notary not to validate them without your verbal and written consent. The claim can’t go into effect unless you want it to.” Tybalt looked back out at the aspens. “Becoming Lord of the Rose Valley is no small thing. It would uproot your entire life. I saw what you have in Canterlot—the Firewings, your family. I would never ask that you leave that all behind to govern some place you’ve never even seen.”

Inger blinked, shocked at the thought. “Then why’d you do the paperwork?”

“I thought… if something were to happen on this trip, then I might not get another chance,” admitted Tybalt. “I wasn’t going to tell you about it until we returned to Equestria. But the choice is yours, Inger.”

“But you’re hoping I accept.”

“No,” said Tybalt, smiling. “You deserved to have the choice, that’s all. If you don’t want it, then my nephew Anderian becomes the new count. The Rose Valley will be fine.” He tilted his head. “Inger, I already have what I want. I didn’t spend all those years searching for an heir. I was searching for my son.”

“Oh,” whispered Inger. He rubbed his eyes, feeling a rush of gratitude. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely.

“I’m sorry,” said Tybalt, his ears drooping. “I was so excited to meet you that I’ve been monopolizing you for weeks. I can see why Cranberry is upset with me. She needs you, too.”

“It’s… not only that.” Inger cringed. “She just lost her father. And I…”

“Found yours,” finished Tybalt, with dawning understanding.

Inger hung his head. “That’s what I said to her. I told her she was jealous.”

“Ah,” said Tybalt, wincing. “Some things are better left unsaid, you know.”

Gloomily, Inger flicked his tail. “I’ll fix it, somehow. We’ve had fights before. But… this is a bad one. I’m not sure what to do.”

“Apologizing is usually a good start.” His father spread a hoof around them. “We’ve got plenty of flowers…”

Inger managed a small chuckle. “No chocolate, though.”

Tybalt smiled, but his eyes were distant. “I envy you two, you know.”

Inger raised an eyebrow. Tybalt exhaled slowly. “My wife and I weren’t always at odds. We tried to make it work. We truly did.” Sadness creased his face. “But how could we build trust on such an unsound foundation? I’d thrown her aside for Meg in less than a year. I don’t know how much Eurydice knew, but it was enough. I could see it in her eyes, when she thought I wasn’t looking.” There was bitterness in his voice, directed inward.

Unsure what to say, Inger waited. Clearing his throat, Tybalt shifted on his hooves. “You and Cranberry, what you have… It’s worth protecting. Don’t let me come between you. Don’t wind up like me and Eurydice.”

“Did you hate her?” Inger asked, before he could stop himself.

“It would have been easier if I did.” Tybalt sighed wearily. “Sometimes, when her paranoia and her attempts to control me were too much to bear, I wanted to hurt her. Badly. To dig the knife deep, and twist it: to tell her all about Meg, and that little bed with the lavender-scented sheets. To tell her that all her fears had already come true.”

Inger fluffed his wings uncomfortably. He couldn’t imagine feeling that vicious.

“But despite it all…” Tybalt’s voice was a rasp. “I did love her, as much as I wished I didn’t. Our children were beautiful and bold, the best part of our lives. Some days, when things were good, we could both pretend so hard that it seemed real. And that’s why I never told her the full truth. In the end, I couldn’t bear to cause her that much pain.”

Closing his eyes for a moment, he took a deep breath. “We can’t choose who we love. All we can do is show them.”

Inger nodded, standing straighter with sudden resolve. “I’m going to talk to Cranberry.” He glanced around at the sea of flowers, a smile tugging at his lips. “She likes peonies…”

Tybalt grinned, though it had a tired edge. “I’d help you pick some, but it seems the sort of thing you ought to do yourself.”

“Agreed.” Inger’s smile faded. “Did… did Eurydice forgive you, in the end?”

His father stared hollowly into the forest. The breeze shifted, flowing through his dark gray mane as the aspens whispered.

At last, he answered quietly. “I never asked her to.”

* * *

The campfire crackled beneath the stars as Virgil’s violin hummed warmly in the night. Cranberry listened, entranced, as she warmed her hooves by the flames. Circled around the fire with her were the few members of the expedition who hadn’t yet retired for the night. Pwyll sat to her right, and Kaduat to her left. Beatriz was at Virgil’s side, but seemed content to let him play alone tonight. The antelope smiled as she watched Virgil’s bow dart across the strings.

The lilting violin carried the melody on its own, the lively notes dancing with the fire. Cranberry recognized the tune, and knew there were lyrics, but Pollux was too busy to sing for them. The mage was deep in discussion with his brother, both of them standing near the camp’s edge, both gesturing occasionally into the nearby forest.

With a reverberating glissando, the violin dove into the chorus. Kaduat, sipping from her bottle, nodded along to the tune as she twirled her knife with her free foot. “Always liked this one.”

“Me, too,” said Pwyll, leaning forward. He was watching Virgil with rapt attention. “You know what it’s called?” When Kaduat shrugged and shook her head, Pwyll continued, “Valendriolanera. It means Lady of the Trees. Er…” He gave Cranberry a hesitant look, but his translation to Equestrian was correct. She nodded approvingly. Beaming, he looked back toward Virgil. “It’s about the Gardener Queen, Saesa.”

From her seat beside Virgil, Beatriz laughed. “Gardener Queen? That’s a strange sobriquet…”

Cranberry nearly spoke, but caught Pwyll giving her another hopeful look. Smiling, she gave him an outstretched hoof. Go on. All yours.

“She was one of the greatest rulers in elken history. One of the few Dominion monarchs we still tell stories about,” said Pwyll, his eyes lighting up with fervor. “A few centuries after the founding of the Dominion, a terrible civil war nearly destroyed the islands. For nearly forty years, the fighting raged on. Whole forests were set aflame, fields burned and cities razed. By the fourth decade of the war, all the major claimants for the throne had perished on the battlefield, and the whole empire feared that soon there would be total anarchy.”

He looked into the fire, scratching his velvety antlers with a hoof. “No one left by that point had enough forces at their command to seize the crown. Leaderless armies of mercenaries roamed the islands, demanding tribute from villages lest they be burned to the ground.”

“Many did the same in Dromedaria’s civil war.” Kaduat sipped her rum, staring into the forest. Her eyes hardened, and her voice lowered. “If Castor ever tells me to burn a village, he can get fucked.”

Cranberry winced at the language, grateful that Apricot had already gone to bed. But then, she recalled the sight of Canterlot aflame after the griffon siege, and felt a fierce urge to agree with the camel. She settled for a vehement nod as Virgil’s song came to a close.

“Hear, hear,” said the griffon soberly, as he took a small bow to scattered claps from the circle. He set the violin down in its case, closing the latches. “In Alastria, I saw two villages destroyed. I still dream about it, sometimes.”

Beatriz nuzzled him. “It wasn’t your fault,” she whispered.

“It was my job to make the blackpowder bombs, Bea,” he said quietly. “That’s why I left. I promised myself I’d never watch another home burn.”

Looking a little subdued by the intrusion of grim reality into romantic history, Pwyll silently scratched his antlers. Cranberry reached out a hoof, gently tapping his shoulder. “Go ahead,” she encouraged, “tell us the rest of Saesa’s story.”

He nodded, and launched back into the tale. “Saesa was a common herbalist, living in a small village in the peat bogs on the isle of Talamh Bháite. It’s a nasty place,” Pwyll explained, “Full of mosquitoes and mud. One day, a group of brigands visited her town, looking for easy prey. But by the time they made it through the bog, they had lost most of their supplies, and many—including their leader, a former soldier named Talendrin—had fallen sick. They arrived in Saesa’s village on death’s door, with grumbling stomachs and weeping sores on their skin.

“Moved to pity by their pleas for help, Saesa took mercy on them. When she looked at these thugs and murderers, she saw only more victims of the war, and conceived a chance to break the cycle of violence. Instead of turning away or killing the weakened bandits, she offered them as much hospitality as her village could provide. The villagers shared their food, and Saesa tended the brigand leader’s illness with her precious herbal medicines. Against all odds, he recovered, and soon the bandits were well enough to leave. Talendrin, grateful to his savior, asked her what she wished in return.

“Saesa had only one request: that he and his troops travel with her, to unite the villages of her island; not with violence, but with the mercy and healing she had shown them. Talendrin, tired of the bandit’s life and ashamed of what he had been reduced to, took up her dream as his own, and Saesa’s first followers joined her. They traveled the breadth of Talamh Bháite, visiting towns ravaged by the war and helping them rebuild. They defended villages against roving marauders, always showing mercy to their defeated foes. Many of them joined the cause, eager to see an end to the bloodshed. Everywhere they went, Saesa planted gardens of herbs and lilacs. Soon, everyone knew that any village where the lilacs bloomed was under the protection of Saesa the Gardener.

“As word spread, more elk flocked to Saesa’s side. She began to wear a circle of woven lilacs upon her head—a crown not of gold, but flowers. In three short years, she united the entire island, reminding them of the pride the Dominion once instilled in their people. By this time, word had reached the other islands as well, and the smallfolk of all the isles were ready to rise up and join her, the Lady of the Trees, the Flower-Queen. The surviving nobility, seeing which way the wind was blowing, offered Saesa the throne.

“She accepted—on the condition that Talendrin took his place at her side as royal consort. The competing noble houses had caused the war, and she knew that selecting her husband from one of them would only further the conflict. Her rule was to be an end to the old order, and the start of a new peace.” Pwyll smiled. “And over the years, struggling together to bring the shattered elk back into harmony, she and Talendrin had fallen in love. She refused to be parted with him, no matter what the nobles wanted.

“The aristocrats were unhappy, but the war had left their resources exhausted, and they all agreed the fighting must end. And so, after forty years of war between the great families of the elk, the Dominion came to be ruled by an herbalist and a former brigand.” Pwyll sighed wistfully. “Saesa spent the rest of her reign healing the land. She seeded vast swathes of the islands with hardy tubers and wildflowers. Under her rule, the forests were protected and allowed to regrow.”

A gust rustled the aspens, drawing Cranberry’s eye back to the trees. Were any of these trees alive yet, back then? she wondered. Did Saesa walk the same paths as us? She always got a slight thrill from the thought that someone, thousands of years ago, had stood exactly where she was, seen the same sights and smelled the same spring breeze. It was like stepping back in time.

Pwyll continued, “They say the trees grew massive under Saesa’s care. There are tales of oaks a hundred meters tall, of whole cities built in the branches of a single tree. With her magic and kindness, she brought the world back to life. It was a golden age of peace and discovery.” His eyes creased with longing. “Of course, it’s all lost to time, now…”

Cranberry smiled. “Not all.”

“You’re right,” he said, perking back up. “That’s why you’ve come here, after all.” He nodded with enthusiasm. “Sometimes it seems like everyone in the Commonwealth wants to just forget about our ancestors. I know they did a lot of terrible things, but… there was good in them, too. I’m glad you and Professor Locke can see that.”

Kaduat snorted. “Sounds like she just had the biggest army, kiddo. All that talk about healing is real easy to say, after you’ve won.” She took another swig.

“It’s possible,” interjected Cranberry, shrugging. “But,” she countered, “while we can’t know her motivations, Queen Saesa did save the Dominion. After forty years of carnage, she managed to restore the empire to stability in just four. It lasted for at least another six centuries after that.”

Grudgingly, Kaduat acknowledged the point with dip of her head and a grin. “Fair enough. Not bad for a gardener.”

Beatriz stretched her forelegs and beamed at Pwyll. “Well, that was fun,” she yawned, “But I’m beat after all those hills. Come on, Virgil, let’s go to sleep.”

The two headed off for their tent, exchanging waves with Kaduat. The other mercenaries soon dispersed as well, and as Pwyll bid them good night, Cranberry found herself and Kaduat alone by the fire. “Not going to bed?” she asked the camel.

“I’ve got first watch duty while we’re in Elketh,” said Kaduat, winking. “Castor always puts me on it when we’re heading somewhere dangerous. Best to have someone who speaks Equestrian and Dromedarian on guard.” She forced the cork back into her bottle, setting it aside.

Cranberry scanned the dark trees. “Somewhere dangerous…” I hope we’re both wrong about that, she thought queasily. “Is he expecting trouble?”

“Naw.” Kaduat shrugged. “But it never hurts to be careful. Wouldn’t mind some company, if you’re going to be up late.”

“Maybe another night,” said Cranberry, standing up and dusting herself. “Beatriz was right, all those hills tired me out. Goodnight, Kaduat.”

The camel nodded, bidding her farewell with a wave of her foot. Cranberry threaded through the ranks of tents, searching for the one with a number eleven stitched on the sides. When she found it, she paused, suddenly apprehensive. Inger was standing outside, fiddling with something in his hooves.

Cranberry cleared her throat, alerting him to her presence. Inger jerked upright, hiding the thing in his hooves behind a half-spread wing. “Hey,” he said weakly.

The two met eyes and waited, as the silence quickly grew strained. Cranberry managed not to wince. Let’s get it over with, she thought, gearing up for an awkward conversation.

“Inger—”

“Cranberry—”

They stopped, blinking, and then laughed. Inger shook his head, sighing. “Me first?” She nodded. Inger fidgeted. “I, uh, made you this,” he said hopefully, offering up his mysterious item. Cranberry peered at it in the darkness, before her eyes widened. It was a small circle of pink flowers, woven together. “A flower crown,” he said, “just like the one Pwyll was talking about.”

“You were listening?” she asked, taking the little circlet of peonies with a disbelieving smile. “Why didn’t you come sit with us?”

“I… figured I should apologize in private.” He scratched a hoof awkwardly in the grass. “So, um…” He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

She waited for the rest, trying to keep her face neutral. Inger rubbed the back of his neck. “When you said—I was just so angry that I… It doesn’t excuse it. What I said about your father… that wasn’t right. I didn’t mean that.”

“Yes, you did,” she said bluntly.

Wincing like she’d slapped him, he slowly nodded. “Yes… I did. But I shouldn’t have said it. I was angry, and…” He huffed. “You said I was a spare!”

Cranberry looked down at the circlet of flowers hanging from her hoof, and felt an ache. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “That wasn’t fair of me.”

The aspens rustled in the night, as the breeze turned. The sudden gust of wind caught the ring of flowers, yanking them off of Cranberry’s hoof and into the air. She swiped frantically after them, but in an instant they were gone into the night. “Ah!” Clutching her hoof to her chest, she looked back at her husband. “Oh, Inger…”

Inger’s wings drooped, but he gave her a tired grin. “It’s all right. I can always make you another one.”

“You don’t have to,” she said, touching his cheek. She sighed. “Look. I won’t pretend I’m not still angry. But… I don’t want to keep fighting.”

“Me either.”

“So… let’s just go to sleep, okay? We can talk more tomorrow.” She softened, hugging him. “I still love you, you know.”

“I’ve never doubted it,” he said, a little too quickly. He nuzzled her.

They parted from the hug and headed into their tent, stepping carefully over Apricot, who was fast asleep at the foot of the entrance.

Though they had separate bedrolls, the distance felt a little smaller than it had in their shared bed last night. “Night, honey,” she whispered, reaching out a hoof to touch him.

“Night,” he murmured, resting his hoof on her own, before his breathing settled into a gentle rhythm.

Soldiers, she thought dryly. She’d always envied his and Windstreak’s ability to instantly fall asleep. Staring up at the angled roof of the tent, she closed her eyes and waited.

Outside, the leaves whispered in the night. As the wind gave voice to the trees, her half-awake brain searched for words in the white noise. Her ears twitched as inky darkness swallowed her up.

11. Leaves of the Elderwood

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She hits the ground, hard. Fortunately, the back alley behind the bakery isn’t paved. As bad a cushion as the dirt makes, it’s better than cobblestones. Cranberry sits up, wincing and rubbing her shoulder. “Owww…”

“Are you okay?” A young colt comes running up, his stubby wings fluttering with worry. Rye’s mane is even messier than usual, thanks to his fight against the terrible Manticore of Mountua—which Cranberry nearly won, this time.

“I’m fine,” she says, grinning. “Manticores heal fast!” She shoots a glance up at the rooftop. “That’s higher than it looks…”

“I told you climbing to the roof wasn’t going to work.” Rye hops from hoof to hoof with nervous energy. “I always went out my bedroom window, until Mom nailed it shut.”

“Maybe if we climb that tree…”

A line of white-trunked trees stand tall around the bakery, shivering in the breeze. It’s dark beyond them, the rest of the city hidden from view as if by black fog. Cranberry sizes up the one nearest to the building, wondering if she could shimmy her way up to the branches. “Good thing manticores can fly!” she says, before charging toward it.

She doesn’t even make it to the lowest branch before her grip fails. Tumbling down into the dirt again, she whinnies—more frustration than pain. “Darn it!”

“Taking advantage of the manticore’s distracted attempts to escape, the Firewing pounces!” Rye tackles her, and their earlier tussle resumes.

Cranberry gives as good as she gets, landing a solid thwack to his chest and boxing his ears. Rolling in the dirt, the two struggle to pin the other. “Roaaaar!” she says, swiping imaginary claws across his face. Falling aside, Rye clutches his head, howling with enthusiastic pain.

“The manticore strikes for the kill!” Unfortunately, her tail isn’t three meters long, prehensile, and tipped with a venomous stinger. She makes do by twisting around and sweeping it down at him.

“For Equestria!” he suddenly shouts, rolling out from under her tail strike. Before she can react, his wings fling out and he leaps back at her. It catches her off-balance, and they crash back to the ground—with Rye solidly on top. Cranberry struggles to move, but he has her firmly pinned, this time. “Hiyaaa!” he yells, drawing back a hoof and then pounding the ground beside her head repeatedly.

Cranberry reacts to the blows, “Oof! Ah! Ow!” Her eyes roll up and her tongue lolls out. “Euuuugh…”

Sliding off her and sitting upright, Rye dusts his forehooves. “Once again, the Firewing is victorious!” He jumps up to his hooves, strutting in a circle around the slain manticore with his wings raised and his chest puffed out.

Rolling over onto her stomach, she props her chin up on her hooves. “And so, the Beast of the Bakery was slain,” she intones theatrically. For a moment, she can almost see him as a real Firewing; clad in shining golden armor, dust-covered and dinged up from the victorious battle. Something strange stirs in her at the thought.

“Canterlot is safe once again,” Rye says, saluting the distant Sun Castle, hidden in the dark somewhere beyond the trees.

“Now you can rescue the duchess it kidnapped,” says Cranberry, standing up.

“Oh, right!” He blinks. “The Firewing makes his way up into the beast’s lair…” glancing up at the roof, he pauses. “Uh… through the ground entrance.” His too-small wings give a subdued flap.

Cranberry flings herself at him, hugging him tight. “Oh, thank you, Captain Strudel! I knew you’d save me.” Falling back on her haunches, she clasps her forehooves beside her cheek.

“All in a day’s work, Lady Sugar,” he says, still puffed up.

Seized with a sudden impish inspiration, she bats her eyes. “The manticore cast a spell on me, brave captain. I can’t leave this place. But you can break the spell with a kiss.”

Rye jolts. “Er, what?”

“Come on, the hero always kisses the fair maiden.” She’s done enough illicit reading of her older sister’s romance novels to know that.

She hasn’t seen him this embarrassed since the time old Jensine caught them using her cane as a sword. “I’m, uh, not sure how exactly to…” he mumbles.

“Well, then! You’d better practice if you’re going to be a real Firewing.” She leans forward, puckering her lips and closing her eyes.

After a few moments without a sound, she cracks one eye back open. He’s standing right in front of her, his own eyes shut tight and his right forehoof quivering anxiously in the air.

Well, if he isn’t going to work up the courage, she’ll have to. Darting forward, Cranberry plants a clumsy kiss on his mouth, pressing his lips against her own. She feels him go very still. Closing her eyes again, she focuses on the strange new sensation of another pony’s lips.

All around, the leaves of the white trees shift eagerly.

This isn’t so bad. She kind of likes it, actually. Maybe this is why the adults are always doing it in Inkpot’s books. Sometimes there’s more that comes after the kissing parts, but she never understands any of it, and she knows asking Inkpot to explain will only get her a scolding for reading them in the first place. Still, this is nice…

Rye breaks away, making a pfft sound over and over as he scrubs his tongue. “Blech!”

She giggles. “Thanks, Captain Strudel.”

“That was weird.” He glances at her, nervously. “Well, did it work?”

“Yes. I’m free!” She prances past him, her tail swishing happily. “And I’m starving. You think Papa’s making macaroni again tonight?”

“Nahhh.” Relaxing, he follows her at a trot. “We just had that last week. Dad never cooks the same thing twice in a fortnight.”

As they reach the front door of the bakery, she pushes it open. The bell dings above, as she grins over her shoulder at Rye. “Then I bet you dinner’s going to be—”

There’s a dull clink of heavy glass, like a bottle bumping against something metal. Suddenly she feels a cold breeze from inside the building, and the whispering leaves of the trees hiss and shudder.

“That’s a good vintage,” says Rye.

The ground falls away, taking the bakery with it. She stands in the circle of pale trees, her hooves resting on a black void. “This is good,” her own voice says, from somewhere in the treetops.

“I’m not going to have to carry you down the mountain, am I?”

* * *

Cranberry’s eyes opened.

Sweat clung to her, plastering her mane against her neck. Her heart pounded in her chest like she’d just run a marathon. Outside the tent, she could hear the wind brushing through the leaves. The pale light of early dawn filtered through the tent, still so faint that she doubted the sun had yet risen above the horizon.

Sitting upright, she found herself out of breath, pressing a hoof to her chest. A quick look to her side assured her that Inger was still fast asleep, though he was stirring fitfully. He mumbled something, though the only word Cranberry caught was dogs. She was still too frazzled to attempt to parse it.

What in the hell had that been? She stared at the fabric flap covering the exit as her racing heart began to steady. The tent felt suffocatingly small. Grabbing her journal, she stepped over Apricot and pushed her way out into the daylight.

The morning air was filled with the scent of flowers, the sky a faint blue as the world began to wake. Cold dew painted her hooves as she tread through the grass toward the fire, which had guttered out sometime during the night. Sitting beside the ashes, with a trembling grip on her pen, she began to scratch new letters on the page.

We’ve reached the Elderwood at last. It’s not a welcoming place. The air is filled with this foreboding chill, and the noise of the aspen leaves is ceaseless. My first night beneath the trees was filled by a dream of a silly childhood game. A real one I once played. It was more vivid than my own memory, though strange—there have never been trees near the bakery. Yet the other details…

Her pen paused. Those details burned in her brain like flaming arrows. The soreness from losing that wrestling match, the warmth in her belly at the thought of a proud Firewing rescuing her, the feeling of Rye’s lips on her own in her first childish kiss—she shivered, and continued writing. For some reason, she felt compelled to put the entire dream down on the page, while it was still fresh in her mind. Perhaps it was academic habit. Or maybe, she mused darkly, it was penance to absolve herself.

Not that she had anything to feel guilty about. Just a stupid dream, she thought, as words filled the page. Just kids playing around.

Of course, there was that other memory, the one that had begun to bubble up at the dream’s end… Was that what had woken her?

“Morning,” yawned someone from behind her.

Inger? she wondered, pulling the journal up against her chest and turning her head. But it wasn’t her husband; it was Virgil. The griffon rubbed his eyes and nodded to her. Cranberry gave him a single nod in return. “Good morning.”

“Bea’s getting breakfast ready,” he said, yawning again and gesturing toward the carts, where Cranberry spied Beatriz gathering supplies. “Sleep well?”

“Just fine,” she said, closing the journal with the pen inside. “You?”

Virgil peered blearily into the forest, blinking. “Just fine,” he echoed.

* * *

Inger swatted aside a twig, stepping carefully around the tangled roots to his right. “Watch out for those,” he warned Kaduat, who was pulling a cart a little ways behind him.

“Mm,” she grunted, steering wide around them.

So far, the Elderwood was nothing like Inger’s last venture into an elken forest. Rather than a dense, dark blanket of silence, the aspen wood was open and filled with sound. The ever-shifting canopy of leaves let in the sun along with their whispering, letting dappled light play across the shadowed ground. Birds chirped among the treetops, building springtime nests. It was peaceful, bucolic even, but Inger couldn’t settle the queasiness in his stomach. Just Beatriz’s oatmeal, he assured himself, stepping around another root. I never did like heavy breakfasts.

It had taken longer than usual for the expedition’s tents to be packed and the carts to start moving again. The cause of the delay could have been breakfast, or the early start—everyone looked as tired as Inger felt—but the other culprit was Zaeneas’s alchemical brew. Inger glanced up ahead at the zebra, who was pulling her own tiny cart. It was a strange-looking contraption, with an inverted v-shaped roof and a chimney-esque little vent on the top. Steam trickled out gently as the wheels trundled on.

Last night, Inger had caught a glimpse of the cauldron inside, and the strange iron wire-work that held it. Rows and rows of vials and pouches covered the sides, filled with ingredients as common as dandelions and as rare as powdered gemstone. The cauldron had bubbled all night above a small fire the alchemist had built at the edge of camp. It had taken a good twenty minutes this morning after eating for Zaeneas to load it properly into her cart without spilling anything. Now, hours later, the vent was still leaking steam.

Elyrium, Inger thought. Let’s hope we don’t need it.

“So?” Tybalt’s voice drew his attention back. Somehow, he’d snuck up on Inger while he was lost in thought. “How’d it go?”

Inger cocked his head. “Huh?”

“You know,” Tybalt said, hushed. He glanced around, apparently determining that Kaduat was too far behind them to overhear. “The apology.”

“Oh.” Inger frowned unhappily. “I’m not sure. Last night, she said she wanted to stop fighting, but she was still angry. And this morning, when I tried to talk to her, she seemed jumpy. When Apricot asked if any of those books she brought had anything about spellsinging in them, she took off like a lightning bolt for the cart with our things to find one for him. We haven’t had a chance to speak since then.”

Glumly, he drifted to the side of the path, looking around Kaduat’s cart to see if Cranberry was alone yet. No such luck, however; she was still deep in some conversation about elken relics with Pwyll. Apricot was nearby, still wrapped up in his exercises with the knotted string. “I think she’s avoiding me.”

“… Ah.” Tybalt frowned in sympathy. “Maybe she just needs time.”

“I don’t know. I could be imagining things. I didn’t get much sleep last night.” Inger yawned.

“Bad dreams?”

“Mm.” Fluffing his wings, Inger’s lips tightened. “About Mother.”

Tybalt started at the word. “Meg…?”

“Yes. An old memory I’d nearly forgotten about,” said Inger, shaking his head, “We were at this house, this huge mansion on the edge of the noble districts in Canterlot. We’d gone there to steal food from the refuse piles behind the kitchen. But just as we found some half-eaten fresh bread, they set the dogs out. Mother and I ran from them through the trees, on and on…” He shivered.

Pale beneath his onyx coat, Tybalt swallowed. “The two of you had to scavenge in the garbage?”

“Sometimes,” said Inger, flatly.

“Sisters,” muttered his father, looking sick. “Inger, I’m—”

“You didn’t know,” he interjected, cutting Tybalt off. “Forget about it.”

“I should have known,” said Tybalt. “You’ve a right to be angry with me.” He sounded almost pleading, as if he wanted to be punished.

I’m not your judge, or your redemption. Inger restrained a sudden snarl. “Of course I—” he paused, and took a deep breath. “Look. Neither of us can change what happened. And feeling guilty or angry about it isn’t going to help.” He sighed, shaking his head. “Let’s just keep our eyes facing forward, all right?” Softening, he looked ahead. “The past is past, but the future’s what we make of it.”

“Yes…” Tybalt slowly nodded. “A wise philosophy. Thank you.”

They walked together without words for a minute or two, before Tybalt cleared his throat. “I had a strange dream, myself. Of Eurydice. I haven’t dreamed about her in years…” For a moment, his eyes were haunted. “Serves me right for bringing her up last night.”

“Good dream, or bad?”

“It was rarely that simple with her,” muttered Tybalt. “I was dreaming about the time I returned to Canterlot with her, and learned that Meg had disappeared from the castle. Grief and fear were whirling around inside me the entire trip, but I couldn’t let Eurydice see any of it. The secrets were like burning coals in my chest. The simplest questions from her would give me anxiety attacks. She kept asking why I was so jumpy. It was a hellish week.” Shaking his head, he exhaled. “A bad memory.”

“Hey!” barked Kaduat from behind, jolting both stallions. She rolled her right shoulder, hefting the harness she was pulling the cart with. “Either pick up the pace or move to the back, boys. You’re slowing down the whole line.”

Inger and Tybalt shared a rueful look. “Sorry,” said Inger, as they quickened their gait to a vigorous trot. The conversation ended there, leaving the two to trod in companionable quiet beneath the green-gilded white trees.

* * *

Lunch was called later than Cranberry’s growling stomach would have liked. Yet, once the rations of bread and cheese had been passed out, she found herself immediately wishing they could get moving again. Sitting still beneath the ceaselessly rustling aspens was making it hard to keep her mind off last night and the things now written in her journal. Mindlessly chewing her meal, she stared at a nearby tree, one of the few they’d passed with a dark trunk. A maple, she thought, if she remembered the leaf shape correctly. It seemed foreign in the endless ranks of aspens.

“Ah—listen!” Beside her, Beatriz craned her ears forward, and Cranberry followed suit, grateful for the distraction. She heard a new trilling in the distance, beneath the ceaseless rustling of the leaves.

Fee bee-ee! Fee bee-ee!

One of the maple branches above burst into a flurry of motion as two chickadees took off, fluttering around each other in a whirlwind of feathers. Cranberry watched, instantly delighted. “You think they have a nest nearby?”

“Not yet; spring’s just begun. They’re probably building one right now.” Beatriz beamed as a blue jay skree’d somewhere in the distance. “Back when I lived in Antellucía, I used to go out into the woods every morning to listen to the songbirds. I don’t often get the chance anymore. We’re always on the road, and there’s not much work for mercenaries in forests.”

“Is that why you took up the flute?” Cranberry’s eyes followed an orange-and-black streak as a blackbird raced through the canopy overhead.

Beatriz laughed. “No, that I picked up from my aunt.” She tossed a scrap of bread away from the campsite into the treeline around the meadow. Less than a second passed before a bright yellow blur swept past and snatched the food. “Warblers! My favorites. This forest is wonderful.”

“It’s not what I was expecting,” Cranberry admitted. “It’s very… open.”

Virgil grunted an affirmation as he tore into his small loaf. “Smooth path, too,” he mumbled around the food. “The carts are doing better than I expected.”

“Don’t talk with your beak full,” said Beatriz, giving him a gentle swat. “I forgot to pack the lid back on the water barrel. Could you go hammer it a few times for me?”

“Sure,” he said, through another bite of bread. He gave her a cheeky wink as he hopped up and headed for the nearest supply cart.

The domestic display sent a twang through Cranberry. She glanced over her shoulder to where Inger and Castor were trading war stories again. Before he could notice her, she quickly looked back to the maple. She still couldn’t figure out what to say to him.

What is there to say? You had a bad dream. Not even worth mentioning.

Running a hoof through her mane, she asked Beatriz, “How’d you and Virgil end up together, anyway?”

“Ah…” said Beatriz, turning melancholy. “After Simone died, I was… I was a wreck, to put it plainly. Not eating. Barely speaking to anyone. I just threw myself into the work, hammering plates of armor and serving plates of food.” She smiled weakly at her own pun. “No one else in the company knew what to say. They all avoided me, whether out of respect or fear that my dark cloud would hover over them as well. Except for Virgil.”

She fiddled with her hooves. “He knew I played the flute sometimes. He told me that he was a musician, too. Showed me the old violin he’d brought from Grypha, that he hadn’t touched in years. I’d never seen him use it. But he asked if I wanted to practice with him, do something… fun for a change.” Her voice caught. “At the time I thought he just wanted me to stop moping around. Later, I realized… his music makes him so happy that he was hoping some of that would catch. He wanted me to smile again, though he’d not embarrass me by saying so.”

Cranberry remembered the long black nights just after Papa’s passing, and the way Inger had quietly tucked a book on her nightstand each evening. An offered distraction, something he knew would pull her out of her own head for a time.

Beatriz smiled, running a hoof up across a white twig. “I didn’t even play my flute at first. He didn’t say anything about that, but he was more than willing to play for me. Aurelian’s Sixth Concerto was his favorite piece.”

“It’s a good one,” said Cranberry numbly.

“One day, I guess I just couldn’t stay silent any longer. I grabbed my flute case and popped it open while he was rosining his bow. I still didn’t say anything, but we played a few songs together. Gods, I was terrible. Horribly out of practice.” Beatriz snickered. “But it became a weekly activity. Then a daily one. Eventually we were confident enough to play for the others, and we learned about Pollux’s impressive lungs. He started to join our little shows.”

Cranberry nodded faintly. “Very sweet.”

“After playing for the night, while we were packing up our instruments, I found that I could talk to Virgil. About things I otherwise couldn’t say. About Simone.” Beatriz took a deep breath, but forged on. “It got easier. And one day, I wanted to thank him for being so patient, and understanding, and I…”

The antelope’s cheeks tinged with pink. “Well. One thing led to another.”

Cranberry wished she’d used a different phrase. “I’m happy for you,” she said, forcing a smile.

“Hmm. Is everything all right?” Beatriz glanced up as another pair of birds darted overhead. “You seem distracted today.”

“Just… a lot on my mind.”

“Okay.” Beatriz shrugged amiably. “By the way, keep an eye out for woodpeckers! I heard one earlier today, but I didn’t catch a glimpse of him. I haven’t seen a woodpecker since living in Antellucía.”

“I’ll let you know if I spot one.” This time, the smile was genuine. “And thanks for the company.”

A shrill whistle carried over the caravan. “All right, people, wrap it up!” shouted Castor. “We’re moving off in five minutes.”

Scarfing down the last of her bread, Beatriz leaped up. “That’s it for lunch, then. I’m going to check on that barrel before we head out.” And then, she was gone.

Cranberry chewed her own meal, barely tasting it. Kaduat passed her, looking refreshed from the break. The camel reached the cart she’d been hauling, checking the hitch for loose nails or frayed straps. Once satisfied with the harness’s condition, Cranberry watched her slide up to the front of the cart and reach inside. She lifted out the bottle she’d stashed in the front corner and took a surreptitious swig.

Words echoed under the whispering leaves, swirling into Cranberry’s ears. That’s a good vintage.

She finished her bread with trembling hooves.

12. Memories of Mare and Mead

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The light of the flickering campfire casts shadows across the fresh snow. Beside him, Cranberry shivers and pulls her thick cloak tighter around her shoulders. Inger rubs his hooves and presses them toward the fire. Even with a pegasus’s natural resistance to the elements, the heat is welcome in a land as cold as this one. Their other two companions look equally grateful for the flames. All four ponies’ breath rises visibly in the air, freezing as they exhale.

“Well,” says Eberhardt, in his thick Sleipnordic accent. “Is late. We must sleep soon. Crossing frozen lake again tomorrow.”

Around them, the empty tundra is hidden from view by a circle of pale trees. They rustle gently in the frigid wind. Above, however, the open sky is filled with Sleipnord’s glorious aurora. Colors slowly whirl and waver, vast sheets of light that drift silently between the earth and the stars. It’s the most magnificent sight in all the north.

As Eberhardt stands, Rye puffs out a misty breath. “Let’s hope the crossing goes better on the way back than it did the first time.”

Beside Inger, Cranberry laughs. “I’ll try not to let anything bite me.”

“No monsters, anyway,” Inger murmurs, so quietly that only she can hear him. She swats him with a hoof, but can’t mask her grin.

Rye appears to have missed the exchange, rubbing his eyes. “Night, Eberhardt.” The nordpony bows his head to the Equestrians before vanishing into one of the two tents. With a yawn, Rye lifts the cast-iron pot that held dinner out of the flames, dumping out the remaining water into the snow. A cloud of hissing steam rises.

“How’s the hammer, Rye?” asks Cranberry, scooting closer to Inger. She leans into him with a sigh of relief at the added warmth.

Rye shrugs, scooping some snow into the pot to cool it. “It’s fine…” He glances down at the hammer hanging from his side. “I still can’t feel any magic from it. But it’s got to be the right one, or that spirit wouldn’t have protected it so fiercely.”

Inger slides a hoof under the hem of Cranberry’s thick cloak, brushing against her cutie mark. Biting her tongue, she gives him a light nudge with her snout. “Patience, silly,” she whispers. Raising her voice, she asks Rye with veiled innocence, “You think you’ll be up late?”

“No. Eberhardt’s right; tomorrow’s going to be a long day. We’ll have to climb that cliff again…” Rye stuffs the cooking implements back into his pack, hauling it over his back and standing. With a pause, he glances between the two of them. Inger can feel Cranberry tense slightly, but Rye’s face is perfectly neutral. “Good night,” he mutters, nodding before heading into the tent after Eberhardt.

“Finally,” breathes Inger, burying his face in the crook of Cranberry’s neck, kissing her.

Rolling back into the snow with him, she giggles. “Goodness, Inger. It’s only been a day.”

“Can you blame me?” He grins, running a hoof along the curve of her leg. “Something about you makes me impatient.”

“Where’s that Firewing discipline?” They trade kisses. The warmth of her lips is the perfect antidote to Sleipnord’s bitter chill.

This—kissing her, being with her—is still new, still thrilling, more exciting than flying, more nerve-wracking than battle. It’s only been five days since he first kissed her, beneath the stern stone of Mount Jormundr. And it’s only been three days since they first pushed their bedrolls together to share a blanket, and tenuously begin exploring this new relationship. His heart pounds with the still-fresh terror and delight of newfound intimacy.

Who could have thought that this mare, who once punched him in the nose by way of introduction, could become the one he loved most in the world?

“Mmnh,” she whispers, “not out here.”

“Why not? I can’t think of a more beautiful place…” Inger turns his eyes up to the infinite sea of shifting color in the sky. Cranberry’s gaze follows, and both pause for a moment, breath stolen by the magnificent aurora.

“It is beautiful,” she admits, before shivering. “But I’m not a pegasus. My blood doesn’t protect me from the cold like you and Rye.” Giving her frostbitten ears a pointed flick, she raises an eyebrow.

“I think we could find a way to stay warm…” says Inger, grinning stupidly. “But point taken. The tent it is. After all, wouldn’t want my tongue to get frozen to something embarrassing.”

Cranberry rolls her eyes. “I swear. You give a stallion one kiss and he turns into a hound.”

Inger lifts her over his back, as she yelps in delighted surprise. “Are you planning to stop at a kiss…?”

“Go on, to the tent!” she laughs.

Inside the tent they’ve been sharing since leaving the mountain, the two tumble into the warm blankets. Kisses rain down as hooves rove across each other, turning her mane into a mess of curls and frazzling his feathers.

“I think we’re getting better at this,” she says, her chest already heaving. As Inger trails more kisses down her stomach, she gulps. “D-do you think you could do that thing with your to—oh!”

Inger’s head dips between her legs. Cranberry claps a hoof across her mouth to silence a yelp of pleasure. “Mmmmm!” she manages, squeezing the sides of his head.

He loves the way she wriggles beneath his assault. Kisses turn to licks as he intensifies the pressure of his mouth on her warm, wet skin. Cranberry is panting, twisting her head to and fro as his tongue presses into her. “Ssso,” she breathes, “good…” A low moan escapes her lips.

Lifting his head for a moment, Inger lets his hoof take over. His eyes sparkle with delight at the pleasure he’s causing her. “I can’t stop thinking about you all day. Every time I try to focus on the mission, all I see is you.”

“I love you,” she whispers, stroking a hoof against his chest. “Mmf!” Her eyes close as he tweaks his hoof against her most sensitive spot.

Lunging down, he kisses the nape of her neck. “Sisters, Cranberry. I love you, too.” His head is cloudy, hot and thick, as their warm breath mixes.

“Nnh,” she moans, muffling herself with a hoof. “I want… I want more.”

“Gods, so do I,” he admits, using his hoof to pull one of her legs aside. “All I could think of while we were eating dinner.”

“Inger!” She sounds more amused than appalled. “And here I thought you were a gentlecolt.”

“Is this not gentle enough?” he asks, his head sinking back down.

It’s too much. She gasps, crying out before slapping both hooves to her snout. Inger snorts, unable to hide a laugh. “Go ahead. Let it out.” He feels a thrum of excitement. “I like hearing you.”

“I can’t,” she whispers. “Rye might not be asleep yet.”

Inger shrugs. “Does it matter? This isn’t any of his business.”

“No, but… I don’t think he knows we’re, um, doing this. I don’t want to hurt him.”

“Oh.” Inger returns to his ministrations, but a twinge of unease penetrates the amorous fog in his head. He’d wondered how their companion would react when he realized the two had struck up this new romance. So far, Rye hadn’t said anything about it, not even after he’d seen them kissing by the fire two nights ago.

“Why would he be hurt?” he asks.

Cranberry wilts. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m being foolish. But after that mess I made with the book and the hammer, I just think it’s better if we keep this quiet for now.” She looks away for a moment. “I don’t want to hide this, Inger—Sisters, you make me so happy.” She beams back at him for an instant. “It’s just… He never liked it when I stole one of Inky’s romance novels to read out loud. I think he’s sensitive about it.” Her face falls. “I hate to say it, but maybe even bitter. You know, because he’s…”

A pegacorn. Inger understands instantly. Swallowing, he nods.

“Oh, I’ve spoiled the mood,” she says, sighing, but Inger kisses her again.

“You could never spoil anything,” he exhales. Her legs press against his sides as he adjusts his position on the bedroll. Damp warmth presses between them. He feels a twitch of eager excitement as Cranberry’s eyes glitter.

“Mmnh. Okay,” she whispers. “Just be quiet.”

“Shhh,” he whispers conspiratorially, as their lips meet once more.

“Don’t be rough,” she pleads, squeezing her forelegs behind his back.

“Soft as pegasus down,” he promises, before sliding into ecstasy. She cries out this time, unable to contain it, clinging to him. “I love you,” he whispers again, as the leaves whisper on the wind.

* * *

A bang from outside shattered his slumber. Inger sat blearily, rubbing his eyes. “Wha…?”

There was another bang. Who’s causing a racket at this hour? he thought, still half asleep. Outside the tent, he heard Virgil grunt. “Watch the barrels, boys.” Kaduat’s voice muttered an acid rejoinder in Dromedarian. Bright morning sunlight filtered into the tent. The entrance flap fluttered in a sudden gust of wind.

I guess the question should be who’s still in bed at this hour, Inger thought, blinking. A glance to his side revealed that Cranberry and Apricot had both already left the tent. He’d overslept, it seemed, despite feeling like he’d just closed his eyes minutes ago. Yawning, he resigned himself to another day of sleep-deprived stumbling through the woods, but his wings perked up at the smell of cooked eggs on the air. Maybe he could at least still snag some breakfast.

As he cast aside his blanket, he realized with a fierce blush that the dream had gotten him more excited than he’d first realized. It wouldn’t do to go outside like this. Stalling for time, he set about rolling up the sleeping pallets and tying them off. While he worked, he couldn’t help a smile creeping onto his face.

Those first few weeks in Sleipnord together with Cranberry had been something special. Their first kiss under the falling snow beneath the mountain had lit a fire in his chest, a fire that hadn’t faded as the days and nights passed on their way back south. Despite all the danger they’d been in, this one thing—young love, exciting and new—had seemed simple and pure. The way her eyes lit up, the whispered I love yous, and knowing they were for him set his heart aflutter even now, remembering.

Sighing happily, he finished tying up the third bedroll, and hoisted all three over his shoulder by their cords. He’d settled down enough to go out in public, so he stepped through the open flap.

The camp was swarming with mercenaries, busy tearing down the other tents. Inger dropped the bedrolls beside the Sugars’ tent and swiftly set to breaking it down himself. The practice he’d gleaned from dozens of military tours all over Equestria’s provinces made short work of it. In less than two minutes, the tent, poles, and stakes had all been neatly rolled and packed. He carted the lot toward the supply wagon with the others and stuffed them inside.

Dusting his hooves off, he surveyed the rest of the campsite. The mercenaries were clearly almost ready to get moving, but he still had a few minutes to snag some food. Belly grumbling, he made his way past the others toward the remains of the campfire. The only one sitting down was Cranberry, an untouched bowl of breakfast beside her, scribbling furiously in her journal. Inger, with an impish smile, snuck up behind her and put his hooves over her eyes. “Guess who?”

Cranberry jumped, slamming her journal shut. “Inger! Good morning.”

"Morning,” he said, sitting beside her. “Gonna finish that?”

“Go ahead,” she said. She pushed the bowl toward him. and resumed her scribbling.

Inger scarfed down the eggs, along with the shredded potatoes he discovered beneath them. Beatriz had apparently gone all-out this morning; shame he’d slept through it. “What’re you writ’n?” he asked, with a full mouth.

Face paling, she fidgeted with the journal. “Just—the journey so far. Since we’ve entered the forest, I’ve been taking notes on everything I see.” Quickly, she muttered, “And remembered.”

“Funny,” Inger grinned, setting the half-empty bowl down. “I was just remembering something nice, myself…” With an eyebrow coyly lifted, he leaned closer, kissing her neck. He expected her to roll her eyes and push him off, snicker, or even kiss him back; anything but the way she stiffened and abruptly leaped to her hooves. Inger sat back, blinking. “Sorry. Something wrong?”

“No—I—” Behind them, one of the camels slipped and fell against one of the carts. Glass rattled inside, and Cranberry cringed.

“Cranberry…” he kept his voice low, but he wasn’t going to let even the presence of the mercenaries put this off any longer. “What’s going on? You’ve been acting strange for days now. Is this about our—our fight?”

She closed her eyes for a moment, pursing her lips. “It’s nothing, Inger. I just… didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Then why do you jump whenever I touch you?” He gave a frustrated sigh. “If you’re mad at me, I’d rather you were just mad at me. Hiding it isn’t like you.”

“I’m not mad,” she said, her eyes flicking nervously left and right. “Just tired. Haven’t been sleeping well.” Her eyes focused back on him for a moment, and softened. “I love you,” she whispered.

It did little to alleviate his concerns, but the words warmed him anyway. “I love you, too,” he said gently, reaching out an inviting hoof.

For a moment, she seemed about to take it, to sit down with him and finally tell him about what had her so spooked, but a sharp whistle rang through the camp. Castor trotted by, wings fluffed and back straight. “Let’s go, let’s go! We’ve wasted enough daylight.”

The carts creaked into motion as the caravan set out back onto the path. Cranberry clutched her journal to her chest with a foreleg, turning away. “You’d better get that bowl back to Beatriz. I’ll see you later.”

Inger let his hoof drop, mutely nodding. His wife disappeared between the supply carts, leaving him beside the ashen firepit. Frowning, he dumped out the remaining food. He’d lost his appetite.

The day’s hike proved grueling. Though the forest terrain was mostly the same rolling slopes they’d passed through to reach the Elderwood, the supply carts turned what might have been a pleasant walk in the woods into an exhausting march. Gnarled tree roots and patches of mud caused constant delays, and an unlucky rock nearly popped one of the wheels from its axle. A simple ditch, merely a meter deep and double that across, cost the expedition nearly two hours to navigate around, thanks to the dense aspens surrounding it on either side. At one point, Inger, Castor, and Tybalt had to manually lift Zaeneas’s cart into the air to clear a ledge too high for its smaller wheels to surmount.

By noon, everyone was noticeably flagging. Inger was no stranger to difficult treks; he’d had more than his share in the Firewings. But it had been two days now since he’d gotten a good night’s sleep, thanks to those strange, vivid dreams. He was rubbing his eyes before long, wondering if Beatriz had any tea stowed away in the supplies.

When Castor called the halt for lunch, Inger stepped away from the main group. Once he’d put a few trees between himself and the noise of the mercenaries’ conversations, he slumped against the nearest tree. Just a quick rest before we eat, he thought, his eyes fluttering closed. The clunking and shifting of wooden barrels as the camels retrieved rations faded as he slid down the aspen’s trunk. Just resting for a moment…

* * *

Through the white trees, he can hear the sounds of the tavern. Clattering mugs and laughter spur him on through the underbrush. Even the whispering leaves aren’t loud enough to drown out the distinct plinking of a hammer dulcimer and lute, nor the voices of the revelers.

Finally breaking through the treeline, Inger pulls himself out of the pitch-like blackness and steps into the street. Excitement thrums in his chest. After all, this day’s been coming for months. He can scarcely believe he finally worked up the nerve—less still that it went so well. Perhaps Cranberry would think him silly for worrying, but it had taken more courage than facing that vast dragon in the skies above Canterlot.

Ahead, the tavern’s windows glow in the night. The Salt Lick has been doing a lot of business in the last two months, as one of the few pubs in the city to escape the griffons’ arson in the siege. It was Rye who introduced him to the place, meeting him there for drinks when they could catch time between their frantic schedules.

Inger pushes through the door, blinking in the warm candlelight as his eyes adjust. The musicians’ music grows louder, filling the pub with lively song. Before he can get his bearings, he hears a friendly cry of “Eyyy, there’s our conquering hero!” from the bar. With a laugh, he waves to his brothers and sisters.

They’re all here, every surviving Firewing. His stomach lurches for a moment at that thought. Just six months ago, there were over three hundred pegasi in golden armor living at the castle. Now, the survivors can fit in a single pub.

The mare who hailed his arrival, Misty Sprinkle—the sergeant who’d run his basic weatherforging training all those years ago, he remembers with a smile—waves him over. “All hail the Dragonslayer,” she says, lifting her ale as he takes a seat beside her.

All the others toast him with a shout. It’s a good thing Inger’s coat is cherry-red; it makes it hard for others to tell when he blushes. He still isn’t used to the whole “Dragonslayer” thing. It seems to be more than a sobriquet—ponies use it like a title, like a surname, as if it’s all he is now. An honor, but an isolating one. If he ever marries, his spouse will keep her name, rather than take “Dragonslayer” as her own.

Not merely academic, he thinks, grinning down the bar. At the far end, slightly shaded from the overhead candelabra, the Firewings’ former captain sits perched on a stool. Windstreak’s wings are still bound with linen bandages, but she’s finally smiling again, something he hasn’t seen since the siege. She lifts her own mug of ale, winking at him.

Does she already know about his surprise? That would mean Cranberry stopped by the bakery this afternoon. He’s been looking forward to telling Windstreak himself, but he supposes Cranberry had the better right.

“Well, well,” says another pegasus, snorting. It’s the youngest member of the ‘Wings, Wheatie. He was barely a fresh recruit when Inger left for Sleipnord. Now, he’s seen more battle than even Inger himself. “The Dragonslayer deigns to arrive. You’re only an hour and twenty minutes late, you know.”

“I was, uh, held up,” says Inger, waving down the bartender. “Hey, Bottlecap. I’ll get a pint of mead, if you please.”

“Put it on my tab!” says Wheatie.

Bottlecap nods, beaming. “I’ll be a minute. We keep the good stuff downstairs.” He vanishes through a door behind the bar.

“Generous of you,” says Inger, raising an eyebrow at Wheatie.

“I figured I’d get a head start on buttering up our new captain,” says the young pegasus with a wink.

From her seat, Windstreak snorts. “Don’t give him an inch, Inger. If you don’t watch him he’ll sneak off all day to sleep in that tree by the practice field.”

“Can’t,” mourns Wheatie, sipping his ale. “Dragon burned the tree down.” He sighs. “I’ll never nap quite so well again…”

Though he snickers, Inger steals a glance over at Windstreak, his wings anxiously fluttering. He still doesn’t feel ready for this. It ought to be Sprinkle, or Fitz, or hell, even Wheatie taking command of the unit. All of them have more combat experience than himself—killing a dragon didn’t magically made him a great leader. Better yet, Windstreak could stay on.

He knows that it’s impossible. Her wings were broken in that final battle with Shrikefeather. She’ll be lucky to ever fly again, let alone fight with the Firewings. But her stepping down feels like more than the end of an era. It feels like losing a parent.

Windstreak gives him a brief nod, with that confident smile of hers. You can do this, it says. Princess Celestia seems to agree—though part of him is still convinced that the only reason she chose him was because slaying Merys had turned him into a folk hero.

“You’re looking a little green,” says Sprinkle, nudging him. “Go on, get some mead in you.”

Bottlecap has returned, setting down a pint on the bar in front of him. Inger takes it with both hooves, gulping down the sweet, golden drink. It’s delicious; so good that he takes a second sip before setting it back down. “You weren’t kidding, Bottlecap. That’s fantastic.” He wipes his lips. “Shame we can’t take some with us.”

Though General Shrikefeather is dead, and the main force of his army broken like a wave against Canterlot’s walls, Equestria’s southern provinces are still swarming with thousands of invaders. A general named Lionsclaw has declared himself Warlord of the Southern Reaches, making enemies of both Equestria and his own homeland. Next week—so soon! Inger thinks, with regret—the Firewings are shipping off to help Duke Dalamant take the fight back south, to end the war for good. Tonight is their last free night before the preparations begin.

“For the heroes that saved Canterlot?” Bottlecap winks as he cleans a glass. “I’m sure I can misplace a barrel from our stores.”

The Firewings cheer, and all of them toast the proprietor. Inger smiles outwardly, but winces inside. A whole barrel of fine aged mead like that is worth hundreds, if not thousands of bits. It was an idle compliment, not a request. He’s not yet used to the weight his words now carry.

Behind him, beneath the music, he hears the door creak open. Glancing over his shoulder, his eyes widen in surprise. An olive-robed figure of diminutive stature is leaving the building. Though the pony’s hood is pulled up, Inger would recognize him anywhere—and besides, there aren’t many ponies that short who are old enough to visit a tavern at this hour. “Rye! Is that you?”

His friend turns, wincing, as though he’s been caught trying to escape. He smiles weakly. “Inger!”

“Come on, join us!” Inger waves him over. The other Firewings, now well into what must be their second or third round, all give the pegacorn a toast. Sprinkle vacates the seat beside Inger, gesturing magnanimously. As Rye slides onto the stool—he has to hop a little—Inger claps him on the back. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Rye lifts a foreleg, parting his robes and revealing a bottle of brandy held in the crook of his leg. Setting it on the bar, he leans forward—a little unsteadily. “I, uh,” he mutters, “didn’t realize the Firewings would be here tonight.”

“I could say the same to you. What are the chances?” Inger laughs. “This is good, though. Means I don’t have to hunt you down, later.” He clears his throat. “Hey, everyone,” he calls, lifting his mug of mead. “I’ve got an announcement.”

His brothers and sisters peer at him with curiosity. Inger feels a feathery flutter in his chest again. It’s been there, off and on, all day long, since last night when he’d taken Cranberry to their little spot off the mountainside trail, where they’d changed their lives forever. “We’ll all be fighting in Whitetail and Southlund for the next few months, but when we return, we’ll have more to celebrate than the end of the war.”

Inger swallows, his breast swelling with excitement. “I, uh—I’m getting married!”

A shocked moment of silence travels down the bar, before the Firewings burst into cheers, drumming on the bar and shouting congratulations. Wheatie claps him on the back. “Ha! So she finally asked you, eh?”

“I asked her, actually,” says Inger, grinning sheepishly.

“Really?” Fitz, sitting to Wheatie’s right, laughs. “And here I always thought you’d be a traditionalist stick-in-the-mud, Inger. You must have it bad.”

Inger grins. “I’ve come to appreciate the unconventional.” He turns and winks at Rye.

His friend doesn’t return the smile, but he nods. “Congratulations, Inger,” he mumbles, taking a drink of brandy. As he sets the bottle back down on the bar, Inger hears it slosh hollowly—it must be nearly empty.

“Thanks,” says Inger, rubbing the back of his neck. “We’re planning the wedding after I get back from the south. She’ll probably kill me for spoiling the surprise—I think she wanted to tell you herself.”

“She already did,” says Rye. “This morning.”

“Oh.” Inger watches him take another drink as a number of things begin slowly clicking into place.

“Anyway,” Rye stands, stumbling a little. “I should get home while I can still walk.”

The Firewings are still hooting and raising their mugs around him, but Inger’s world feels suddenly much smaller. “Are you going to be all right?”

“I’ll be fine,” says Rye, with a dry smile. “After all, if anyone gives me trouble on the way, I’ll just warn them I’m friends with the Dragonslayer.”

Before Inger can say anything else, a jostle from the side draws his attention. Wheatie lifts his ale. “Here’s to our new captain, and his blushing bride-to-be!”

A chorus of cheers affirms the toast. Inger reluctantly grins and clacks his pint against Wheatie’s. They all drink, and for a moment, the rich mead reminds him of the warmth of Cranberry’s lips, of the deep kiss they’d shared right after she said “yes”.

When the moment ends, Inger sets his drink back on the counter, looking around. Rye’s vanished. Out of the corner of his eye, he just barely catches the door swinging shut.

Briefly, he considers going after his friend. He’s just about to stand up when Sprinkle slides back over onto the adjacent stool. “So, you popped the question? Did you give her an earring?”

Inger grins. “Mhm. Got it from a jeweler on Farrier Street.”

The other Firewings all have their own questions, and soon Inger’s worries slip away. He lifts his mug and takes another draught of mead—

* * *

“Come on, wake up.”

The mead-soaked memory dissolved. Someone shook him again. Inger blinked, lifting his head with a quick shake. His father, wearing a wry smile, lifted a flask. “Lunch is nearly over. You ought to at least drink something.”

“Mm,” grunted Inger, taking it and sipping. Cool, fresh water. “Thanks. Must’ve dozed off.”

“You all right? You’ve been walking around like the undead all morning.”

“Tired,” Inger said, yawning.

“You should see Zaeneas about that,” said Tybalt, sitting beside him at the base of the aspen. “She’s got this, uh, what did she call it… tonic of ginkgo, I think. It’ll perk you right up.”

“You’ve used it?”

“How do you think I got this expedition together in just five weeks?” Tybalt laughed. “I was so busy running around hiring mercenaries and buying supplies that I went four straight days without sleep at one point. I was downing that brew like water.” He yawned, then muttered. “I might ask her for some more, myself.”

“Huh. All right, I’ll go see her.” Inger took another drink. “Thanks.”

“Ahh,” groaned Tybalt, leaning against the tree. “I’m getting too old to go traipsing about the countryside.”

“Good,” said Inger, slightly smiling. “That means I’ve got another decade before I am.”

“Hmph,” his father grumbled. “The impertinence of youth.” He stifled a yawn, flicking an ear. “Who’s Rye?”

Inger blinked, momentarily thrown. “Huh?”

“You were mumbling in your sleep.”

“Mm.” Inger swore internally. The last thing he wanted to do was dwell on that dream. “Rye Strudel. He’s—”

“Oh, yes, yes, Celestia’s pegacorn ambassador.” Tybalt nodded to himself. “I remember, now. Your wife mentioned him, before.”

“He’s a good friend. Probably the closest I have outside the Firewings.” Inger rubbed the flask with a hoof, ruminating. “I was just reliving old times.”

“You traveled to Sleipnord with him, right?”

“Yes. In fact, at first it was just the two of us. Cranberry followed along on her own.”

Tybalt smirked. “Like mother, like son.”

“Heh. She wasn’t pleased when I pointed that out.”

“They were close, I take it?” Tybalt craned up to watch the leaves fluttering in the breeze.

“Who, her and Rye? Yes. Childhood friends. Foster siblings, practically.” The flask was nearly empty. Inger took another sip. “Apricot Strudel took her and her sister in after their real parents perished in a freak blizzard.”

“A terrible storm,” said Tybalt, his head drooping. “I remember that year. We heard about the deaths even in the Rose Valley.” He sighed, and a quiet fell on them both for a time. With a slow shake of his head, Tybalt brightened again. “So, why did she follow the two of you to Sleipnord?”

“Say one thing for Sleipnord, it’s full of history. And there’s nothing my wife loves more than history.” Inger watched a fuzzy caterpillar crawl across the nearest root. “Once she found out we were going to visit the nordponies, nothing could have stopped her from coming along.”

“She was there for her friend, too, surely.”

“Well, of course.” Inger felt a nudge of old guilt. “And she was right to worry. I wasn’t… I wasn’t a very kind pony, when Rye and I first met. It took him saving our lives for me to realize what an idiot I was being.”

“But you became friends?”

“Mhm. He changed my life.” Inger gazed fondly through the trees at the line of carts, where Cranberry and Beatriz were birdwatching. “If not for him, I’d have never met Cranberry. And I’d never have become the kind of pony she’d marry.”

“How, er…” Tybalt cleared his throat. “How’d he feel about that?”

Congratulations, Inger, Rye’s dream-voice echoed, devoid of warmth. Inger swallowed. “What do you mean?”

“It’s just that… even historians avoid Sleipnord in the winter. Not to mention the ongoing civil war at the time. For someone to walk in there willingly takes a lot more than academic curiosity. I just thought that, ah, well, maybe there was more than childhood friendship between them, at one point.”

The dragon stirred in Inger’s chest, icy cold. He stared at the flask as if it were an empty bottle of brandy. “He…”

“Sorry. No need to answer.” Tybalt shook his head. “Just thinking out loud.”

“They’ve always been close,” said Inger, carefully. “And he was… very happy for both of us.”

His father’s ear flicked again. “Then, he wasn’t jealous?”

“Rye—” Inger took a deep breath. “I think he tried his best not to be. So we did our best not to rub his nose in it. Especially while we were still in Sleipnord. He needed to focus on the thanes, and getting the Nordponies’ aid for the war.”

“And… seeing the two of you together would have been a distraction.”

Inger remembered, vividly, the closest he and Cranberry had come to getting caught together. It had been a week before the new year, and Rye had been busy dealing with the thanes. It was a purely political situation, leaving Inger with little to contribute, so he had spent the day exploring Hoofnjord’s market with Cranberry. It was the first real time they’d had together that wasn’t overshadowed by their journey or some mortal peril.

It had been a wonderful day, and promised to be a wonderful night, until Rye barged in with news of an assassination attempt. Though the couple were thankfully no further than kissing, he couldn’t have missed the significance of them pressed together int he bed like that. The look on his face…

Of course he was furious. Someone had just tried to kill him, Inger chided himself. You’re just imagining things because of that dream, he thought plaintively. We never wanted to hurt him. Either of us. Rye had never said anything about it after, and Inger had never asked.

A sharp whistle carried through the trees. Castor was signaling the end of lunch. “That’s a neat trick,” said Inger, changing the subject. “I’ll have to ask him how he does that so loudly.”

“Could come in handy training those recruits, eh?” Tybalt stood. “Time to go…” He nodded to Inger and trotted off.

Inger watched him go, feeling uneasy about the whole conversation. It felt like his father had been quietly probing for something, but hell if Inger could figure out what. Tybalt, Cranberry, everyone seemed unwilling to tell him what they were thinking these days. He stretched, feeling somehow more drained than he had before his nap. Rubbing his eyes, he stood wearily to head back to rejoin the group.

As he stepped forward, his hoof caught on a root and he stumbled. Inger fell, crashing to the ground and landing on his shoulder. Instantly, pain lanced through him, radiating through his entire body. Above, the rustling of the leaves seemed like hissing laughter. Laying in the dirt, he felt the cool kiss of the breeze through his mane.

All at once, the dragon flared to life. Not cold, now, but burning hot. He was fed up with all of this, with these stupid dreams and the lack of sleep and most of all with the way Cranberry was avoiding him. Snarling, he pushed himself upright. Why did everyone have to speak to him in riddles? Why couldn’t anyone just talk, instead of masking their feelings with smiles and hollow reassurances?

The anger felt good. For the first time since that fight on the ship, Inger felt awake, aware, felt ready to move, ready to do something besides wait and hope and mope. Maybe he’d get lucky and one of the carts would get stuck again. He could use a workout. Or a fight.

Fuming, he marched off toward the caravan. Rubbing his eyes, he found Zaeneas’s little wagon, and altered course, There was still time to pay her a visit before heading back onto the trail.

Who needs sleep, anyway?

Thicker Than Water

by DSNesmith

1. The Last Lesson

2. The Rose Lord

3. Memoriam

4. Heir to the Rose

5. Katabasis Company

6. Extra Sugar

7. The Song

8. Music Theory

9. Port Faeloch

10. A Crown of Flowers

11. Leaves of the Elderwood

12. Memories of Mare and Mead