CHAPTER I: DRAW

The first few seconds of the morning are always the most painful.

The body, stiff and cold after a full night without my spirit to animate it, the awakening flesh crying in protest with pain when I made the blood flow and muscles contract. But the pain of the flesh was good, if somewhat unpleasant -- a sign that the herbs and drugs worked as intended, keeping my body safe while I was occupied elsewhere.

It was a productive night -- a few things have been learned, few others exchanged, another dram of strength and knowledge added to the piggybank of my power--

There was a knock on the door.

"Sunset, are you up?"

My eyes shot open. It was my Princess, choosing to grant me a visitation outside of our lesson time, even going as far as my personal room. It has been some time since she had done that, and my pulse grew faster as I tried to figure out if it was a good or a bad sign.

The door creaked, opening slowly…

I slammed it back into her face.

“One minute, my Princess,” I called back, looking frantically around the room. “I’m, err, not decent!”

She should not have been here. She should not have to see the things I had, in my carelessness and exhaustion, left lying in full view. Frantic, I galloped around my room, picking up the notes and materials off the floor and bed. A blast of my magic evaporated the glasses, erasing the trace of elixirs I took last evening; a quick buck shoved the pipe of the hookah under the bed; and pushing the haphazard mess of scrolls and notes into the wardrobe, I ran to greet her before she could grow impatient and enter my room.

She was still there, the aura of her power still tangible about her after raising the Sun, and if she were dismayed by my behaviour, it didn't show. Her expression was just the mild, almost motherly concern and a soft smile that used to make me feel safe and welcome.

I bowed, every sore muscle and sinew crying out in agony, like a symphony of razors under my skin.

“Would you like to have breakfast with me?” she asked, gesturing for me to rise.

I nodded nervously, unsure if my tongue and wits had recovered enough to talk, unsure what to say even if they had. It had been too long since we had a chance to just be together, outside of lesson time.

The table already waited for us on the terrace, stacks of golden pancakes towering over the bowls of berries and, of course, a giant chocolate cake as a piece de resistance. Celestia and my mom had rather different ideas on what constitutes a healthy breakfast for a pony, but I certainly used to prefer it the way of my Princess.

I remember the first time I saw the balcony: all of the city below, shining with warm rays of morning light reflected off amber and gold, white marble and white stone of the buildings interleaved with the green of the carefully tended gardens. Back then, the view used to take my breath away with awe.

We sat.

We ate.

We looked at the city below.

"How are your studies, my little student?" she asked. She was always the first to talk. To try to reach out to me.

"Good, good." I set aside a forkful of pancake. "The transmutation classes are very interesting and I found this text that--"

I cut myself off. Those were not the lessons learned from my Princess or the tutors she had granted me. The lessons I took in the dark of the night, from teachers found far from home, were unfit to be presented to her.

"--erm... I’m still reading it, but it's very interesting. Yes." I finished lamely, retreating back into the safety of food. "They say--" I switched the topic, trying to ask the question I’ve been trying to raise for a while now, hoping that she'd not ask who "they" were. "The winter may be declared earlier this year. The northern winds are coming strong from the East, and the pegasi can’t hold them much longer."

"Taking after your mother, then." She nodded. "She too distrusts the natural weathers. But even in Equestria not everything can -- or should -- be controlled. The northern winds are proud and powerful, and sometimes even the pegasi must yield to their temper--”

"But that's just the thing!" I flared up. "All the anemoi are wilful and it takes time to tame even the smallest of the winds. And here it's all of them, almost lockstepping, and from the East no less. The--" I caught myself before I'd say something I shouldn't have, "I've scoured the library--" and pushed all those who'd talk to me in my nightly travels, "--every scroll and every weather report, and nothing like this has ever happened by itself -- not in all of recorded history. According to every weather science book I’ve researched it should not even be possible at all!"

“You study too much, these days.” Her smile barely touched her eyes, but still, it was there, lighting up the terrace brighter than the morning sun. ”Ever the curious little filly trying to get into Upper Baltimare all by herself.”

I couldn't help but smile in response, remembering that little adventure. A unicorn filly with a failing cloudwalking spell, the horrified flailing in the weather factory, and the rainbow reservoirs surprisingly easy to topple... needless to say both my Princess and I were very grateful there weren't any cameras there that day.

"I... " I tried to find the right expressions, the right words. The desire to just tell her would have ripped at my heart if I still had one beating in my chest. "Just trying to do better. Be better."

There was no explaining this, words becoming lies as soon as I said them. I wanted to tell her of my failure, of how it was my weakness that made me let down both of my Princesses, to explain that I would never let that happen ever again...

The conversation died again, lost between the things I couldn’t say and the things she would not ask.

“Cake?” She held out a plate towards me.

I eyed it for a second, finding solace in weighing a simple decision instead of resuming the pointless argument. In the end, I decided against it: ‘The soldier eats whenever he can, for he knows not when he will have another meal. A warrior eats sparsely, for he knows not when he will have to starve again.’ -- I was reading back then, tomes ancient and deemed uncouth and outdated by modern Equestria. Some -- full of empty platitudes and flowery nonsense, some paradoxical and insightful.

Not sure which one of these was this little gem, but it helped me more than once to hold my appetites in check and not to get used to the luxuries in my life.

I made a vague noncommittal motion of rejection, pushing my half-eaten plate away and restoring my guard and my silence. I’ve already said too much. How could she ever know my mind, how would she discern what quickened me these days? She did not want to know, nor did I wish to mar her with that knowledge.

She sighed. "Your teachers tell me that you are..." there was a caution in her tone, not mine for once, "very fervent in your studies. 'Unorthodox', they say, 'brilliant' and 'insightful'. And I'm very proud to hear that, but they also say that you look tired. That you don't get enough sleep, and you even stopped seeing Doctor Spotless Mind.

"I know that being my student puts a lot of pressure on you, but it seems you're running yourself ragged these days. If you need a break...”

I poured me some tea, half-listening to my Princess say something, some rote, meaningless words of encouragement and support that barely even registered as speech anymore.

“...you need friends, my little student,” she continued. “Have you gone out with your friends recently?"

I haven't, not for a while. Canterlot of gold, bronze and light, the shining city atop Mount Coltvir, the centre of the known world -- it could not sate the appetites that I've finally acknowledged. The boring games with no risk and no stakes, too easy to win, too pointless to even try. The drinks, bland and stale, cider and wine too sweet by half and too weak to bother drinking. The mares with flabby muscles and dead eyes of cattle, the overindulgent, emasculated stallions - the thought of sex with any of them brought nothing but revulsion. No sex, no drinks and most of all - no fights and no excitement to be had in the perfect Equestria. Happy Equestria. Utterly, utterly boring Equestria.

I drank my tea, held a fake, plastic smile, and said no word.

"You look cabin-sick," she started again, trying to chase away the silence. "You used to love `hanging out` with those Lulamoon twins. Maybe you could take a break?"

I did need a break. Ever since I came back, I felt the castle crowding me and driving me insane with all the smiles and bows, my room becoming like a prison and sometimes I just wanted to scream. I was already planning a little outing of my own -- into the Everfree Forest, or the Ghastly Gorge or the Forbidden Jungle, to Tartarus itself if I could’ve arranged it. If only to feel again the strain of my muscles, the song of the adrenaline-filled pulse in my ears, to taste blood, mine or someone else's…

"I’ll think of something," I offered, half-sincere.

Celestia smiled again, a tentative, fragile thing she held out like an olive branch. "Count Fancy Pants is assembling a diplomatic mission to Griffonstone," she said, almost conspiratorially. "Perhaps you'd like to join?”

Had the suggestion come from anypony else, I would have laughed in their face. Mingling with some stuffy, self-important nobles and trying to survive someone droning on and on about some boring business about zones of responsibility and the merits of obligation... there were better things I could do with that time.

“I couldn’t possibly.” I tried to find a reason to refuse. “Maybe I could do something instead? Go to Baltimare, study those wind patterns--.”

"Sunset." She stared at me, her tone growing serious. "You spend too much time on your own and don't get enough rest. This is not healthy. A change of scenery and some company will do you good."

"But,-- the wind patterns!" I almost whined like a little filly, even knowing that the battle was already lost. "That's much more important than some stuffy diplomatic... thing!"

“Your studies can wait, my little pony.” She almost touched me with her wing, only faltering at the last second. “There are things more important than research and spells for a filly your age. I hope you will learn some of that on your trip.”

***

You can’t learn much from the books, but I always found them to be a good start. So, after my academics were done for the day, I retreated into the library seeking the books on Griffonstone. And the more I read the more it caught my attention, making me almost enamoured with the thought of going there.

There, they still fought each other with sharpened claws and ate red meat. From there the strong drinks and exotic spices came, there they still pushed the boundaries of the known world with bravery and persistence nearly forgotten in Canterlot.

Perhaps it would be a decent adventure, going to Griffonstone… but I had more important things to do. Things I could not learn by idle travel and just reading books -- it was time for my nightly lessons. I moved from the library to my personal study, and from there to the lab I made for myself, and the work I kept secret from the Princess.

Here, covered by secrecy and darkness, night after night I did things unfit to be presented to my teachers or published in the esteemed journals of Canterlot.

I remember still those nights; reading tomes forbidden and forgotten, outsider knowledge of the age long gone. Half-intuition, half-science, I was making another type of magic -- old magic, gleamed in other worlds and off the broken kings, the power of words and promises, rights and entitlements. Magic that screamed and bled; magic that wanted to do things. It could crawl into your head like a spider, poison your soul like a snake, twist your flesh and rip out your heart.

I would not gain my power as Cadance did, in one fell swoop, just by being in the right place at the right time. I was fine with that. I would forge my own luck from my skill and determination, build it up one drop of blood and sweat and tears at a time, and I knew without a doubt that once I did my power would be like no other in the world. And if the pain and fatigue were the price for it -- and for Celestia's blissful ignorance of my less choice activities -- then it was a price that I would pay gladly.

Still, when I lay exhausted beyond the aid of stimulants arcane or chemical, wracked by pain from elixirs I’ve imbibed and the spells that rolled through my body, shifting my organs and twisting my bones, I would look through the magic mirror.

I’d look at that pink little alicorn having dinner with her ‘Auntie’, and see them talk without awkward pauses and prolonged silence, a feeling, dark and heavy would lurch in my soul.

A feeling I could now give a name: Envy.

Tonight, however, I had a different plan. The winds and the strangers I met in my nightly journeys did not lie when they whispered to me of the changes in the East. The temperature drops, the eastern winds bringing unexpected northern cold, and the winds of the North displacing them entirely -- those things were not just a matter of changing seasons, whether my Princess wanted to discuss it or not.

Tonight, before being shipped to Griffonstone to waste my time, I had to at least go and look at the cause of it myself.

I ran the last checks and placed the final touches on the things growing and simmering in the confines of my secret lab. Some I drank, bitter taste of rot and poison, feeling their numbing magic spread through my flesh and set a dark flame in my gut. Some I let simmer for a while yet. And then, feeling the potions take their effect, I locked my lab and retreated to my bed.

A spark lit the fire in the brass hookah, boiling the herbs I bought from Saddle Arabia through secret trades and clandestine deals. Hash tickled my throat, reminding me of the pipe I shared in the underwater city, and as the subtle poisons of nightshade, propylhexedrine and khalif-root filled my lungs and entered my blood, I felt my consciousness begin to slip.

And just before the haze of the drug swallowed me, I reached out with my magic, writing shimmering calligraphy of green light on the air as I whispered the secret Name.

It was not any name, not a simple invocation. At night, in the security of my bed, I did not take the poisoned smoke to dream prophetic dreams or to sleep a sleepless slumber. It was not the Name of Al-Basir the All-Seeing or Al-Mani the Protector that I would invoke before bedtime like a scared Saddle Arabian filly. I called instead upon a Name secret and hidden, a Name entwined with my horn and carved in script into my soul.

My magic twisted inside out and joined together like a pattern in a kaleidoscope into a familiar spell, and through my horn I slipped away from my sleeping body, rising out of my bed and into the grip of the Southern Wind.

I looked at my body -- a torpid little orange thing -- while I expanded, seeping through the cracks in the mortar, through the vents and up the halls, up and away to the East. Away from the golden domes of Canterlot and Mount Coltvir, over the snowy peaks of the Foal Mountains, brushing the eternal snow, untouched by pony hoof, around the high towers of Fillydelphia and yonder, over the Celestial Sea.

There was a storm gathering -- any filly who grew up in Baltimare would be able to tell you at a glance. The water was dull, leaden, waves rising and clashing with each other, spurred by the winds. The sky hung low and heavy, full of clouds, each pregnant with rain and thunder. Ships flew past me, fleeing to the safety of the harbour, their weather-crews retreating with them under the pressure of the wind.

I flew on toward the heart of the nascent storm fighting against the air and the rain, and where the water met the sky in a black vortex of sleet I saw the Northern Winds. All of them, howling their fury in the sky above, where just behind the imaginary line that separated Equestria from Griffonstone the battle-clouds full of snow and thunder floated in ranks and legions ready to move.

I flew on, higher and further, pushing through the deadly cold and sharp hail that chilled even my magics, seeking to extinguish them.

And over the vortex of the Northern Winds, above the gathering army of ice and thunder, far higher than I ever dared to rise, I could see him herding the clouds and winds together, weaving a perfect storm. A form just barely distinguished in the chaos of the storm - a flash of flurry turned to a feathered wing, a sound of the wind like the cry of a bird rending into its prey, the lightning flashing in the air in the shape of razor-sharp claws.

A careless flutter of my winds, a glare of my magic -- I don’t know what gave me away, but he saw me, and in an instant, he fell on me with a furious screech, quick and vast, huge as the heavens themselves, like a mountain of wind and ice, and I ran.

Thunder rent the night asunder and hail fell in the million blades, as the flurry ripped into my wind-flesh, and ice froze the currents of the Southern Wind.

I twisted about, raking at him back with my claws of magic and fire, and leaving slices of my body in his lighting-claws, and dashed again, down towards the earth.

There were no words in my brain, only the mad, insane colours of panic and pure undiluted giddiness when I banked a hard right, waves exploding into columns of steam where the lighting struck them. I rode the fear like a high, harnessing it into my magic like stubborn horses gone wild, and rising up, riding the adrenaline wave that pushed me to fly faster.

The sky creaked above me - or was it below? Lightning bolts ripped the waves to shreds beneath my wing and air was as thick with snow and rain it might as well have been water, and all I had to guide me through that madness was the presence, right at my back felt with all of my wind-flesh, until with a last lurch I disappeared into the cumulus-walls of Baltimare. He would not dare--

He didn't even hesitate, as he struck... no, he smote the clouds of the city, with the power that defied imagination. Like a hurricane, like a tornado, like an angry Prince of Storms.

The city shook, from cumulus to strata, almost falling out of the sky. The weatherponies raised by the commotion scattered, and alarms and bells blared, summoning more and more pegasi of the weather team. From the safety of my city, I looked at the hurricane, tired, wounded, but alive, giddy, crazed laughter bubbling from within.

He looked at me back, finally realizing that he would start a war, a war he alone could not hope to win. I saw his eyes, slitted, yellow eyes of the predator, and I remembered them.

***

I shipped out to Griffonstone next morning.

Author's Notes:

You’re like a castle, tall and white.
You’re pure and bright like virgin snow,
I don’t believe this lengthy night
And hopeless evenings, full of woe.

My soul, itself, is desecrated,
And I won’t trust it anymore.
Perhaps, a traveller belated, —
I’ll knock against your chamber door.

Sunset Shimmer
Equestiran Lit homework (never submitted)

CHAPTER II: SALUT DES ARMES.

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I prowled through the ballroom, ignoring the flashing of white and silver, ochre and gold -- dresses and jewellery of every kind, far richer than any I could afford -- as I nursed a tulip of champagne in my magic.

Outside the glass ceiling that covered the Grand Hall of Gormenghast the autumn was turning to winter and as it was outside so it was within the hall, where golds and greens of Equestria were crowded by the dull browns and stark silvers of Griffonstone. Ponies and griffons occupied the hall; all wearing their fanciest outfits; all feigning importance as they made pointless small talk; all staying pointedly each on their own side of the room.

The perches and poles, customary to the griffon courtyards, were removed out of respect for the pony delegation. Instead, tables were scattered through the yard and liveried Diamond Dog servants scurried between them carrying drinks and savouries to the guests.

"...you may talk of beer and wine, while we're spending time out here - and the most excellent vintage at that, thanks to our gracious hosts." A white unicorn raised his glass, toasting the griffon company he regaled with his story. "But now in sunny Hind, where I used to spend my time in service of Her Majesty Celestia..."

White coat, blue mane, all glossy and overdressed I recognized him -- or at least I thought I did. Sir Fancy Pants, Count of something-or-other, a permanent fixture in Canterlot’s most eligible bachelors’ list, if Cadance’s incessant prattling was to be believed. Judging by the number of tittering featherbrains of either species hanging onto his every word, it could very well be.

I shrugged and moved on, pushing my way through the crowd of ponies towards the buffet and another tray of champagne. For all that I ignored the chatter, I could not help but be painfully aware of every look directed at me from behind the veil of the golden fans, picking out every derogatory word and every insulting whisper of the ponies around me:

"... a stray."
"...what is she doing here?"
"Celestia's little mongrel."
"I do wonder, why wouldn't the Princess have taken a proper Canterlot pony?"

I finished the glass in one long swig, wondering briefly if I could murder all of them and tell my Princess they just fell down the stairs, and I gave them a look. The gathering behind me withered away under my gaze -- they knew better than to say something to my face.

And yet, they were not wrong. There was no place or need for me here. I missed my notes already, the experiments I had to stop halfway, the sweet pain of my nightly trips. But there was a thing here, that power that gathered the winds on the border of my country, and so there I was too, trying to not murder the pompous buffoons who looked down on me like a spider-monkey someone let into the Grand Galloping Gala, and wasting my time swallowing tiny canapes and drinking champagne in a vain hope of getting at least a tiny bit buzzed.

With my glasses in tow, I moved past the invisible demarcation line that separated Equestrians from Griffons. Away from the gathering of nobleponies, hoping to hide them away from my sight, before I'd do something my Princess would not approve.

I cared little for the griffons shuffling around me, their wings flashing and gesturing to each other furiously as I walked between them. A lonely little pony, hardly seventeen, all alone in the crowd of predatory birds -- the reaction followed immediately, as one of them separated from the group and swaggered towards me.

There was no need to even look away from my champagne -- I could not have missed him even if I were blindfolded. He fixed his sight on me, undoubtedly seeking my eyes to stare me down as he walked with his wings half-unfurled to make himself bigger and scarier. His coterie, meanwhile, imagined themselves sneaky as they surrounded me, hiding me away from other ponies, and herding me into a cul-de-sac away from any help.

I kept to my glass and my course, making no effort to avoid him until he slammed directly into me, shoulder first, making me rock on my hooves and almost causing me to spill my champagne, were I not holding it inside the glass with magic.

“You pushed me,” he said, his nasal, screeching voice raking across my eardrums. “Why, I demand you apologize.”

“I think you’re mistaken,” I suggested amicably, my sheepish, shy smile putting him at ease.
He clearly thought me an easy mark, used to the politeness of Equestrians, and there was no reason not to use it.

“You see, if I pushed you, it would look like this.” A modest effort of my magic supplementing my weaker physique rammed into him like a freight train, and he landed on his haunches like a sack of bricks.

“And that means,” I kept him in the grip of my power as I walked towards him, holding him with a sharp wire weaved of wind and dust, invisible under his feathers. “It was you who tried to push me.”

He struggled, trying to get up, but I pushed him down, hard, sharp magics cutting into his skin and making his bones groan with strain. Leaning over him, my voice level, I said, in a mockery of his own words, “Why, I do believe you owe me an apology.”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” he squeezed out while he still had air in his lungs, but I was far from done, my other teacher’s lessons still fresh in my mind. Instead, I added more to the power of my spell that kept him down, and he couldn’t even breathe now, his bones a hair’s breadth away from cracking under the pressure of my magic.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you.” I moved my ear towards his beak politely, as if expecting him to talk, and watched the light dim in his eyes as he was trying to force air into his lungs to no avail.

Only when he was on the verge of slipping into unconsciousness did I relent, suddenly releasing my spell, and he gasped for air, barely able to move.

“Oh, you’re sorry!” I smiled to the crowd of his griffons who immediately pretended that they were absolutely not watching the scene with rapt attention. “Well, then there is no problem. Is there?” I gave him a final glance and was satisfied to see the icy fear in his gaze. This one would not dare raise his claw against me.

I considered the remainders of my champagne as I looked at him scramble frantically away. It felt empty and pointless -- the saccharine swill did nothing for me after the high of seeing the terror in his beady little eyes.

Screw this.

I uncorked my flask and took a gulp. The burning, acidic drink took off the edge and slowly I felt the feverish excitement of the previous little scene drain out of me. The griffon caved too fast, gave up too easily… I wanted more. I needed more.

Annoyed, and angry, I found myself a chair and reached for another sip.

“I see you’re well-versed in Griffonian etiquette, Miss Shimmer.” It was Sir Fancy himself who came all the way to insult me to my face. I was not overjoyed.

“It’s Lady Shimmer,” I insisted, baring my teeth in a polite smile and giving him my best glare. Though I was only a Baroness to his title of a Count, and the title I carried was not even in my own right but a courtesy gift of my Princess, it was still mine.

“Is it? Is it truly?” He spoke quickly -- for all his feigned nonchalance he, at least, knew better than to provoke my anger, Count or not, in a foreign castle or otherwise. “I know a bit of you, Miss Shimmer, and of your exploits. You care little for titles gifted and not earned, and I’d rather talk to the mare than to the title she was bestowed with. Especially a mare so unique.”

So he was off the hook… though still I could not say I wasn’t tempted to check if his spellwork was as quick as his honeyed tongue.

"And I think you handled the situation quite well. Not quite the way my..." He made a grimace towards the pony delegation, “...colleagues would, but bravely done indeed.”

"...oh." I felt my eyebrows rise. I did not expect much from the creme de la creme of Canterlot nobility, and praise least of all. "Well. Thank you, milord?"

Disarmed suddenly of my anger, I found myself blushed and not knowing what to say, as he released my confused babbling with a jovial wave of his white fan.

I took the moment to look closer at him as he moved to relieve me of the empty tulip I still carried. He was Canterlot breed alright, through and through, from the well-groomed blue mane to the matching trimmed fetlocks. The way his wide shoulders filled out his fitted tuxedo, the elegant cravat tied around his neck, the cleverly-cut golden cummerbund that almost hid the slight pudge of his belly: everything about him, even the way he held his glass in his magic, golden aura only touching the stem betrayed a dainty Canterlot noble.

“I know you find champagne bland." He smiled and held out a snuff box of old patinated silver, with a large baby blue sapphire in the centre of the lid. “Though that one may be more your speed.”

I looked at it suspiciously, eyeing the unfamiliar black powder.

"It’s just betel nut, slaked lime and nutmeg. An old recipe, from long ago and far away. It’ll take the edge off "

I tried a sniff. It smelled musty, sweet and a little spicy, tickling my nose and burning my sinuses. The sniff sent a mild jolt of awareness up into my head, making a world spin for a second, and turn just a little bit brighter.

"Keep it," he offered, waving his fan when I tried to return the box. "Consider it a gift."

“I…” I did not need pittance from some random noblepony. On the other hoof, it was good stuff, and the gift seemed to be genuine. Not quite knowing what to say, I hid the gift into my dress. "Thank you."

"You should explore the Griffon side, Miss Shimmer," he said, with a conspiratorial wink. "They'll love you here. Just..." He smiled a tight little smile. "Be yourself."

I was still wondering if that was earnest advice or another little barb when the trumpets called, interrupting my thoughts. A sharp wind ran through the room and along the walls, fresh and cold, making the lanterns wave and the fires flicker. It was no mere draft -- there was magic and purpose behind it that made me instantly forget the silver-tongued lordling and snap to attention, like a hound hearing the hunter’s call.

A second time the trumpets called, shrill and stark.

“Son of Grover, Lord of Griffons, master of silver, master of lead.” The griffons recited, the impossible synchronicity of their voice rumbled through the halls, echoing from the ancient stone walls. “The King has water but bathes in blood. The King has two claws -- one for cutting grass, one for making marks. He wears robes of wind. He wears a shirt of ice. He holds silver in his left claw, he strikes with lead in his right...”

I shivered a bit, listening to the Griffonstonians recite their welcome. It was more than habit or expression of allegiance to their monarch in that monotone, hundred-voiced chant. There was the same subtle pull of the power you feel on the day of Summer Sun Celebration when Celestia raises the sun. The same thing that made the minion-pony eyes go glassy and vacant when they whimpered their obeisances to Ahuizotl.

The trumpets rang again, the third and final time, and in the sudden, stark silence, the heralds proclaimed:

“In the fullness of Winter he comes: Welcome, the swift, the good, the mighty, Guto, King of Griffons!"

The doors opened in the ceiling, joining the howl of the autumn breeze outside, and in a cavalcade of silvers, browns and rust-red gold, the royal family of Griffonstone appeared.

Griffons knelt. Ponies bowed.

Hidden behind the Count’s wide frame, I watched.

The Griffon King descended first from the roof of the hall, held aloft by mighty wings and cold mountain air that wrapped around him like a cape. He held a leaden rod in his right claw, a globe of silver in his left, and a crown of silver filigreed with heavy grey lead laid on his brow. He landed on his high throne, of the same lead and silver as his crown, and the same aged grey colour that marked his feathers.

The king’s sons followed. Three young tercels, three princes in Griffonstone, taking their own thrones, smaller and set lower than their father’s. I knew them from books and newspapers, but it was a different thing to see them in person and to take their measure.

Prince Gideon, on his father's right: an intimidating specimen of griffonkind, shockingly large and crimson-red with his feathers. He was stocky and well built, his beak and jaw nearly square, and his frame rippled with every subcutaneous flex of his rolling muscles and every twitch of his lion-tail. His claws were sharp, and subconsciously he clenched them into a fist when looking at the unprostrated ponies.

Prince Gwyr was a few years younger than him, and perhaps a year older than me, if that. He was tall and dour; thin of body, thin of face. Only his eyes were intense, even hidden behind the low plumes of his dark feathers. He stayed to the left of the king and a step behind his brother, quiet and watchful.

Prince Galad, the youngest of the three, trailed behind the procession. He was fluttering up and down as he flew, looking around and entirely lacking the gravity his siblings and father carried. Though clearly excited to see the gathering, his eyes, wide with joy, jumped from pony to pony, trying to see everypony and everything. His colour was rouge, with a shock-blonde crest.

There was one other thing I found familiar, and this one was not from papers and books. The power that gripped the hall with wind and ice when they entered the hall -- I recognized it before I even turned to look at the procession.

It was the same power that smote into the cloud walls of Baltimare like the angry Prince of Storms.

Author's Notes:

Three things know a secret
First -- the  Lady of the Dreams
The dog that barks no warning
And the maid that does not scream.

Fancy Pants, Count Hoofington
Drafts, notes, and doodles.

CHAPTER III: DIRECT

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“Rise and be welcome.”

I ignored the King's speech, with all its flowery greetings and empty pleasantries, and concentrated instead on the thing that really mattered: studying the power behind the throne. A presence, like a shadow behind the King, invisible to the eye. Just being in the same room with it set my teeth and horn on edge.

“...subjects and delegates...”

The power wafted from it in streams, carrying the King’s words on the back of the winds with no regard for acoustics, and filled the hall with its cold, sharp presence.

“...ponies of Equestria, envoys of the Sun…”

It was an anemos like none I’ve ever seen before, the very essence of the frozen storm and ice-filled fury, enormous as the sky. A Southern Wind whose name I knew to call was nothing but a gentle breeze compared to this.

“...long was your road, and you must be tired…”

Was it the Griffon King who used it to gather the storms at the Equestrian border? The power -- it was bound to him, I could feel it without the need for spells or labs. But those were not his eyes I saw in the cloud-covered skies, not his claw guiding the winds, of that I was equally sure.

“...Drink the wine. Eat the bread. Be Our guests.” He concluded, releasing the crowd and the power with a wave of his wing.

Music started, and diamond dogs in servant’s liveries flooded the hall, bringing ever more drinks and appetizers. The Princes abandoned their thrones, fanning out through the crowd, greeting and chatting with their subjects.

The King remained at his seat and a line of petitioners formed, headed by the pony delegation.

I moved closer as well. Though I had little interest in small talk and diplomacy, awareness was the key, and if I was not in the know, I’d be worse than useless - to myself and my princess.

Taking a more roundabout route, I stalked through the crowd of griffons keeping away from the ponies. This time I walked unaccosted, slipping around the nobles and servants, looking and listening, matching my pace to the bobbing of the eldest prince’s crest in the crowd.

He was the centre of attention, gathering griffons like a magnet with his great height and open countenance. He ploughed his way through the crowd towards the side-couches in a cavalcade of hangers-on and high-ladies trailing him like a cloak and making collective "oohs" and "ahs" in response to his every word and proclamation, emptying the drinks-trays and devouring the hors-d'oeuvres on their way like a minor Yakyakistani horde.

It was when they reached the corner of the hall, separated away with the couches and the drapes, and I almost grew bored with watching them. I was about to turn away when abruptly their laughter died, and it was as if a shadow had been cast over the whole crowd when a thing appeared from behind the drapes in a sudden whiff of drafty air.

Huge, curved and hunched in a nigh-permanent bow, trying to contort itself to the griffon proportions -- it took me several moments to piece together the mismatched body parts to realize what exactly it was.

Dirty-grey matted fur hidden underneath a robe of rich Qilinese silks, curved ram’s horns bound with silver and the braids of its mane interleaved with gold, clawed hands and cloven feet, and a single jaundice-yellow eye in the centre of its face -- it was an arimaspi. An abominable creature, a one-eyed mix of a ram and a gorilla, all misshapen and disfigured. Griffons let it through without protest or challenge, growing silent and stepping out of its way, the crowd parting as if in front of a leper.

"My Lord…” It addressed the elder Prince in a bleating, high-pitched tone -- reluctantly at first, then the words came in a rush. "I had heard that you intended to make your announcement today."

"I do." Gideon's expression hardened. "You suggested it, after all.”

“Gideon!” his middle brother pitched in, landing by his side. “You aren’t still thinking of it?”

“And what if I am?”

The arimaspi shot a malevolent gleam at the younger Prince; then he was all fawning humility again. "I had never thought… I hadn’t considered that… I had feared…"

"What is it that you feared, creature?"

"Your Highness has been most concerned for the course of the winds and borders as of late…" it hesitated, then stumbled on. "Yes, yes, so concerned, and I had feared… that your Highness might… perhaps…"

The Prince's eyes narrowed. "That I might show it today, before the assembly and the King?"

"Your Highness must not!" the creature dropped to his knees, claws clutching at the Prince in desperate supplication. "King your Father would be most cross if you--"

"Do you think me craven, knave!?" His voice rose with cold fury - and the ice winds rose with his voice, making it boom through the suddenly cold air. It was power, unmistakable power -- same as his father’s. The griffons scattered away, lest they be noticed and become the target of that ire, and I stepped back as well, staying with the wane of the crowd.

"Your Highness!" the arimaspi cried, flinching away from his master’s anger, "I meant but to—"

"Brother, please." The younger prince put a claw on his shoulder, trying to placate him. "You know this is a bad idea. Wait at least until you have a convocation behind you--"

"There they go again." Prince Galad joined me, looking at his older brothers' argument. His Equestrian was near-perfect, only giving him away with rolling “r”s, "They do it every day, you know. I can count the beats in my head by now."

“What are they arguing about, then?” I asked, surprised to be singled out by the little prince.

“The same thing they always argue about, since before I care to remember: My brother, ignoring all advice and pleading, wishes to do something very stupid, as he does. And my brother” -- he nodded at the smaller prince, --“wishes him not to, as he does. This particular nugget is taking them longer than usual, though -- they’ve been going in circles around each other for weeks, even though we all know how it ends.”

“Hm?”

“Gideon does as he wills, and Gwyr with all the counsellors and advisors try to make sure that he does not break his neck doing it.” The youngest Prince shrugged. “Honestly, the more they try to dissuade him, the more stubborn he becomes, so they should just get on with it already. At least it would save us all this dreadfully boring business of delegations and puffing our feathers for the little ponies who must all think that we’re barbarians…err…” He blushed, turning his crest-feathers almost beet-red. “Not that I think that you think… I mean, not you. I mean, that…”

I wondered if I should be offended on behalf of the nobleponies. I found that I wasn't.

"Eh.” I smiled at the little princeling. “That's fair."

"Well, at least there will be entertainment.” He recovered, put at ease by my smile. “A grand ball, a masquerade... Gideon demanded bouts - he's mad about them, you know, always charging anything bigger than him. But there will be some actual fun all of us can enjoy -- I even heard that Dame Strawberry is providing us with a proper Equestrian party in return.

“And speaking of entertainment -- I am a poor host, aren’t I? Allow me at least to show you around.”

"I'm afraid I'd be terribly boring company, Your Highness." I tried to get untangled from the child-Prince in hopes that the other two Princes would continue their conversation. "I am hardly used to this sort of event."

"Well more's the reason! Trust me, Lady, you will not find a better guide."

I hesitated, looking at the two other Princes, temporarily turning away from each other, and their counsellor stuck aghast between them. All three were clearly gearing for round two... or fifty-two, apparently.

"Please? We don't quite get a lot of Equestrian ponies around. And those we do have are all laying siege to the Silver Throne."

With an acquiescing sigh, I turned to follow him, and just like that, I found myself dragged around, towed by the hyperactive eaglet.

He was witty, charming in his own quaint and coltish way, and he turned out to actually be quite funny. He kept me away from the Griffons and the ponies, introducing everyone with a quietly whispered joke or a sarcastic comment, describing the Senor this or Lady that, ever more hilarious for the uncanny eye he had for the detail to mock and exaggerate.

We were tasting Duke Grimaldi's sherry -- much better stuff than the weak champagne they made to pony taste -- and talking of the differences in how Griffonstone and Equestria managed their weather when I noticed her.

A midnight-black pegasus, beautiful and graceful, her dark fur attenuated by the red ribbons braided into her mane and silver jewellery: opals flashing on her ears and at her throat in deep purples and blues that matched the colour of her sapphire-blue eyes. And she was all by herself, quite definitely on the griffon side, surrounded by a fawning crowd of griffonstonians, each fluffing their feathers like a young peacock.

"Huh." She was not one of ours, and she wore the cold colours of Griffonstone, instead of Equestrian greens and golds. “Who is that?”

"This...this is Miss Bluette." little prince explained, suddenly with no jokes or silly expressions. Even the tips of his crest-feathers grew pink-red with embarrassment. "She lives in the city and she's a... err.... very famous."

There was something decidedly Griffish about her. Not just the way she moved, with wide sways of her gesturing wings and predatory grace -- that could be faked or learned. There was a mark on her, or about her, a sign of the cold, unyielding power she wore like a claw-mark on her skin that smelled of winter and snow.

You could see -- if you knew how to look -- that she was in truth, not just in words, a creature of Griffonstone.

"She lives here?" I asked. "In Griffonstone?"

“Since before my time.” The prince blinked and looked away from her. “There’s not much call on her art back in Equestria, so she asked for my father’s patronage.

I raised an eyebrow.

“She’s an… entertainer.” He tried to answer my unvoiced question, his blush growing deeper. “Griffons give her gifts for the privilege of her company, and some she even obliges. It’s a great honour.” He sighed dreamily. "I hope when I come of age, I will also earn her favour, and she'll give me her rose one day."

"So she's a party pony?"

"Well... not quite." It was funny, watching him squirm. “She’s a… you see…”

“Pardon me, Lady, Your Highness.” A Diamond Dog, well-fanged and clawed, with a greenish-silver fur and a livery of royal colours, interrupted Galad’s explanation.

“Speak,” the prince allowed, clearly relieved. “What is it?”

“Lady Shimmer, My royal master,” The dog bowed and spoke -- to me, not Galad. “Requests and requires your presence.”

"Now?"

"Please." The dog bowed again.

I shot a questioning glance at my royal guide.

"You have to," he shrugged, "If Dad simply requested, you'd have a choice, but he requests and requires. To not go would be a grave offence."

I nodded to the dog, who, relieved, led us back through the crowd, making other griffons and nobleponies at the foot of the throne part to let us through.

"I wonder why he asked for you," Galad shuffled by my side. "Are you in trouble?"

He puffed out his wings, as if ready to charge in battle at my defence. It was really adorable.

"Maybe," I wondered that myself. Was it my altercation with that griffon bully, or something else entirely?

"I bet you are!" there was an excited envy in his voice. "But it's no big. Dad's a nice griffon, he's not gonna do anything to a guest. Especially not a pony, not now. But you've gotta be polite, and bow properly.... oh, and don't address him as ‘sire’, he's not your king, so just call him ‘Your Majesty’ or ‘sir.’ And don't look him in the eyes, unless you want to make a challenge…”

Half-listening I nodded along with princeling's chatter, and tried to find the Count’s white form in the crowd. He seemed a bit more apt than the rest of the noblepony crowd, so perhaps he could help me out. Or at least he could stand to be forewarned.

I had no luck -- we reached the foot of the leaden throne before I could find him, and now I was all alone. Even Galad had fallen behind so that there were no more petitioners, pony or griffon, to stand between me and the King.

The other two Princes were there, though, by the King's side. They stood by the throne: Gideon at the King's right and Gwyr behind him and the third griffon behind them both.

"It is her, Sire, she attacked me! Knocked me down! Entirely unprovoked, awful charge, an attack upon your subject!"

My hapless bully contorted in a most entertaining way, trying to point at me and hide behind the eldest Prince at the same time. Against the form of Gideon, half again as big as him, he looked pathetic with his drooped dirty-brown crest and cape still creased and dusted from where I threw him on the floor.

"Your Majesty." Undaunted, I spoke slowly and deliberately, channelling the lazy confidence of my one-time earth pony teacher. "I did not know it was a griffon habit to hide behind their monarch like a foal hiding behind his mother's tail."

“Hah!” The King barked a short, screechy laugh. “It is not indeed. But my interest was piqued nonetheless. Tell me pony -- is it true, what Lord Graven says? Did you truly strike my subject down?”

"I did." I shrugged. "Though I would not be bragging about it, if I were him."

There was a silent, convulsing cough by my side, where the youngest Princeling swallowed a choking, shocked laugh.

I finally sighted the Count in the crowd that gathered around us. He was waving his fan in his golden aura. It looked casual, but there was something weird about it as if he was trying to give me a signal, but if it was then I had no clue what he meant. I pressed on. "I did nothing he would not have done to me, Your Majesty," I retreated. "I am simply better at it than he was."

“They say--" The elder prince stepped forward, flexing his crimson wings, "--that those who bully the servant would not dare to strike at the master." He stared down at me from his great height. "Are you one of those, little pony?"

He did not have to try to be threatening - the lion’s frame of the body, the sharp claws of the eagle, the power of the Northern Wind rising behind him, the sheer mass of a predatory bird hanging over me -- a year ago it would have been enough to have me faint on the spot.

"Try me." Apologizing would be a sign of weakness, and I was finding that weakness was not appreciated in Griffonstone.

The youngest Prince at my side forgot to breathe.

"Be yourself," the Count had said. Whatever the consequences would be, I gave the Prince no ground, meeting his gaze with my own.

His wings rose and unfurled, and that thing behind him moved, its power gathering. Not hidden, like Celestia's, not broken like the Drowner's: a full, stark and clear power radiating in waves of coldness, gripping the throne and the floor in the white patterns of frost. Intoxicating pure might. He could kill me with but a twitch of his claws, a flutter of his wings -- a thought that pulled on my lower belly with a delicious little tug -- and yet I stood and waited, my breathing level and unlabored, my eyes calm, making no motion and raising no spell to defend myself.

We looked at each other as the whole Griffonstone court held their breaths.

“When it comes to either/or, there is only the quick choice--”

I could’ve tapped out. I could’ve apologized, said I was sorry and made nice like a good little pony should.

“It is not particularly difficult. Be determined and advance.”

We looked at each other, the Prince and I, and the world held in the balance waiting for the outcome.

“Enough,” the King said, like a master jerking a dog back on a leash. “I believe we have our answer.”

"Yes, sire." Suddenly the power waned. One second it was there, ready to turn to ice or hurricane, to rend and freeze and destroy... and the next second it was gone without a trace, as easily as folding back his wings, and the Prince stepped back, his expression unreadable. "So we do." He dismissed me with a wave of his claw. "See, Gwyr?” he poked his younger brother with his wing. “The ponies already provide entertainment. And you tried to tell me that there would be no sport in Equestria."

The middle prince said nothing, watching me quietly from underneath his dark feathers.

The court breathed again. Collective murmurs of the rumours-to-be, flutters of wings and shocked whispers filling the silence with background noise.

“And you" -- Gideon stretched, catching Lord Graven as he was trying to sneak away as the Prince and I took a measure of each other. -- "you have no pride, griffon. This little pony did not seek to hide behind her Princess like you did, she stood her ground!"

He grabbed Graven by the scruff like a puppy, the poor bully tiny against the mountain of the Prince, and the power spread through the room.

The browns and greys of the banners bloomed with colour, becoming richer, becoming more, everything else bleak and grey against them. The griffons embroidered in silver turned with subtle winds, focusing their eyes on Graven, stuck in Gideon’s grip, and the world grew silent and still in wait for the might that the eldest Prince had gathered.

Lord Graven breathed in, almost growing in stature as the fear and anger released him, and calm resolve took their place. Now that was true power: I saw the broken limbs made whole and even an eye regrown with magic, but never before have I seen a power to restore the wounded pride.

He stood up when his Prince released him, his eyes fixing on me and for the first time since I came to the throne. There was no fear in them -- just the cold, burning anger: his every look and gesture implied, clearer than any speech, that I would be better off if the Prince had killed me there and then.

I grinned back. Perhaps he’d make it interesting next time. But I knew he did not matter. Power matters, and this griffon, for all the artificial pride his Prince has given him -- he had none.

Author's Notes:

My soul awakened to a vision.
When you that day before me shone:
A fleeting genius apparition,
A burning fire's paragon.

Galad, Prince of Griffonstone.
Assorted works
Notebook currently in private collection.

CHAPTER IV: ABSENCE OF BLADE

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The bull charged, making the arena tremble under his hooves, fountains of sand blazing in every direction.

Prince Gideon, covered by his wing and crimson cloak, looked him in the eyes and stood his ground. I could almost feel the imminent crash, the sound of bones breaking and skin ripping. Unconsciously I leaned in towards the show, licking my lips.

At the last second — and not an instant before he’d be skewered and gored by the raging bull — he jumped, a quick and graceful pounce sliding barely a hair’s width above the horn that would impale him.

He ran a few steps to break the momentum of his jump, and turned to face the bull again, flourishing his cape.

The crowd applauded the pass and the artful dodge, filling the air for a moment with the clicking of claws and whooping of griffons, packed in the seats, clouds and perches around the sand arena.

The bull turned in a long slow arc and stood again, taking aim. A veritable mountain of muscle, he seemed to bend the floor underneath him even when he stood still. His sides expanded as he breathed like two giant bellows. The two long jagged lines left where the Prince marked him on the previous rounds, extended and contracted with every breath, dripping with red.

This was one of the whirlwind of events, entertainments and socials that I found myself captured by after my talk to the King. I was, apparently, the new thing at the court, the pony everypony — and everygriffon — should know, and I was glad to oblige, even though the thought of the winds still bothered me. How could it not? It was not just an idle breeze there, to the West, where the border of Equestria and Griffonstone lie over the Celestial sea, it was battle clouds and tornadoes in the making. They were massing on the border of my country, and the thing that herded them was of the same power that the King possessed.

But then again, I could've been wrong. It could have nothing to do with the power of the griffon King, and could just be the wilful northern winds running rampant over the ocean, and that attack in the night and the storm, but a fevered dream and play of winds — my Princess surely thought so. The King and the Princes were nothing but cordial hosts, and so, as she had commanded, I did try my best to push the thoughts away and try to find distraction in the cavalcade of seemingly endless entertainment that Griffonstone’s royal family provided.

Today's entertainment du jour was a corrida, and I was invited by the eldest Prince himself, no doubt eager to show off to the one pony who would actually attend the event.

The bull kept moving around the arena, regaining his breath. A slow widdershins circle, seeking an opening, waiting for something, even as the Prince moved with him, keeping his distance, and keeping the bull in his sight. His stance was solid, and he kept his step light, but there was some tension in his wings as he held his cape. He did not quite know what to expect.

I, however, could see what the bull was angling for – he was moving so that his back would be towards the bright mid-morning sun hanging over the horizon and the wall of the colosseum, to give him an advantage and drawing the Prince out back towards him. The arena was silent, all of the spectators holding their breaths, waiting out the deadly game of cat and mouse, of nerve and composure until that one last moment, that one last step when the Prince moved forward. Out of the shadow of the arena, into the light that hit him right into his eyes.

The bull burst forward, crossing the short distance in the blink of an eye. The Prince jumped, desperate, stumbling and momentarily blinded in a last-second dodge. Only narrowly escaping the horns, he was flung aside, checked by the bull’s giant shoulder.

"Little birds." The bull turned back lazily, starting again his counterclockwise movement as the Prince scrambled to his paws. "Never learn to watch where you step."

Did I imagine it, or did the Prince’s eyes harden for a second at the insult, as he gripped the side of his cloak - and then relaxed again? Was there something cruel about the way his claws dug into the cape?

He did not answer the taunt. He shook his wings higher, and stepped forward, flourishing his cape and inviting the bull to another pass.

The bull darted forward. He was fast — impossibly so, seemingly unfettered by his size and mass. His hooves propelled him straight into the lean, galloping leaps, and there was nothing that could withstand that charge head-on.

The Prince waited, relaxed until at the last moment his form coiled like a spring, tensing and releasing within a second as he twisted aside, almost not moving at all. His paws shuffled in a smooth circular motion, light, like a dancer’s step, his cape swished out with the pirouette, the heavy hem hitting the bull across the eyes and his claw snaked out, lightning-quick and savage, ripping deep into the bull's side.

The bull bellowed, his voice resonating with pain and surprise, and unable to fight his own momentum he stumbled and landed hard. He did not stop, two tonnes of mass dragging along the sand, more resembling a crashing freight train than any living being until he slammed full-force against the side of the arena. The crowd went wild.

I joined in with the applause, stomping my hooves against the hard stones of the booth as the Prince gave his bows, under a veritable shower of flowers thrown into the arena, while the doctors and healers rushed to aid the bull.

“It is rare to see an Equestrian who appreciates the art,” the old King said, “You little ponies have no stomach for a true tercel’s sport.”

“The Princess says that one must strive to understand others before condemning.” A practised half-truth slipped easily off my lips, but the old griffon did not take it.

“You’ve seen it,” he said, “that terrible beauty.”

“I’ve heard some things about that,” Prince Gwyr commented, looking away from his brother. “They tell stories about you, Lady Shimmer, for those of us inclined to listen. Is it true that you’ve been to another world?”

“You must tell us!” Galad chirped, excited. ”A real adventure, from the horse’s mouth…”

“I—”

Gideon landed heavily on the booth, instantly filling all available space with his sheer size. He still smelled of the fight - of cold shifting sand, sweat, and an almost phantom air of iron around him.

I pulled a rose out of the air with a spell, presenting the flower to the Prince.

"I sometimes think that never blows so red
The rose as where a Griffon warrior has bled," the youngest prince recited, a strange mix of sarcasm and envy colouring his voice.

Gideon’s smile, as he tucked the rose into his crest, was downright predatory. “Why, thank you, lady,” he half-bowed to me. “I take it you liked the bout.” He unclasped his cape, releasing his wings in a long, powerful stretch. “Perhaps you’d like to try your luck on the sand?”

“I don’t think the rules accommodate unicorns on the field, brother.” Prince Gwyr cooled his enthusiasm. “Perhaps when we hold the Games next year we could come up with something.”
There was another meaning I felt implied in his words, something that continued their earlier quarrel.

Gideon waved his objection away as he dropped into his seat. “Well, the best part’s over,” he said to me. “I don’t just mean me, of course, but that’s all for the professional bouts. From there on, it’s all yearlings and novilleros with no sand between their claws — more funny than fun, if you ask me. Though perhaps Gally would like to try again, eh?” He poked his brother with a wing. “Maybe you’ll actually survive a pass this time.”

Prince Galad scowled back at the tease, fluffing his wings.

“Well, Lady Shimmer was about to tell us about her adventures. Real ones, not just fighting Father’s paid-up minotaurs and buffaloes.”

“Perhaps not now, your Highnesses?” I suggested. Even I had enough sense to get into the crossfire of a family spat. “It is a bit too loud here.”

"You must attend the dinner then!" The Prince declared. "At our table. We would love to hear your stories!"

“I…”

“Please?” Galad added, making puppy-dog eyes at me. “We'll make any accomodation: The menu, the drinks, anything!”

"Aww, is your little pony afraid of Griffon fare?" Gideon did not miss his opportunity to barb his brother.

"I am afraid of nothing!" I stood up to face him. "And I will be happy to join you at dinner. No need for any special arrangements either."

"You have spirit, little pony." Gideon shivered his feather and his wing clapped me on the back. "I like it."

"Gideon fancies himself a bit of a fighter too," Galad snickered. "But it's all silly arena-fights:" He puffed his chest and fluffed out his wings, trying to look like his brother, but ending up more like a really grumpy sparrow.

"They rush and yell, clash horns to claw.
And now behold what each befalls:
The Bull is clawed into submission
The Griffon smeared across the walls!"

"Those that know nothing of battle often yearn it." The King said. "Such is the folly of the young."

The Prince snorted. "And some have never known — or perhaps simply forgotten." He looked at his brother while he spoke, but I felt that the insult was not just meant for Galad. “How the power itself cries out to be used.”

"Gideon..."

"Enough, boy," the King sighed tiredly. "We have a guest here."

"It's never the time, is it?" Gideon's wings rose slightly above his sides. "Not the right time, not the right place, not the right eagles. But it will be. Soon." He flapped his wings, scattering my mane and the sand off the floor, and he was off, speeding towards the castle.

"I apologize for my brother," Gwyr sighed. "But the invitation still stands. We'd be honored if you could attend and tell us your stories."

"Fine." I nodded. But I wasn't listening - I watched the patter of hoarfrost left on the floor where the Prince stood before he left, sudden, chill winds freezing me to the core. "I'll be there."

"Can we be excused, Dad?" The princeling asked timidly, all the joy sucked out of him suddenly. "Please?" he pulled gingerly at my side.

"Yes, please," I added, looking away from the slowly evaporating frost pattern on the floor. "I have to… there is this pony delegation... thing I have to attend."

The King waved his wing, and so we were excused.

"I'm... I'm very happy you agreed to join us for the dinner." The princeling tagged along, floating besides me. There was a tense silence between us, as we walked the joy he had seemed to deflate. Somewhere in the corridors he landed by my side, and I could see the movement of his lower beak, thinking of something he wanted to say, but never could quite find the words.“I’m sorry that the whole thing ended as it did,” he muttered miserably. “Gid, he always... “ He shrugged. “Even with the little ponies around.”

I nodded vaguely. The dinner with the Princes, the true Griffonstonian cuisine, it all sounded very nice, but my thoughts were preoccupied by the last scene of the corrida that left a sour taste in my mouth

I needed a break from all those griffons, time to think again how this whole thing fit...and I needed a good reason to ditch the princeling without coming off as rude.

The Count! I spotted him loitering about, speaking softly to some Dog. He raised his head slightly, when I waved and tried to steer towards him.

"Why did you give Gideon the rose?" Galad finally asked, just as we were about to reach the Count.

“It seemed a thing to do.” I shrugged. “Why do you ask?”

“Well,” he scratched the floor with his claw, “It’s not that I… i-it’s just that—”

“Miss Shimmer, Your youngest Highness,” the Count bowed politely, releasing the Dog that took its chance to scurry away “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Milord!” I greeted the Count. "I’m here about that thing," I looked at him intently. "The delegation thing? You said I had to be there."

"Ah.” He raised his eyebrow, looking at me, and then the princeling, and not-quite-smiled. “Quite. That, as you eloquently put it, delegation thing — as a matter of fact, there is. I'm afraid I'll have to steal Miss Shimmer from you, my lord."

"Aww," the princeling pouted. "Does she have to?"

"Quite so. Politics I'm afraid, and we all have our obligations.” He stepped between me and Galad. “Don't we, Miss Shimmer?" There was odd stress in his voice, but I nodded anyways."How was the corrida by the way?” he asked, “I take it the Prince was successful again."

"Oh, yes!” I smiled, shifting slightly away when he moved too close. "A superb touch, on that third bout. They play so rough here - I'm pretty sure I could see the bull's ribs from the booth!"

“I see.” The lordling paled, though he kept his expression neutral. "Perhaps I should attend one day - His Highness is quite a specimen — best griffon of his generation, they say. Now say goodbye to your new friend, and let’s go."

"Galad..."

"Hmpf!" little prince turned away. "Well, if you think that Gideon is so grand, well, maybe you should see what he does upstairs.”

He turned away sharply, laughably adult and serious in his posture.

What did I do? I stood there for a second, watching him fly away.

“Miss Shimmer,” the Count called out, “I’m afraid we should go now. We wouldn’t want to be late.”

“Wait.“ I trotted towards the Count. “There’s actually a delegation meeting? I was just making an excuse—”

"I figured quite as much, Miss Shimmer,” The Count smiled another of his not-quite smiles, “but you’ve actually arrived at quite a fortunate time — there is indeed a meeting, and I would’ve gone to fetch you even if you didn’t turn up. Besides, it would not do to lie to our hosts, would it now?"

"Do I have to?" I groaned, "I've dinner with the royal family, and I need to prepare..." I did not get rid of the little prince just to be immediately entangled by some pointless little pony meeting. I needed time to myself, to think about that power revealed again today, and what it meant. About the winds that—

“You’ll have ample time after. Besides, we'd be discussing the weather and hopefully what to do about it — that's why I called the delegation in the first place. “

"What, really?!” I trotted after the lordling. “You do mean the Northern Winds at the border, right?"

"Something like that. I wouldn’t get your hopes up, though.”

“But If that’s why the whole delegation is here, then we can finally do something! I’ve been trying to—”

“Why did you give the Prince your rose?" The Count switched topics suddenly. "Young Galad was most disappointed."

"I don’t know.” I flicked my tail, and shrugged.”It's just a flower. He was good in the arena, and a lot of griffons were doing it."

"I'm afraid not quite, Miss Shimmer. When a chick gives a rose to a tercel that is a sign of her favour. The Prince might not make much of it — he gets so many flowers he alone could feed half Equestria, but it must have come as quite a blow to his little brother.

"You should come to my room before the dinner with Princes, Miss Shimmer. I have excellent wines. We can talk a bit more about the Griffonstone situation and etiquette there."

I snorted. Was the lordling hitting on me? There were a few things I liked about him — a quick sideways glance confirmed it — but the soft Canterlot noble was hardly my type.

"Keep it in mind." He did not seem deterred by my refusal. "Just wine and talk, no strings attached." He held the door into the chamber for me like a true gentlecolt.

***

"Despite the well-known merits of our obligation regarding the second layer of substrate in the tri-western strata quadrant, the zone of responsibility lies squarely on the Griffonstonian side, and therefore, per part three, paragraph seven of the Act of the Winds and Precipitations Accords..."

I grit my teeth.

I felt annoyed. Was this really why I was wasting time in Griffonstone? Usually, I would find the matters of weather interesting, especially the one on the Western border, but they were going over it for a fifth time, repeating themselves in a droning, unbearable circle

The brief entertainment of the corrida has already passed, and witnessing the Prince’s argument with his father has stirred all the black doubts that plagued me. That power, tracing ice on the floor of the royal booth, that cold wind that carried him...

I reached for the snuffbox, hoping a hit of Count's stuff would take the edge off.

The way it hunted me across the sea like an eagle chasing a dove, how it smote into the city — my city — almost swiping it out of the skies...

I clicked the snuffbox open.

The legion of winds and thunderclouds over the ocean.

Breathe. I inhaled the powder, and tried to listen again to the discussion.

"The floor goes to Dame Strawberry,"

A mare rose from one of the front seats, shaking her thick green mane off her face in an unexpectedly mundane, workmanlike gesture.

"We've got this, Fancy. We just need to set up a proper party, and I'm sure it'll be resolved.

"It's ok, my little ponies. I know it looks big, with all the weather problems we’ve been having but sometimes all it takes is just one little thing. We’re throwing a party for our griffon friends next week, and we just have to do our best, and don't spare the streamers."

I choked, suddenly, and my coughing echoed through the halls like repeated party cannon shots, scattering Count's snuff into the air.

“Sunset.” Lady Strawberry looked at me. “Do you have something to say?”

“No,” I said grimly. “I don’t.”

"Honey," Strawberry Leaf sighed, "Are you sure you want to be here? It's going to be dreadfully boring. And besides..." you're not really a noble was politely left unsaid. Unsaid loud enough that even I could hear it. “You are not very exp—”

"I have a right to be here!" I demanded. "It is my right as Baroness."

"Sure, sure," Strawberry didn't argue the point, "But you're a bit too young for a delicate situation such as this," she said instead, no doubt veiling contempt behind her motherly tone. "We've already had to apologize on your behalf for your little... incident with Lord Graven."

They apologized! The weak, narrow-minded, arrogant little... ponies. There was no way I would keep my reputation among Griffons with the whole Equestrian delegation running all over themselves to make me look weak

“Now if you don’t want to say any—”

“You know what?” I stood up, feeling my anger rise, bilious and burning. “I do have something to say.”

I cleared my throat, looking at all the nobleponies in the room. “You think it’s a mistake, the winds at our borders, the Northern Winds coming in strong from the west. But it’s not. It’s them. The Griffons are building tornadoes at our borders! Thunderclouds full of lighinings, legions of them — and they struck our city! And you want to throw them a party?!" I did not expect much from Canterlot nobility, but this was beyond even them. “We should not be thinking of streamers and accords, we should be preparing for war!”

"War" I heard the buzz around, ponies laughing as if it were a joke.

"War!" the pegasus to the Dame's right grumbled. "Bah. Nonsense. Griffons are our friends."

The Count took his wine from a scurrying dog, and shrugged. "I think lady Shimmer is exaggerating. At worst a few more months of winter, a vigorous workout for the Wonderbolts, that's all that's coming out of it. Lady’s barely seventeen — you’ll have to forgive her overactive imagination."

The nobles chuckled along with him.

"Shut up!" I shouted, my voice bolstered by magic, and the chuckles stopped, when the ponies stepped back. "I know they are! I..." I stumbled. I couldn't tell them what I saw. The sort of deals and whispers I dabbled in my night travels, the sort of magic I used — the hash and the nightshade and the forbidden khaliff-root; Celestia couldn't know about that. ”...I just know it!”

They looked at each other in obvious discomfort, seeking protection against me in the herd. Dame Strawberry stepped forward, covering the brainless nobility. "And how do you think you know it, young lady?"

"I.. I am my Princess' student, I—"

"A student." In her mouth, the word felt heavy, like a nail in the coffin of my argument. "Of unicorn magic."

"I know my weather! And I know what I am talking about. You have to be blind or stupid to ignore it."

"Can you present any evidence?" she asked softly, "Or give any proof?"

"Well, no," I stumbled again. "But..."

“These sorts of accusations cannot be thrown around carelessly, Sunset.” she said sternly. “You cannot just come up with things like that. This is an adult matter, honey, so why don't you instead go entertain the Princes?" Strawberry Leaf suggested. "Just try not to break anything again."

I really wanted to break her dumb face. Or a stiff drink. Preferably both.

"I—" I tried to find a reason, an argument, to find words, but there was nothing I knew to say or do to get through to them, the whole noblepony herd united against me. I even threw a desperate glance at the Count, hoping he'd have something to help me out, but he just looked away. "Fine!"

Strawberry's face left annoyingly unbroken, I had to leave, angry and humiliated. Whatever it is that was going on in Griffonstone, the nobleponies would be of no help solving it.

***

How dare they!

The door locked behind me, and for a moment I just sat there, staring at it dumbly.

Staring at it angrily.

How dare they!

I felt my anger call to my magic, rising fire from within.

How dare she!

That Strawberry going behind my back, apologizing... It was so Equestrian, so little pony of her!

I wanted to bash that door down. To summon winds and fire that would shake this dumb castle to the foundations, to barge in there and—.

I ran.

Away, without direction and purpose, pushing myself into a mad gallop, through the seemingly endless rambling mass of Gormenghast. Past the rooms, and up the stairs, corridors and enfilades blurring together — before I would do something I would regret.

Finally, I was exhausted, and my sides foaming with sweat, I pushed myself up the last few steps at the tower, and panted, trying to find my bearings. At least I was too tired to do something stupid.

Control, little princess

Her whisper in my mind, it calmed me down.

I pushed the window — or maybe it was a door that opened into nothing but thin air and the sheer wall of the castle — and let myself feel the cold autumn breeze.

Control and awareness.

I took a breath, and stretched, chasing away the feverish, drowning anger.

The failure happened. I needed to accept it and move on. And for that, I needed more information. Proof. Something, anything other than just me seeing a silhouette in the night and the storm, half-veiled by his power.

All those things I shouted at nobleponies in the meeting... yeah, I was angry. But I also remembered why I was here. Remembered the power, vast and cold, the claws that smote into Baltimare's walls and shook the whole city.

Cold autumn breeze on my muzzle calmed me down. Cold autumn breeze, full of sharp, cold power, — and the Prince’s shadow as he flew over me, landing somewhere above.

Those ponies, they wanted proofs and they wanted evidence — well, I would get some. For myself, if nothing else. So perhaps it was time I found out what did the Prince do “upstairs”.

Author's Notes:

You know the fight -- you love the ring of blades
Since years young you've yearn'd for martial glory
The bloody joy of battle gory
The passing wind from land of shades

Galad, Prince of Griffonstone.
Assorted works.
Notebook currently in private collection.

CHAPTER V: ADVANCE

View Online

It was not easy finding my way through the giant castle, led only by the memory of the tower the Prince landed on, but eventually I found it — a small landing cramped and isolated up the right tower.

There were no windows there, and I almost stumbled in the twilight, with the only source of light coming from the only door at the end of it, left slightly ajar. From the room, I could feel the faint smell of magic, old, and rotten and stale, and hear the voices:

"—But master!" the arimaspi voice, high, scratchy, whimpering. "You shouldn't. The ways of the future are not for simple mortals! And your father would be most cross with you if he knew you came again!"

I stalked closer to the door, listening closer.

"What happens between me and my father is none of your concern, creature." The Prince’s voice - Gideon, anger still burning through every word. "I did not come here for relationship advice. I wish to know what the future holds, so get to it."

I peeked inside.

Of all the rooms of Gormenghast I'd seen so far, this one was the most curious: gloomy and dim-lit, it was full of things — strange things.

There was no system to it. The walls were covered in intimidating masks and shelves that contained bits of animals and slowly bubbling concoctions. Instruments and tools that seemed to serve no purpose I could discern or used in any magic I knew, were intermingled liberally with the bits of actual magic — Coltec pictograms painted in red on the walls that made my horn tingle, centuries-outdated weather-tools cast in intricately-decorated bronze, carving knives of black, crimson-stained obsidian and red, pulsing gemstones.

By the table and chairs too large for a griffon and a pony, the Prince and the arimaspi stood, instruments and scrolls pushed to the side, and some sort of scroll revealed beneath.

“Now!” That last command and the wave of the Prince's wing that sent the papers a-scatter from the table and the chill of his power straight into my bones, pushed the arimaspi to action.

The arimaspi fell back into his bowing crouch, his body twisting with the expression of submissiveness. "Yes, master, worshipful master." His head bobbed in shallow repeated nods, more resembling an epileptic fit than anything else, as he bowed and supplicated, stumbling around his lab to gather his implements and ingredients. "Your servant does as he is asked, yes, yes he does. But there is a matter of the price, yes, the small matter of price, my noble Prince. All the future I will tell you, all the questions will be answered, but for a drop of your blood, master."

It was clearly not new to the Prince. He unlocked the creature’s bracelets one by one, with an intricate silver key, and then, in a simple well-practised movement, he made a short bleeding nick on his left shoulder with his talon, carrying a droplet of blood on the edge of the claw right into the arimaspi’s outstretched hand.

The creature shook, and there was a flash of magic, gold and black along his curved horn, making torches flutter and extinguish. In the darkness, only lit by the spare light of the dimmed sun, shadows grew, twisting and dark. Green smoke, thick and noxious erupted from his hand, where the precious drop of red laid, unbroken and slippery like red mercury, and the familiar sweet smell of ethane tickled at the back of my throat.

It would have taken someone with exceptional night vision and familiarity with the sleight of hoof to see the subtle shift of his fingers that made the royal blood disappear before any magic touched it.

The arimaspi inhaled the smoke. His eyes went wide and staring and his body stiffened.

"Three things I see, Prince of Griffons and son of the King," In a rich, powerful voice, nothing like his own, the arimaspi spoke, his words booming with a sudden, hollow lack of echo, as if we were no longer standing in the cramped room, but were in some vast empty place. "I see the Northern Wind come from the East and Southern Wind from the West, and there will be no peace between them. I see the gold and gemstones flowing to fill the hunger of Griffonstone, and yet the Griffonstone shall not be sated. I see your name, Prince, like no name of any King from now on — no griffon shall ever rise above you."

"Good." Gideon fluffed his wings. He took the heavy silver bracelet off his forearm and threw it on the table. "You have earned your keep, creature. Tonight you may eat your fill."

He turned away, ignoring another round of whimpering from the creature and moved out of the room.

Towards me.

I looked around frantically but there was nothing on the tiny landing to hide behind. Each muffled click of claws on the marble was another lost second and I only had a few more before I was caught. Only one shot - I pressed myself tightly into the corner between the jamb and wall. Sucking in a breath, I braced as the knob turned.

The door slammed open, banging against the wall and my snout as the Prince marched right past me. I bit my tongue to hold back a yelp - luck was on my side that he didn't look back, but even a slight noise could ruin it.

I didn't dare more than breathe until he was out of sight.

Should I leave?

I was stuck there, behind the door, unable to get out until the both of them were gone — and as if to spite me, the arimaspi seemed to linger behind. I could hear him rustling, the soft clicks of his hooves against the carpet, feel his strange, animal smell hanging in the air, coppery and thick.

Staying was dangerous. Leaving — impossible. I had to—

"Come in, little pony," the creature called out, and I almost bolted from it in startled panic. "I could feel you hiding there, yes, yes I can, smelling of sunshine and of daffodils.“

Ice and Nightmares!

The jig was up.

I considered running, but he’d see me, and maybe tell the Prince…. And I still haven’t learned anything. Reluctant as I was, I sighed and pushed the door back stepping out of my hiding place.

"Sit, little pony.”The creature motioned still for me to come in, and I entered the room.”Be my guest, yes, though I don't have bread and wine to give you." He hung over me, enormous despite the curve of his spine, twisted almost into a hump by years of bowing and supplicating.

The furniture was too high and wide for any griffon, much less a pony, making me feel like a little filly when I pulled myself up into a chair. Balancing precariously with two of my forehooves against the tabletop, I tried to take a proper look at the instruments and scrolls that were scattered there, piling on top of each other.

“What a guest you are, little pony, yes, an unusual one you don’t smell like her. You smell of salt,” he said. His nostrils flared, sniffing in the air, “yes, you smell of the ocean water and blood. You’re an Ahuizotl creature, one of the Drowner’s!”

“I—” that was not the turn I expected this conversation to take. The creature could sense the mark Ahuizotl had left on me on my previous adventure — a sign I did not think easy to notice. “—am indeed. By his power our breath flows,” the words of obeisance were easy to recite — I still remembered the Elder’s minions mumbling them, their little eyes going vacant every time they saw their master. “From his paw, all bounties are given…”

“Does tlatoani send for me at last?” the creature interrupted my litany, unable to contain his excitement. “Does he call for his loyal servant?”

“Perhaps.” I lied desperately. “Perhaps not. It would depend...”

"Ah,” he said, showing his teeth again, "tlatoani wishes to know what I've done, yes?”

“Yes! Precisely. That. I need to know what you have done so that I can report it back. To him. To Ahuizotl. What are you doing with the Prince? Why does he come here?”

“For the stories I tell him, little pony, yes, things that I know — things they are afraid of, things they desire, things they think they wish to know.”

“And what is it that they fear?”

The arimaspi smiled — an ugly thing of canine teeth, yellow and lined.

“Fear, yes, but also, desire.” He gestured towards the table as if he expected me to appreciate some sort of master stroke.

I propped myself on the tabletop, still trying to sneak a peek at the parchment strewn there — the same one over which the Prince and the arimaspi were arguing before.

It was a map — an old one, the thin leather of the ancient parchment almost turning to dust when I unfolded it. It was well-made though, and squinting I could recognize the borders, denoted with black lines, and angry-red Coltec writing. They were not right — I found the Coltvir mountain, but it was marked with pictograms of Griffons. The Griffon border stretched way to the West, from past Canterlot, and south almost to the ancient pyramids in the Southern Jungle. Equestria was hardly even there, crowded far to the east, between the three cloud-city fortresses, a tiny triangle between Cloudsdale, Las Pegasus and Vanhoover. That was not right. No history book I ever read anything like that.

”The old stories, yes, I tell them well, yes, yes, I do. Of what they’re owed, of what they had. That’s how it is, little pony, yes, that’s how it is. They despise me, and they order me around, they bind me and shackle me, and they starve me — and then they come to me for help.”

"Wait. Starve you? Don't they feed you?"

“They feed me, little pony,” he hissed, “yes, they feed me when it strikes their fancy. They just don’t feed in my proper fashion.”

“Oh?” I couldn’t help but ask. “And what is your proper fashion?”

“Red meat.” He smiled, flashing sharp, crooked teeth. “Red, living meat and hot blood for my wine. That is where my magic comes from.”

I could imagine that — the creature gorging itself on hot blood and raw meat ripped from the corpse so freshly dead. His kind were offal-eaters, carrion-crawlers: they served Ahuizotl once, making the ancient pyramids overflow with the blood of sacrifices to power the spells for their master. For him, they found the answers, not in a drop of blood but in the moving entrails of creatures still alive.

Which meant that this little show I've just witnessed was exactly that — just a show. It was not true haruspicy; nothing more than a parlour trick they use to con rich tourists out of a few dozen bits in Neigh Orleans. But then what was the point?

"You're stealing his blood — but you’re not just taking it for yourself." Royal blood had to have some power, but even then, a drop would not nourish the creature much. “So why?”

"It's the key, yes, yes it is, to the treasure they stole. Mangy, thieving cat-birds, they locked it, yes, locked it with the royal blood and royal names. Tell master I am getting it, yes, getting it back for him, once the Prince takes the winds for the West.”

"Now go, pony," The arimaspi opened a passage hidden in the wall behind a giant cupboard. "Two flights down, twice to the right and once to the left will get you to pony rooms, yes it will. I have to follow the arrogant prince again, yes, him and the craven one, to bow and supplicate and beg and do my part. Remember what you have seen, yes, remember and tell our master."

***

"My royal master—" A dog was waiting for me at the door of my room. The same one, livery and all, I thought, though it's not easy to distinguish between them. "—requests that you attend dinner with the family if that would be your pleasure, Lady Shimmer."

"Requests?" Well, that was definitely a step up from being required immediately and dragged around like... well, like a dog on a leash. "Does that mean I can say no?"

The dog blinked as if that was the first time the question occurred to it. "I suppose so," it whimpered uncertainly. "Would you wish for me to..."

"Just checking." I shrugged. The strange encounter the strange prophecies the creature gave, it left a foul taste in my mouth, but whatever that was about, for the time being I pushed it away. "I'll need to change though."

The dog nodded and set itself in the corridor, clearly not intending to move until I was fit and willing to follow him to the dinner.

I sighed and began digging through my luggage.

“May I?” The Count appeared on the threshold just as I was changing. I waved him in with my tail, still struggling with the sleeves. "And what are you standing around for, you cur?" The Count turned to assault the servant who tried to say something. "Fetch me some wine.”

“But Your Lordship, I—”

“And be hasty about it!" The angry wave of the Count's fan almost slapped the poor dog in its face, "Chop-chop, jaldee lao!"

The dog threw me a desperate look. Finding no help from me, it whimpered, bowed and ran off.

"You speak their language?"

"It's similar enough to Hind," the Count flexed his fan, "It pays to know languages, Miss Shimmer.” He came in, looking critically at my struggles with the unwieldy garments. “I hoped to talk to you without interruptions, or extra ears."

"You mean the Dog?" I asked, confused, while trying to fit through the stiff crinoline petticoat.

"There are dogs, in this castle," he said, vaguely, "and then there are dogs. One should not talk without knowing which breed is present. Allow me," he offered, seeing my struggles with the unwieldy clasps. His magic prickled when it twisted round mine, elegant and precise. "It is an acquired skill."

"You know how to put on lady's dresses? I should've guessed."

"Oh not so much putting them on," the Count smiled as his magic reached for the clothespins and ties that I gave up upon. "But we'll see if the skill is transferable."

I snorted, but stood down and let the lordling do his thing, waiting stoically while all the crinolines and frills floated about like a flock of annoying puffed-out birds.

"Beautiful dress, Miss Shimmer." the Count nodded. "Though not quite 'you'."

"Are you here to insult me again, milord or did you have something more constructive in mind? I have an audience with royalty to attend."

"There's something rotten in the Kingdom of Griffonstone—" he started, "You’ve seen the young heir's diversions, I believe." He finally said, untangling the fabric I got lost in. "In and out of the castle."

"You knew!” I turned to him "You knew and you still let them ign—"

He pulled on the straps of the corset so hard that all the air evacuated my lungs at once, cutting off my tirade.

"Miss Shimmer, please—" he tried to use my temporary silence, but I was having none of it.

"You let them ignore me!" I slapped his magic away, and let myself breathe. "Laugh at me. Chase me out!"

"Please Miss Shimmer. As you have said, there are hurricanes at the border of our country. I need your help."

"Well perhaps it's just northern winds," I answered with my Princess’s words by the sheer contrariness the lordling roused in me. "And the princes are nothing but cordial."

Another piece of clothing dive-bombed at me, covering the Count and the outside world.

"It's not a coincidence, trust me. It's—"

"Why should I trust you?"

"Then don't!" His annoyance was apparent now, as he worked the clasps and ties of the dress with excessive strength, accessories and ribbons flying everywhere, "Don't trust anyone, Miss Shimmer, and me — least of all. I find it to be a good policy. But I am telling the truth, and you should at least give me the courtesy of listening! Be it truth or lie, you would learn more than if you keep interrupting me."

“Fine!” Finally, I emerged out of the cloud of fabric fully dressed. “Do say your piece, before I get to go meet the royal family.”

"And when you do, you—” He suddenly grew silent, as the corridor echoed with the clicking of the dog’s claws against the stone. Frowning he continued, “—should just be yourself, Miss Shimmer. If you tell them your stories," he said, almost like a threat, "I’m sure you shall find the Princes most attentive."

I shrugged. That was hardly a revelation worth all that trouble. Escorting the Count out of my room and to his wine, I followed the dog to dinner.

***

"So there I was, in an unfamiliar forest. At night. And somepony was firing crossbows at me..."

I was telling stories. Stories I no longer dared tell in Canterlot, and by my Princess’ power did they listen. Salt, pepper, and empty dishes became battlements, ravines, and ambushed caravans as the table switched from angry desert to night forest at a whim, with breadcrumbs and loose change liberally gang-pressed into opposing armies to wage imaginary wars. Their eyes glistening in the torchlight, I held them spellbound with tales of dashing adventure and daring night raids until…

“That’s when they came, and crashed our world…”

I remembered what followed, and suddenly I felt ill, sickened to the very bones. There was a death in that tale, one I did not relish. There was loss and there was pain, and the little princes, my oh-so-attentive listeners, looked now like vultures, not eagles to me, feeding off the scraps of the glory of the long dead, so greedy for a fresh pound of meat when they knew not its price.

I grasped for wine, and it tasted foul.

“Who?” Galad asked in the sudden silence. “Who came?”

“The Princes and Princesses,” I said, trying to get myself under control and continue the tale. “Four ancient Queens and Kings, ancient — yet children, no older than you and I. Mighty, with priceless artefacts like common trinkets at their side, and the earth sagged with their presence where they walked…”

I finished the rest of the glass, wishing I could down the entire bottle instead.

“Pardon me, my lords,” I said finally. “I feel unwell. I need… fresh air, yes.” I stood abruptly up, away from the table, unable to stop looking at the glass toppled by my awkward stumble; the red stain on the table like blood pooling from a corpse. White and red blood...

I ran.

***

The chill autumn air on the balcony braced me, and I finally managed to get my tempestuous emotions under control.

I breathed. Deep, abdominal breaths. In and out.

There was a sound of steps behind me. Not soft lion’s paws and clicking griffon’s claws, but the hard clopping of pony hooves. I recognized the rich, earthy smell of the Count’s cologne as he moved to the railing beside me.

“Would you like to join me for a drink, Miss Shimmer?” the Count asked after a moment. “I have some good wine, and it’s past time we talked.”

I nodded, appreciating the gesture, and followed him. I could use a drink — and he was right about the talk.

His quarters were not far from mine, in the guest wing of the Griffonstone Castle. They were bigger than mine by far and much more… everything.

The furniture was not Griffonian, but rather old Canterlot style, heavy with the gold and velvet, with soft sofas and easy chairs you could drown in, and the air was fragrant with the faint smell of wild roses.

It was as if he had moved here ages ago and had no plans to leave. The mantelpiece had all the trinkets and little nothings that one keeps at home — the little portraits and still lifes, books and a journal with a bookmark hanging off it, little cups and figurines of porcelain and crystal. The walls were covered with old weapons and mementoes, and a large shield with his crest: A white unicorn rampant beneath a golden crown, on a field of Equestrian green, turned to the dexter.

“‘Sol sit Supra’,” I read the motto beneath the crest. “‘The Sun is Above’. Apropos.”

"Pick your poison, Miss Shimmer." He waved his fan towards the spirit case — a long cupboard full of bottles and amphoras set so immovably into the corner of the room, it may as well have been put there at the time the castle was erected. "I heard you prefer Arabian vintages."

Frowning, I looked through his collection. The lordling knew way too much for my comfort, and I began to wonder how — and what exactly — he knew as I skipped past the date wine and picked instead a bottle of nearly clear golden liquid.

"I have many tastes, my lord."

"You're an interesting case, Miss Shimmer,” the Count commented as I fetched the bottle and sat down. “Your choice of drink for one - the strongest, the sweetest or the most expensive... you don't do anything by half-measures, do you?"

“If you don’t overdo it, then what’s the point?”

“Heh.” He allowed a short satisfied laugh. “To be young again… though take it from an old stallion, Miss Shimmer, there is something to be said for subtler pleasures in life.”

He filled the glasses with the wine, letting it breathe, and passed one to me.

“You liked the youngest Prince’s quatrain this morning, I was told,” he said as if it were a joke somehow. “Let’s see if I can come up with one for you:

‘One Moment in Annihilation’s Waste,
One Moment, of the Well of Life to taste—
The Stars are setting and the Caravan
Starts for the Dawn of Nothing—Oh, make haste!’”

"Surely the situation is not that dire," I protested weakly, clinging to my wine. "’A few more months of winter, a vigorous exercise for the Wonderbolts — surely nothing more can come out of this’ is what you said, isn’t it?"

He said nothing.

"Prince Gideon is an honourable griffon. He has no interest in carnage..." I remembered his eyes when we took each other’s measure at the foot of the leaden throne, his face, hard and savage in the arena, the look of a predator in his eyes, the vicarious bloodlust and vulturous hunger for the stories of war and my argument hung limp in the air.

"And our Princess would surely do something—" I tried finally, sounding empty and trite even to my own ears.

"The Princess —" He set his glass aside,"— is very good at noticing nothing more than what the Princess wishes to notice. Those of us who spend our time in Canterlot have learned to work around that.”

I had nothing to say to that. That penchant my Princess had for avoiding certain topics, the strange, almost evasive forgetfulness about the things she did not wish to discuss, the void in her eyes when I tried to broach an unpleasant subject — I knew it all too well. It was my time to keep silence and keep to my wine.

"’The Widow’s Tears’.” He looked at his glass, pensively. “I love this vintage, but there may yet be entirely too much of it in Canterlot when the Winter comes on the wings of the griffons.” He sighed. “They may not want a carnage, Miss Shimmer, but there's always too much at stake in war. Fear and greed spur ponies and griffons alike to do things against their better natures. And then — one arrow let loose at the wrong time, one unfortunate accident in the field…”

"One fool in his pride and desperation reaching for power he cannot contain..." I whispered with dead, bloodless lips as before my eyes a mountain of nightmares rose. Once again I was but a child, but a foal, but an ant climbing against an avalanche that would drag me down into insanity and darkness—

No!

I forced the vision aside with a practised effort of my will, hiding my deep breath behind the glass.

"Quite so." The Count confirmed, satisfied that I had finally caught up.

Author's Notes:

A year will come, the year of Guto last, 
When the royal Idol will be cast; 
Mob will forget its former loyalty and faith, 
And food of eagles will be blood and death; 
When the cast off  law will not guard 
A guiltless chick, a feeble child; 
When a curse on bodies, sick or dead, 
Among the gloomy villages will spread,

True prophecy of Griffonstone
(Coltec writings, parchment, author unknown)
Moved to Royal Canterlot Library after excavation of Gormenghast
Subsequently lost

CHAPTER VI: DEVELOPMENT

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Dealing the cards was... meditative. Calming.

Prince Gwyr and his friends would not suspect that I was not really playing to win the small wagers we had at stake that morning, or care much for my reputation in the game.

Cards dealt, I looked at what I got, trying to find the answers to last night's questions in the random geometry of chance.

I knew the meanings of the cards:

The arrows, representing the horns of the unicorns.
The check-marks for pegasi wings.
The horseshoes for the earth pony hooves…

The probabilities and odds lined up in my mind and the first turns of this round were taken, but the state of the cards did not answer the question that I came here for.

“Go Fish!” Gwyr declared in response to his opponents’ assault on his cards. The turn changed.

“I’ve heard—” I finally broached the topic I was gearing up to, “That the elder Prince wishes to speak at the convocation this week.”

Gwyr’s expression stayed carefully neutral, but his eyes were sharp when he looked at me from beneath his black crest.

That was encouraging. After yesterday's talk with the Count, I almost believed him, but I needed more proof before I would act. Prince Gwyr's role in that talk I overheard gave me hope that he would be the griffon to approach - and it seems I was not wrong. I pressed on before it would be my turn to play.

"And with the Northern Winds already gathering to the West," I continued, "one wonders what he would talk of—” I rearranged my cards in my hoof, “—and if his motion would be popular in Griffonstone."

"My brother’s fancies are not something all the griffons support.” He shrugged, and took his turn, stealing two Suns off the griffon to his left. “Nor are they an idea the King my father would approve of.”

"The Prince's moods are as shifting as the winds he commands," the griffon to Gwyr's right said, gesturing with his wing.

"Yet the wind can whittle even the tallest mountain," the griffon on Gwyr's left argued, studying the cards in his claw.

"But the King's will always remains."

"The King's will always remains fulfilled," the Prince said forcefully, the wave of his wing ending their argument.

“Of course, sire,” the left griffon said, bowing his head.

“We never meant to imply anything else,” the other added, returning to his cards.

"I did try to change my brother’s mind, Lady. Trust me." The Prince made his turn and stacked the trick he’d won neatly on the table. "But what can we do?" He spoke lightly, but there was bitterness hidden underneath the levity. "He's the heir apparent, the wonder-griffon, ‘El Matador del Toros’. What he wants - he gets."

I demanded sevens from the griffon to my right, and got them, finishing the trick. “And is Equestria to pick up the tab for Griffonstone’s diversions?”

"My brother is always magnanimous in his victory. You have nothing to fear."

"But what if he loses?" I asked.

His face darkened, and for a second the flow of the game was broken as everygriffon looked at me. The Prince nodded, a barely noticeable bob of his black crest, and the griffon's voice broke the awkward silence as we returned to the game.

No more politics were discussed, and we only interrupted the game with some polite small talk, until the last of the round was over, and the tally was calculated. I scored a rather respectable second place, despite the distraction of the talk.

"I'm afraid I don't have the money to pay right now, Lady," the Prince said, blithely ignoring the small pile of silver by his side. "Perhaps you could accompany me to my study? I'd be happy to settle it there."

He released two other players with a wave of a wing, leaving them to pick up the cards and settle the rest of the score, and gestured for me to follow him upstairs. The entrance to his study was located on the ceiling with the classic Griffon disdain to anything without wings. I was figuring out a way of getting up there, when the Prince pushed on an invisible knob in the wall, opening a small door.

"Servant's passage." The obvious ‘Since you don't fly’ was tactfully omitted in an awkward pause. “For the dogs and children. They’re everywhere — even I don’t know all of them.”

Gwyr, I noted, did not take the servant's way. With a flap of wings he disappeared inside his room, leaving me to ascend the small spiral staircase behind the door.

The Prince himself was absent, apparently already disappeared away into one of the smaller rooms, so I had a bit of time to look around his study.

To my surprise, his study was much like my own, though much neater. Every inch of wall was covered by shelves and glass cabinets, each filled to the brim with neatly organised books and scrolls. The glass cupboards were full of alchemical and chemical supplies, carefully labelled — alder and rowan, cinnabar and red mercury, ash and black bramble’s thorns: nothing quite as arcane or risque as my own little collection of course, but a girl could do a lot with those supplies if push came to shove.

The middle of the room was dominated by a giant table, large enough for at least half a dozen birds, occupied by several piles of papers and books. Law, politics, chemistry and even magic seemed to be the Prince's occupations.

"There it is. We are settled now, I believe." The Prince returned, dropping a purse heavy with silver on the table.

I tied it around my neck — a small change for a prince was a rather nice addition to spending money for me. But I did not just come for the money and both of us understood that.

He clicked his beak, coming finally to a decision. "In response to your question, Lady — with convocation’s blessing, the Prince my brother, would take the Griffon army and lead the Northern winds in a war upon Equestria.”

The war! I felt chills run along my spine at the sound of the word. So the Count was right.

"It's the power you see, the power and that damn Griffon pride. He has always been strong and fast but since he has taken the power of the Idol there is nothing to challenge him in Griffonstone. Now El Matador del Toros wishes to challenge the original Bull-Slayer, to throw his power against that of the Princess of the Sun. And that is a challenge I’m afraid even he cannot win."

"Can’t you stop him, your Highness? You're a prince as well, you must have the same power."

"I do not! I can not, not ever!" His claw jerked up reflexively, cutting the air in a gesture of protection against my words. "The power — in politics just as with the winds —- is majorat. Only the King and the heir apparent, once he comes of age, have it. Just the talk of anything else could be considered High Treason.” He waved his wing apologetically.

"Oh," the way he said it so forcefully struck me as wrong somehow. I must've said something really wrong. "How can I help?"

"I'm at my wit's end, Lady Shimmer," Gwyr said, desperation creeping into his voice. "I try to dissuade my brother, but I cannot act against him directly — Gideon does not take well to treason, even if it is to save him from his own folly. He’s going to summon the convocation, he’s going to get them on his side and there is nothing I can do by myself to stop him.”

"What is the convocation?" I asked. "I've heard the word tossed about but..."

He looked at me curiously, as if not quite sure if I was asking a question. "Oh, right," finally he figured it out. "You don't know quite as much of our affairs. Pardon me, it's sometimes hard to understand ponies, without the wings."

I chalked it up to another thing I didn't understand but asked no question — it was hardly the most important thing now.

"We griffons don't quite have the perfect government of Equestria. The King is the ruler, yes, but he is held in balance, held in check in case he does something that is not wise, or, as the case may be, according to my brother — fails to act."

Checks and balances against the power of the King. That did sound... uncivilized. But inevitable, I guessed, for a nation that did not have a proper Princess to guide them.

“The convocation, if there are enough eagles in it, has the power to stand against the power of the King.“

"And that's what your brother seeks to do?"

"Aye. He shall gather the eagles to make his case and rouse them from what he thinks of deadly slumber. Should he succeed, there is no way to stop him — we griffons are proud creatures, and once the vote is cast, the word of the griffon is as immovable as the mountains themselves. Come eternal winter or endless night, as they have decided, so shall it be."

"Well, that gives us a deadline." I shook my mane, "I can work deadlines. When?"

“In three days time, my brother shall talk to the convocation. There he shall present this to the eagles.” He put a parchment on a table. "Just a copy I'm afraid. My brother has the original."

I grabbed it, scanning past the meticulously copied old Equestrian, the ornate names and the flowery expressions of eternal friendship, reproduced in Prince's sharp claw-writing.

‘We, King Grover the First, in the eternal alliance.. allow borrowing this land… to Princess Celestia and her little ponies...a lien of our friendship and brotherhood between our species, to be repaid....’

"This is impossible.” I threw it back on the table. “It's a joke, right?"

"I wish. If only that were true, all this silliness my brother has planned could be avoided. Unfortunately, it's very real." The Prince opened both his wings to the sides. "I've seen it myself."

"How do you even know it's the real deal? It could be nothing more than a trick."

“There is the writing. The language is accurate and it matches the claw-... pardon, the hoof-writing in the other documents”

“It could have been forged,” I countered

“Equestrian parchments, watermarked with Royal colours.”

“Stolen.”

“Celestia's own seal!”

“Imitated.”

“A signature!”

“Faked!”

“Her power can still felt in the page.”

I shut up. The Power of the Princess, the tracery of her — not just her magic, but the very thing that made her the Princess — it couldn’t be faked any more than the sunrise could be.

This document, if it existed, was not a forgery, not a fake, not a clever trick or an inept ploy. It was the real deal — my Princess has indeed bought Equestria from a Griffon King on a loan. And that loan has really run out.

"Would your Princess honour that deal? Would she yield most of Equestria to Griffonstone?"

I considered it, thinking of the map I saw in arimaspi’s room. The lands that according to this... thing, now would belong to Griffons went all the way to Canterlot. Manehattan, Cloudsdale, Baltimare. At least a million ponies.

"No." My Princess would absolutely honour her word, and she would not even think of starting a war over it, but I gave the only answer a daughter of a Baltimare pegasus could give: "Molon Labe," I said, almost feeling the wings unfurl at my back in defiance, and beastly snarl twisting up my face. "Come and get it if you dare."

"Aye." Gwyr nodded sadly. "So I have thought. So does my brother. And that is why this madness must be stopped before it happens."

***

First I would have to re-trace Gwyr's steps. Not that I doubted his word — he had no reason to lie to me — but the library was as good a place to start my investigation as any. He said that he had found the scroll there, and perhaps I’d be able to find some clue or more information there.

The library greeted me with silence and the smell of mildew and dust. Nothing stirred there, except for the cold, drafty breeze seeping through the cracks in the windows, and a sole griffon, huddled behind a far table, semi-hidden behind half-filled bookcases. He flinched, ducking down when he heard the door bang against the wall, but the momentary expression of fear disappeared when he saw me.

"Lady!" Galad jumped up, waving his wing, the tip of the feather almost touching the floor, "I should've expected a unicorn to visit our library. Please, come in."

I grabbed the library catalogue and dropped next to the princeling, who had made a room for me on his desk.

It took me little time to find the catalogue entirely useless. Half the entries were missing, the rest - either wholly inaccurate, referencing parts of the library that no longer seemed to exist, or would point me to bookshelves long since voided of their content.

"Haven't they heard of Dewey Decimal?" I grumbled, after another fruitless trip that brought nothing but cobwebs and enough dust to cover half the Canterlot. “This is impossible!”

"This is Griffonstone," the Prince shrugged. "Not many eagles like to spend their time with the papers and the parchments, cooped up in closed spaces. Gwyr tried to make renovations, but he never had the time to do anything serious with it."

"And what does the prince of Griffonstone do in a place not deemed fit for griffons?”

“I come here often,” he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “To be away from... he waved vaguely at everything outside the walls of the library. “...them.”

“To do what?” I peeked over his claw, spying into his notes.

...
But when recovering I realise
The cheat and from the mob my dim dream flies
A prisoner escaped from gilded cage
Oh how I long their petty fights disperse
And in their beak to fling an iron verse,
Red-hot...

"Don't look!" He covered the parchment quickly with his wing. "I-It's not ready yet."

"It's quite good," I assured him. I was not well-versed in poetry but his foalish verse did speak to me. I could just imagine finding the right words to throw into the faces of those self-important nobleponies, to break the teeth of Strawberry Leaf with a heavy iron... verse flung into her smug snout. “I like it.”

"Oh..." he settled down, still hesitant. "I didn't think... but of course, you're an Equestrian little pony, a unicorn. You would understand." He clicked his beak, his cheeks glowing pink from the compliment, and his wings shifted again. “But what about you? Canterlot libraries are surely better kept and far richer than this old place.”

"Your brother got a hold of a fairly dangerous document. So I'm trying to track it to where it came from, see if there's something else there he may have missed."

"You mean that ancient parchment Gwyr dug out?" the Prince broke away from his writing for a second. "He got it from King Grover's wing."

I froze, turning to the princeling.

"You knew?!"

"About that paper that got Gid all riled up with his grand plans? Well, yes."

"How long have you known?"

"Forever. Everyone ignores me - I'm not strong like Gid or smart like Gwyr. I'm just a kid, the least of the Princes. But I'm not stupid. I know things."

"Why haven't you told me?" I demanded.

"I didn't think it was important," he shrugged. "It's just some dumb political thing between Gideon and Dad."

I closed my eyes.

ugly stump where his head was, spurting blood into the cold, empty air,

He was just a boy.

Thousands of nightmare-inducing vignettes of violence around me, and the ground so overflowing with blood it would not drink any more.

He had no idea. He couldn’t have known what a war could mean. All he ever knew was the stories, like the story I've been telling last evening. And even I was willing to dismiss it up until yesterday.

He touched his neck, where the arrow struck him and he smiled, even knowing he was already dead.

I breathed. In and out, washing out the fear and the longing in one long breath.

“I hate it when they argue,” he added with a childishly sulking tone. “They're both so... griffish." He inflected his wing. "I wish they could get along. One of these days one of them will do something they will both regret and then..." his wing fell down. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bore you with our family squabbles.”

"Not at all." I opened my eyes and smiled. A corpse awakened from the thousand-year slumber would have had more life in its voice. "I'm sure it won't come to anything."

I needed something; a drink, a sniff, anything to calm down. I stood up, pushing the table away.

"If I have somehow offended," the princeling started—

"Oh no, not at all." I lied, "I just need to pick up some books."

By the bookshelves I breathed again, trying to expel the sudden flash of anger, and reached for the snuffbox. A burn ran up my nose, a flash of clarity taking the edge off, and I felt better. The Count was right, this stuff was good.

I took my time, waiting for the burning in my sinuses to stop and letting the familiar musty smell of old books and dust finish what the snuff couldn’t, and then I came back, stopping when I heard the sounds of Griffonstonian language — a clowder of them, heckling and laughing, from back where I left the prince.

I stepped lighter, making no sound against the floor, and peeked.

Lord Graven hung over the Prince, who tried desperately to protect his precious notes with his wing. His voice seemed jovial and hardly threatening, but there was nothing harmless in how Lord Graven's claws dug into the kid's feathers, or how his mate snuck around, snatching the prince's notes.

"H-hey! Give it back!"

"Oh but your Highness you mustn't be angry with us!" they giggled like a pack of hyenas. "It's just harmless fun, eh?"

The griffon threw it over his head to another one of their pack.

"It's no place for a griffon, playing with papers and ink, my lord." A jerk on the shoulder, sharp and sudden, threw the prince against the floor, dragging him. "Come with us, there are bulls to fight!"

I stepped out of the bookshelf into the open. "Now you shouldn't run in the library, my lords." There must've been something in my tone, because they stopped instantly to look at me, frozen like rabbits caught in the headlights. "We wouldn't want you to bump into something," I stepped towards Lord Graven. "Or someone."

His friends stepped back, leaving him alone, but Graven stood his ground. The pride, artificial as it was, fortified him against me.

I looked him in the eyes.

And there it was, a glimpse of a memory, a reflection of the fear at the bottom of his eyes. He remembered being helpless. Powerless. Feeling that I could do anything to him, without any proportion to the reason or provocation and nopony could stop me if I chose to do it again — no power in the world could ever erase it completely.

A shiver, a spasm ran along his barrel. His wings lowered by an inch, then flew back up, as he tried to fight the fear, his face flushed with anger.

I stepped forward.

He was a brave griffon and fancied himself a predator, but he wasn’t a killer. Oh, he’d enjoy a good fight, and he was not quite as afraid of hurting someone as a little pony would be. But he wouldn’t slice somepony's throat and step over her twitching body while the hot blood spurted on the ground.

I would. And these days it wouldn’t bother me much. In fact, after being shut in the Canterlot Castle for over two months, with only a tease of our previous scrap to whet my appetite, now I craved it, craved the edge and the fight. If only he'd give me a provocation, an excuse, and I would kill him in an instant with no hesitation. No Kings, no lords, and no castles would stop me.

I stepped forward.

He tried to say something, his dry throat spasming soundlessly, gulping for air. And then he stepped back averting his eyes, his wings falling back and then retreated fully, his hapless little bully friends following.

I exhaled, watching the griffons retreat, forcing myself to breathe out the excitement of the almost-fight, half-wishing the griffon had tried something, given me that excuse. But the breathing and the Count’s potion were already doing their work, and I felt a bit more at ease now, having taken my anger on a convenient target.

"They're just kidding around," the Prince said, dusting off his shoulders and picking up his notes. "I think. That's what Gid keeps telling me." He sighed. "I don't much care for their jokes. Thank you, Lady. I wish I could repay you."

Kidding around.

Right.

"Are you ok?"

"Yeah." I shook my head, trying to shake out the last angry thoughts. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"Did you find what you were looking for?"

"What?" Took me a moment to remember what he was talking about. "Oh. No. I can't make heads or tails of this library. Nothing is in order here."

"Well maybe I can help." the tercel fluttered up. “I’d be happy to!”

“Actually,” I considered it, “now that you mention it…”

“Yes?”

“I’m entirely lost in this place,” I admitted. ”And since you’re here often, I thought perhaps you could help me track where the scroll I’m looking for came from?”

“Oh, sure thing.” he waved his wing dismissively, “It’s pretty easy - the historical section is over there, and it’s all sorted by dynasty, and King and stuff. That’s what Gwyr says, at least. Which one are you looking for?”

"The paper that I’m trying to find was signed by King Grover.” I remembered the parchment that Gwyr had shown me, the reproduced signs and seals at the bottom, “King Grover and Prince Gruntwing."

He fluffed his feathers, turning his head to the side. "There's no Prince Gruntwing in the stories," he said. "And I know my stories."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course!" his wing shot out. "King Grover only ever had one son, Prince Gvido. The only Griffon to run the Gauntlet of—"

"Wait, what if it's not a Griffon king?" I paced along the shelves, thinking furiously. "Treaties can have a third party signing on it, called upon to enforce it if there's a dispute. Who could be the witness to the deal between Equestria and King Grover?"

"Well..." He thought for a while. "It must've been after the taking of Geskleithron—"

"Yes!" I grabbed a parchment and started sketching out the map I saw from the arimaspi's cabinet. "It's not dragons or hippogriffs — they all came later. The desert has no king, no Powers and no Princes or Princesses. No one would summon them to witness a parking ticket, much less an agreement that important. And that leaves... Yaks?"

“They were between us and the old Equestria,” the Prince agreed from behind my shoulder. “It would make sense to ask them to witness a deal. The yak-griffon-equestrian archive would be over there.”

The Princeling hopped into the air and flew off, weaving through the maze of the library cases, and I scrambled after him.

"Well, there definitely was something," he pointed to a neat square spot in the middle of the dusty shelves, soon as I arrived. "But it's not there any more."

Ok. I tried to suppress my disappointment. I knew that. The Prince probably kept the scroll with him, or perhaps the creature did.

"But there's another one here!"

"What?"

"Yeah, see?" He floated up, grabbing a lacquered black box in his claws. "But it's empty."

"Are you sure it's the right box?"

"Uh-huh", the princeling nodded eagerly. "See - King Grover's reign, griffon-yak-equestrian treaty archive, just before King Gruntwing's age. And of course, it's always the age of Princess Celestia in Equestria, so nowhere else it could be."

"Gimme that." I reached for the box with my magic, and the eaglet obediently let me take it. A lacquered black thing still bearing the three royal seals, barely the size of a breadbox. It would've contained a few scrolls at most, and it was very much empty. I sniffed at the wood carefully.

There was an air about it — the sunshine and the daffodils. Celestia's smell, an imprint of her power shed off the scroll kept inside the box for more than a millennium, a sharp sense of griffon claws. But also something else that didn't belong: a smell of fresh wood. The box was ancient, but... I probed it carefully with my hooves until I found a give, and a fake cover slid from the inside of the lid.

"Huh."

"That's cool," the Princeling watched my manipulations over my shoulders. "We found a secret!"

"Yeah. Except there's nothing there." The wood behind the fake inside of the lid was as smooth as the cover, though perhaps more polished by the ages.

"Well, there's that spell. It's probably important. A weird one too - it does not look like your magic at all."

"Wait, there's a spell? How do you know?"

"Isn't it obv... oh." he lowered his wings. "I can just see it — griffon eyes are very sharp. Better than pony ones," he sounded almost apologetic. "Sorry, I didn't mean..."

I suppressed a sigh. Why was nature so cruel to unicorns? For all the things I learned and did to myself, I would still have to use the testing-spells and study backscatter and the interference of my magic against it to figure out what it did and how it was made. For complex spells it could take days, poking and prodding and measuring... and he could just see it, as plain as a snout on my face, even if he lacked the knowledge to understand what it was.

"Can you show me what it looks like?"

"Well, it's harder to see when it's inside something, but it's sort of..." he shuffled his wing. "There aren't good words in Equestrian to explain what a spell looks like. But if you trace where it's roots are, then, well, it's sort of like this—"

I followed his claw with my magic, and when I lifted my horn, an image — a hieroglyph, crude and ugly grew alight on the inner side of the lid. A rough depiction of an eye, brownish-red when coloured by my magic as if drawn with blood.

“Ice and Nightmares!” I threw the box away.

It did not take knowledge of Coltec magic to know that this was a spy-spell, and who had left it. And who, no doubt, was seeing me opening that box right now.

Author's Notes:

No slave unto the world’s opinion,
I do not kneel before the great;
Like you, I think their cause unworthy
My heart’s devotion or my hate.

Like you, I share not the noisy pleasures.
And know them not as souls apart:
I take alike the wise and foolish
And keep the mandate of my heart.

Galad, Prince of Griffonstone
Drafts
Currentl Location Unknown, believed to be lost.

CHAPTER VII: ENGAGEMENT

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The box, with the spell removed, stood by my nightstand, the blinded coltec eye watching me pace through the room.

"So you're saying the spell belongs to the counsellor?" the princeling asked again.

"Yes."

"Huh." He did not seem very interested in the question, much more preoccupied with my paltry possessions. He dragged his claw along the jamb of the door, feeling out the runes of alarm-spell I put on it. "Your magic is different. Prettier," he added for some reason. He waved his wing, trying to find words. "Sharper, and hotter."

"He must have it. That’s the only way it makes sense."

"The spell?"

"No, the scroll," I explained. "He must have taken it. He would not destroy it, it's way too precious. He'd keep it and hide it somewhere close."

"Who?" he princeling turned his head to the side, clearly not following my brilliant insight. "And why?"

"He'd keep it somewhere. Somewhere close by. On him, or probably in his rooms... insurance, or ransom if he needed it, something like that."

I turned to Galad, looking for confirmation, but the eaglet just shrugged, completely lost in my mutterings. "So, what do you want to do now?"

I considered it carefully.

"I," I said, after some deliberation, "am going to sleep."

"But it's the middle of the day!"

Indeed it was — my Princess's Sun was still shining right through the window as if to illustrate his point for him.

"And yet," I pushed him insistently out, "I feel that I need a nap. I'm half-pegasus, you know."

"You are?"

"On my mother's side." I finally towed him out. "And I need my nap."

I slammed the door shut.

And then I stood there for a second, staring at it, thinking.

Something was wrong, Equestria was in danger, and that ugly creature, that arimaspi - he was in the center of it. I paced nervously through my room again, trying to piece the half-a-plan I had, into something meaningful. The creature — that creature was the odd one out, the pivot of the problem.

It tried to dissuade the Prince from the war, it seems. And yet it also prophesied things, the glory and the conquest, that would encourage it. It was in the archive, it knew of the second scroll, yet had not revealed it, it served the Prince, at Griffon King's court, but called the Drowner his master...

It made no sense. And if it did not add up, that means that I did not know something.

And the first rule of life is that if you’re not aware, if you don’t have the information - you’re worse than useless. But I was ready for this. This was what I have trained for. This is what all the deals, all the secrets, all the pain was for.

The main thing I needed was more information. So, true to my word I prepared my bed slowly, and settled in, fluffing up the pillows and blankets.

I wished I had my instruments: my hookah and the hash, nightshade, formaldehyde tincture and khalif-root to free my spirit and preserve the body. But for a short stint, this would have to do, as long as everything was comfortable enough.

I took a breath, long and deep, just as she taught me, and whispered a secret name. My magic twisted inside out, familiar vertigo had gripped me for a second, and then I was looking from outside at my body going limp in the bed.

Light as a feather, silent as a ghost, I moved on the wings of the wind towards my quarry.

It would never have worked against a griffon. Their golden eyes would see even the slightest breeze, their claws could cut even the flesh of the wind. But I did not need to use it against a griffon. Instead, I slipped under my door, turned right, seeping through the ancient masonry of Gormenghast into the web of secret passages and servants' ways, left and two flights of stairs up, towards the arimaspi's room.

I entered through the gap under the door, trying hard not to break it as I did. There were alarm-spells, like a waft of rot in my face, but I burned them away with but an effort of my power, reforming on the other side, into a shape of a flaming lioness, weaved from wind and green flames of my magic.

Nothing seemed to change since. It was quiet. Silent. The arimaspi wasn’t there, which was good, else I’d have to deal with it. Somehow.

I weaved carefully round the large armchair and dug in scattering the papers on the table - maps and documents, astronomical charts and coltec blood alchemy formulas. Not what I needed.

Seemed It would not be so easy.

I looked around, studying the layout of the room. If I were hiding something, something important, something I could not carry with me. A parchment or a scroll, so it would be small, easy enough to hide.

If I were that creature, what would I do?

I looked again, flowing along the wall, feeling with my wind-body for any draft or tickle of the air escaping a hidden compartment, the narrow gaps in the masonry or the woodwork, pulling out random drawers and throwing books and notes on the floor.

Where would I hide it?

I was so sure of my guess. The creature must have had the scroll, nopony else would know the Coltec nigrimancy to cast that spell, certainly not the proud griffons. And he'd have to keep it at close... unless he hid it somewhere else, or destroyed it entirely.

No! I pushed those thoughts down and redoubled my search. It had to be here.

Where can it be?

Nothing. There was nothing - not in the books and papers arranged on the table, not in the drawers, not under the crystals and the tools scattered about.

It had to be here.

I could not be wrong. I couldn’t.

Where is it?!

Roaring a gout of flame, I let my irritation out on a cupboard, smashing it to bits with a wave of my translucent wind-paw.

I had not the time to waste on this! Abandoning all caution, I moved like a hurricane through the room, fire and wind, breaking furniture and ripping through the precious silks, relieving my frustration on the junk that cluttered the room.

There!

There was something, something in the air I could feel with my wind-flesh, the same stench-like feel of magic, like the smell of rotten meat and maggots crawling over my skin. Something was here, close by, hidden and protected by magic. I moved slower feeling out with the whole of my body.

There was a noise at the door, a shuffling of hooves, but I was already too close, melting the stone with the claws of fire to reach for my prize, baring the secret compartment dug into the masonry of the floor.

The final stone cracked under my strike, revealing the hidden space within —an indentation clawed within the floor of the room, where few precious things were hidden: some rusty manacles of cold-wrought iron, a vial of blood, a strip of skin with something written, and that what I was looking for - a scroll, smelling faintly of daffodils and sunshine.

The door handle turned, just as I reached to grab my prize, and as I did, the manacles shifted, glowing with a rusty aura of a spell placed on the cuff, and before I could react, it struck, like a cobra, three chains locking upon where my neck and front two paws would be, two others snapping at my sides, and falling down.

Stupid. No iron could hold me in my wind form. I stretched out — and the iron held, keeping me locked in place just the same as if I was a flesh-and-blood pony. The runes along the manacle, in coltec pictogram glowed with magic, held me down, pinning my front paws to the floor, and all I could do was turn towards the door to face the creature as it came in.

“What?!” The creature’s coat was damp and matted, and his breath ragged — he must’ve ran here when the alarm-spell was triggered. Whatever he expected, he did not expect me here, not a creature of wind and fire — and that gave me an opening.

I pulled towards him, trying to reach him with my paw, but the chains, the accursed chains they held me, and my swipe came nowhere close to it. The creature flinched, and I pushed again, roaring to release a gout of heat and magic, like a dragon spitting out their flame. The arimaspi shrieked, ripping away, and raised his hands in front of his face, defending — and a shield appeared in front of him, a translucent semi-dome of golden magic.

Not just any magic - equestrian, unicorn magic, not his horn but his nails shining with dull gold aura. He wiggled his fingers, making a gesture of some sort and a beam of golden light tinged with black, shot out, surrounding my body with the same black-and-gold color.

"That's you!" he hissed, recognizing my form and my magic. "The little pony, the master's slave! What are you doing here? Why are you destroying my rooms and my tools?!"

“I, err…” It was hard to speak in this form, though possible with some concentration. The bigger problem was I had no idea what to say. I was so sure I could overpower the feeble creature, starved of his magic, that another plan never even occurred to me.

If I could shed these cursed manacles — and I knew a way to bust any bonds and to break any fetters, but it was back there in my body, left behind — then it would not even be a problem. But now, with cold iron sapping away the power of anemos I inhabited, the golden spell staunching my flames, I had to come up with something else.

Lurching again, I pulled on the chains with all my might, but there was no give — the cold iron, blood-enchanted, rune-inscribed, held fast.

“I command you to release me!” After that failed attempt to escape, that sounded feeble even to my own ears.

"No, no, I don't think so, you lying little pony." His horn grew alight again. "You smell of master, yes, yes you do, but master would not send you to break my room, to steal my scroll. You must be lying, little pony, yes, yes, you must, and I will know."

“Your master sent me!”

"So you say, little pony, and his mark, yes, yes,I feel it. The salt, the iron. But you also smell of her, yes, daffodils and sunshine."

"I'm undercover?" I suggested, but he did not seem to buy it.

"A mare can only serve one master, yes, only one you can serve. " His eyes narrowed. "I think you're a traitor, little pony, yes, I think you're a spy."

“No I’m not!” As far as arguments went — this wasn’t one.

"Tell me, then, what does tlatoani want with me? Yes, tell me of my Master's plan."

"Well," I tried desperately to come up with a lie. "Err...how dare you question me!?" I stomped my paw against the ground, singing the carpets. "I walked to the bottom of the ocean at his side. I brought him the Nightblade and won him the Coin. Release me, creature!"

There almost was a reflexive jerk, a half-bow of submission, but the moment passed.

“You don’t know, do you?” It was barely a question now, his voice becoming more sure with every word. “You weren’t really sent by him, no, no you were not. You smell of him, but that’s a lie, that’s a ruse. What are you really doing here, little pony?”

"You—! I… The Master does not trust you, creature. I'm here to take the second scroll before you fa—"

I felt a touch of cold in my mind, like a crystal alarm-bell ringing. Someone has touched the door to my room. Someone was about to enter my room. With my body entirely defenceless. “Erm... “ I lost my train of thought, “I mean… yes. That. Taking the scroll off your hooves. Hands. Claws, whatever. That’s why he sent me.” If the creature had accomplices...I pulled on the chain again, but it was just as futile as it was before. “Now give it to me! And release me!”

"You lie, little pony. Little traitor. Tlatoani believes in me, yes, yes he does, he trusts his old servant, yes!“ He pulled up his sleeves, revealing the sleek, rare fur and a lining of scars and tattoos, runics and pictograms running from his forearm to his shoulder. His hands crooked into a weird gesture, the keratin of his nails shining with the black light. “And you made a mistake coming here in this form." He licked his thin lips. "With all this raw magic, unformed and unused.”

Whatever it meant, it was not good. I prepared to try the chains again, a wave of desperate fear pushing me to pull and to rip and to do anything to get out, before the creature waved his spell, before whoever it was my door ripped away the protective charms and entered...

Control, little princess. Breathe. Her voice in my head, her advice. It calmed me down.

Brute strength would not avail me, but the manacles, they were not made to hold winds. Five manacles, with long cuffs to protect them from the claws: that design meant it was meant for a griffon, a creature of flesh and blood — and at this moment I was neither.

I breathed, even though in this form it made no sense, and concentrated on certain points within my wind-body, feeling it shift and expand, magic leaving me like air from an untied balloon.

Relax I concentrated on that thought, like a filly playing the sleepover game, Breathe I let go of my very self, and gave more and more over to the wind that was my body, and letting go of the magic.

Blood seeped through the arimaspi's sleeve, outlining some sort of Coltec pictograms, and I felt a rip of vertigo and hunger, but I pushed it down

Light as a feather.

"What are you trying to do little pony?" He noticed my shift, and his fingers danced in the air, twitching like the legs of a dying spider as he weaved a spell.

Lighter. I kept concentrating, my body becoming more and more ephemeral and lighter still, I was but a feather, a wisp of a wind, no magic, no power, no substance—

"Stop!" The spell he was weaving has shot out towards me, but it was too late, already I slipped through the cuffs and fell down, through the cracks in the floor, down the spider-web of the passages and stairs, twice to the right and once to the left, and into my room and into my body, just another series of knocks rapped against my door.

My room, my body, my bed. I breathed in, a long, ragged breath, feeling my lungs inflate like rusted bellows, the air scraping at my insides like shards of glass.

The first few seconds are always the most painful.

"Lady Shimmer?" Equestrian language, griffish accent. Prince Gwyr's voice.

I forced my muscles to move, trying to stretch the cold ligaments.

The first few seconds. Then it gets easier. I shook my head trying to chase out the cobwebs - a bad idea. Something exploded behind my eyes like a miniature thunderbolt.

"Are you alright?"

"Come - " I couldn't get words out before doubling up in a coughing fit, each cough as dry as Arabian desert, each little shake like another kick to the head. "Come in," I managed to scrounge up some spit in the dry sandbox of my mouth.

Steadier now, my body finally acclimating to being animated by me again, I tried to stand up, moving my head as little as I could. Pins and needles rolled along my limbs, but nothing too bad. I have not stayed out too long.

"Are you alright?" the Prince asked again as he entered the room, while I rummaged around the room for something for my parched throat.

"I'm fine," I dismissed his concern, finally finding the bottle that somehow rolled in the back of the cupboard. "I was in the middle of some magic I could not interrupt. What brings you here?"

"Gally.. Prince Galad had mentioned that you may have uncovered something in the library. Something regarding our situation?"

"Yes. Right. I was casting spells." I finished my drink. "And he has it." I threw away the bottle, wiping my mouth with my hoof. "I've seen it. I can fix it now."

"He who? And has what?"

"That creature, the councillor. The arimaspi. He has the second scroll, the proof that the debt of Equestria has been paid. I just need to get it."

"The creature? But why? It's been helping me to stop Gideon all this time. "

"I don't know!" I shrugged, my irritation bleeding into my voice and gesture. “But it doesn't matter. I'm going to fix it now."

"What are you going to do — just barge in there and—" he caught himself when he saw my expression. "No! Absolutely not. You can't possibly!"

"Why on earth not?"

"You cannot!" Gwyr almost jumped with the idea.

"I assure you, I am quite capable of—"

"A little pony, a guest who ate our bread, drank our wine, attacking my brother's servant — no, this would be grave disrespect, an insult. It could start a war on its own!"

"Well, you do it then! You don't even have to do anything, just command him to yield the scroll."

"I..." he floated back down to the ground. "I cannot. I will not go against my brother directly. We'll need to think of something else."

***

The evening found me in my quarters looking at the blank pages of the magic journal.

I needed help badly. If it were a fight or a magic problem I'd have known what to do — I've been taught by the best. In the subtler realm of politics, however, I was completely lost.

I stared at the parchment-yellow pages, quill in my magic, and then I paused.

All I had to do was to write in the journal, and Celestia would see the same writing in the twinned journal in Canterlot. That was her most precious, her last gift to me. I could call for help, and she would answer, be it with advice or with magic, or — I had no doubt that were I to ask, she'd even come in person. All I had to do was ask.

But my Princess did not wish to know of the winds. And she was, as the Count had said, very good at knowing only that which my Princess wished to know — that I have learned rather painfully.

I put the quill away and closed the journal. My Princess had sent me to Griffonstone, and that meant she had deemed it sufficient for the situation. If I needed advice, the Count would have to be enough.

"You're doing the right thing Miss Shimmer," the Count said from the door. He looked pale and tired, leaning against the jamb of the door for support. "She does not need to know."

I nodded. That was all that I needed — permission and command to do what had to be done. And though perhaps those were the last vestiges of the silly princess-y thoughts in my head, 'you're doing the right thing' did sound much better when coming from someone other than yourself.

Author's Notes:

Now, this is the cup the ponies drink   
	When they go to right a wrong, 
And that is the cup of the Old World's hate--
	Cruel and strained and strong. 
We have to drink that cup--and a bitter, bitter cup--      
	And toss the dregs away.

Fancy Pants, Count Hoofington
Unpublished

CHAPTER VIII: ANNULEMENT

View Online

Next morning, though, brought no clarity.

The creature still had the scroll — probably hid it even better now. The Griffons were still gearing for war, that damned convocations of theirs moving closer with every day. And I had no play save barging into the creatures rooms again, in the flesh this time, and taking that damned thing — a play that was clearly not a good idea.

I hoped that when Gwyr would come, he'd have some more constructive suggestions.

Meanwhile, I paced through my room, and rearranged for the hundredth's time the spells and magics I had available to me, trying to come up with some sort of solution.

Finally, there was a knock at the door, but when I opened it, instead of the Griffon Prince I saw an earth pony filly.

“Uhm, hi, Sunset," she shuffled gingerly in place. “How are you?”

“What do you want?” I looked at her suspiciously.

“Can I come in?” she peeked over my shoulder, looking into my room. No idea what she was trying to find, and what sort of stories little noblefillies told each other behind my back, but she was bound to be disappointed — there was nothing much to see except the general chaos of my small room.

"Look," I tried to remember her name, but after so many years of purposefully ignoring them, it was really hard. "Melon, right?"

"Melody." She said timidly. “It's Sweet Melody."

Of course it was.

I ignored the hoof she offered. "Look, Melody, I'm kinda busy here."

"Oh." she put the hoof down, scratching at the marble floor. "Strawberry Leaf wants to talk to you." Her voice was just radiating concern. Probably fake one at that. "I can tell her that you're busy if you want me to, but she seemed very cross with you. They say they are going to send you back home."

"What?!" That bitch. She could not do this to me! “Why?!”

"I'm sorry!" The filly shrunk away from my gaze, "I— I— just overheard it, that's all! That creature came, the scary-big one, and then Dame asked for you, and..."

“Ice and Nightmares!” I flung the nightstand into the wall, but watching it scatter into the splinters did not bring me any satisfaction.

Sweet Melody shivered, eyes wide with fear.

Damnations. That outburst did not help. I breathed, and when that didn't help, I took a sniff off my snuffbox, hoping to drown out the thumping pulse in my ears that threatened to rip me apart unless I did something.

Except that doing said something to the filly that looked like she was about to faint wouldn’t help me. I needed to get to the source of this instead.

"Fine." The clarity of Count's potion did help a bit to allay my anger. "Fine. I'll go."

"Oh!" She brightened up right away, "That’s great! If you want, I'll take you there.”

I followed the hop-skipping girl down the corridor, a flight of stairs up and right into a trap.

Really, I should've expected it.

"Hello Sunset," Dame Strawberry Leaf was sitting on the biggest armchair in the room, directly facing the doors through which I just came in. The arimaspi counsellor sat by her side, looking at me with his lopsided ugly grin that did not promise anything good. "Please sit."

Sweet Melody closed the door behind me, cutting off any venue of retreat.

"You called for me?" The trap was shut, escape barred, the only thing left was to brave on towards the only chair left for me. It was a low and soft thing — as soon as I sat down, I found that I'd be looking at them from below, and when the Count joined us, sitting on Strawberry’s right, I felt surrounded on every side. Even Melody sitting in the corner, hooves on her knees like a good little schoolfilly seemed in on it.

"So..." I said, after nopony else would, "why did you ask me here?"

"I was hoping you could tell me." Dame Strawberry said, "Is there something you would like to tell us, young lady?"

"I didn't do it!" That wasn't the greatest defence I could come up with so I tried to course-correct. "Whatever it was that he says I did - I didn't."

She raised her eyebrow.

"What is it that you're accusing me of anyways?"

"Magics," the arimaspi whimpered, leaning towards Strawberry's side. "Green unicorn magic, powerful, and strong. Yes, yes, my room destroyed, tools broken," the armaspi whined. "Terrifying, yes, yes, terrified I was."

"Sunset, you understand that if you're in any way involved in this, I will have to send you back home. Acting out like this is completely unacceptable."

"I didn't do it!" I repeated stubbornly. "I was in the library with the little prince, and then I went to my rooms, and I stayed there!" And you can't prove otherwise,

“You are the only one here with a green aura, Sunset,” The Count noticed. “And you are a very powerful magician.”

“Doesn’t mean I did it! Besides, somegriffon would’ve noticed the magic if I tried it. I’m not that stupid.”

“We will ask the young Prince,” Dame allowed. “But before we do - are you sure you don’t want to— Your Highness!" The Dame jumped off the chair, and so did the other ponies. The arimaspi bowed as well, his bound horn touching the ground, and his sole eye watching his Prince with suspicion. Even I stood up, turning to see Gwyr enter the room. "What brings you here?"

"I was looking for Lady Shimmer," he made a gesture for the ponies to rise, "And I was told she's here. I hope I'm not interrupting something important."

"We were trying to find out what happened to your esteemed counsellor's rooms. Some sort of magical attack."

"Yes, yes." The creature nodded. "Somepony attacked my rooms, destroyed my tools."

"That is horrible." Gwyr’s voice stayed even, even as his eyes darted towards me for a second. "And is Lady Shimmer helping out?"

"Well, we were just asking where she was yesterday. We were afraid— we hoped that—"

“Oh. I believe I can resolve the argument, then," Gwyr said, stepping by my side, his wing settling on my shoulder, "The Lady was with me — we were talking in her rooms. I even bumped into my lord Fancy in the corridor on my way there."

"Did you?" The Count shifted uncomfortably.

"Why yes, I did. You were... resting," there was a strange twitch along the Prince's wing as he said that, something he tried to hide, and his tone grew very careful, almost hushed. "I helped you to your room."

"Ah." The Count moved his jaw. "I remember now. Quite too much wine, I'm afraid." he smiled guiltily, shrinking away under Strawberry glare. "The young Prince is quite right. After he rescued me to my room, I do believe he was on his way to Miss Shimmer and I believe she was in her room for the rest of the evening — I even paid her a visit when I felt better."

"Right!" So that’s why he looked like a hung-over ghost when he came by last night. The persistence with which the lordling found enough of wine to get himself drunk.... "He did. So there!" I looked triumphantly at the Dame.

"Well," Dame Strawberry pursed her lips, and gave me a long, stern look, searching for the signs of deception. Finally she turned to the creature. "As you see, that young lady had nothing to do with this."

The arimaspi threw an angry glare at me — and for some reason at the Count, but he couldn't argue with his own Prince. He bowed again, his curved back bending almost in two.

"I'm sorry, Sunset." Strawberry turned to me. "I shouldn't have assumed the worst."

"Dame, gentlemares, my lord." The Prince nodded to the ponies. "Since this matter is resolved, may I borrow Lady Shimmer for a while?"

"Of course, your Highness," Dame nodded. "We will sort this thing out by ourselves. Sunset..." She wanted to say something, but decided against it. “Sorry to have called you here.”

I nodded awkwardly. At least I got the apology out of this, whatever it was worth, but still, it was too close.

***

"That was too close," Gwyr said, soon as we returned to my room. "You were careless."

"Yeah. Thanks for the save." I flopped on my bed. "I owe you one."

He shrugged, making that protective-cutting gesture with his claw again. ”Don’t mention it. But there’s another problem.”

“What is it?” I asked tiredly, trying to find the snuffbox. At this rate, I would soon need to ask the Count for another one.

“Your Count, Lord Fancy, he’s been talking you up a lot — your stories, for one, but also your altercation with Lord Graven. Both of them. And Gideon, well, he’s seen fit to repeat the story to his friends, with one question appended: Could the griffon beaten by a little pony, still be considered a griffon?”

"And the other eagles started asking him that to his face."

"Most certainly. Taunts and jeers and mocking, Gideon first of them all... Graven's riled up worse than a novice bull on a third touch. I'm afraid he'd do something stupid."

“Ugh.” I threw a pillow at a wall. The little bully posed no threat, and in any other circumstance I would be welcoming the diversion, but now I did not need another complication. “I’ll deal with it.”

Somehow.

“We need a plan.”

Well, thank you, Fetlock Hooves. I knew that already.

I didn’t say it, though — that much diplomacy I understood even then. “What do you know about the creature?” Perhaps something Gwyr knew would help me come up with a plan.

"The creature? Oh, you mean the counsellor — the one you say has the other scroll."

"I know he does!" I shook my mane stubbornly. "I've seen it."

"What have you actually seen?” He let my outburst slide. “have you read it? If you did we could—"

"No.” I admitted. “I just saw a scroll the creature was hiding. I had no time to read it, or even open it."

"So you don't know that it's even the right thing."

I had nothing to answer to that. I reached instead for my snuffbox, and took a pinch.

"The arimaspi has been here forever." Gwyr said, shrugging. "Years really. Why would he lie, or hide things from us? He's been as much invested in stopping this nonsense as I."

“Yeah, about that.” I fell back on my bed, “He’s working for the Drowner. For Ahuizotl,” It was hard to read griffon expressions, their immovable beak and all, but I saw that he could not believe me. I took another breather to drown out the anger. “He told me so himself. And no, I don’t have any proof. I don’t have any evidence, any confirmation. I have nothing!”

“We have to try…”

"What is it that you don't have, Miss Shimmer?" The Count opened the door of my rooms, waiting for permission to enter. "Milord, it is always a pleasure to see you." He bowed to the prince with formal politeness.

I threw a spell to extinguish the alarm-runes on the jamb making my horn buzz with pointless warning and tried to remind myself why I couldn't do the same with the nobling.

"Nothing."

"What brings you here milord?" Gwyr's tone wasn't quite confrontational, but—

"I wanted to thank Your Highness for helping Miss Shimmer today."

"Yeah," I snorted, "someone had to."

He stood at the porch for a while.

"So, may I come in? I come bearing gifts!" he pushed a tray of canapes into view.

I deliberated for a few seconds, but the Count already knew most of what we were about to discuss and he did seem to be the least useless of the noblepony crowd -- when he was sober, at least. We could use him

"Come in." I finally came to a decision. "I don't have much in terms of bread and wine, but be my guest."

The Count nodded, accepting my invitation and hobbled into the room. Dumping the tray on the nightstand found himself a chair close to the bed and settled in.

"Are you alright?"

His smile was strained, and his bottom lip was bothered raw.

"I'm fine, Miss Shimmer. Quite fine."

Though he stopped biting his lip, and his voice was level, I saw the way he moved, leaning against the low table, a tension in his muscles... he was not fine.

He wolfed down a canape, and almost inhaled the something from his flask.

"Just a little tired."

"I see."

"So, Miss Shimmer. What is it that you don't have and how can I help?"

Right. Whatever. The lordling's hangover, or whatever it was, didn't matter. We were trying to plan here.

I shared a look with Gwyr.

"We believe..." he started. "That there may be some information is being withdrawn from my brother—"

"—the arimaspi is—"
"The scroll missing from the—"
"If we could—"

Speaking over each other, stumbling and repeating ourselves, we told the Count everything we knew.

Well, almost everything. I was not about to cop to bashing the creature's rooms just after I lied about it.

"I see," the Count said. "You two did quite some work for amateur sleuths"

"But it doesn't help!" I groaned. "We know everything now. We know what's going on but we don't have any proof. We don’t have any evidence, any way to make them listen, any…

"...any power?"

"Yes. Precisely." for all my spellwork, for all my little tricks and knacks, I had no power. "It sucks."

"You could go to the Prince. Or to the King." The Count suggested. "Though without proof—"

I sighed. That lesson I was not eager to repeat.

"And if the counsellor does have the scroll , and hears about it, it may just as well destroy it," Gwyr added.

"Quite. It's a conundrum indeed. But imagine you had it.” the Count suggested, “What then?”

“Why we’d bring it to my brother, and…”

“No we won’t!” I shot up. “No way!”

“He has to know that he's making a mistake. Gideon is an honorable griffon, I'm sure that he…”

"He’ll what? Admit he was wrong?" I interrupted him again. "Oh, and maybe apologise? Maybe he'll bake ponies a cake while he's at it?"

Gwyr looked at me, slowly moving his wings, and said nothing, lowering his head.

"We need the element of surprise. To ambush him somewhere crucial. Where everyone can see it, and no one can say that they have not heard it."

“You want to do it at a convocation?” Gwyr asked. He did not like that idea.

“Yes.” I, however, did. “That’s perfect. Everygriffon right there, they would not be able to deny me.”

Gwyr shrugged helplessly and waved his wing, giving up. "As long as we actually have it."

"If you have it," the Count corrected him dryly.

“We could try again. Sneak into his rooms or...”

“You’ll get in trouble if you’re caught. With King-my-Father or with the ponies. They’ll send you back to Equestria.”

“Well then I don’t get caught!” I insisted stubbornly. “Do it right this time.”

"I'm afraid I would not be able to let you do it, Miss Shimmer.”

"But it's important! If we could get that cursed scroll, then..."

"I'm sorry." he shrugged. "But the stakes are too high. I'd have to tell the Dame."

"Ice and Nightmares." I sulked, sinking back into the bed.

He leaned towards me. "Don't despair, miss Shimmer." His hoof touched my foreleg. It felt warm, and his eyes seemed suddenly close to mine. "I'm sure you will find a way, and if I may say, sometimes—"

His magic holding the glass suddenly cut out, and it fell, splashing the champagne every way.

The prince jumped up, vaulting himself on the back of a chair to avoid the scattering of the drinks everywhere. His back arched, and claws ripping through the upholstery, he looked for a second like a spooked cat,

I wiped the champagne off my muzzle slowly and looked at the wincing Count.

"Sorry?" he offered, trying to reach for his kerchief, but his magic dispersed with nothing but a few golden sparks.

"Perhaps you are... more tired than you realised, milord?" Gwyr suggested uncomfortably, forcing himself to settle back down on the chair.

"Well..." The Count shifted his hooves and looked at the empty glass, rolling on the floor. "No, I'm fine. I'm fine."

"Are you... are you drunk?!" How on earth did he manage to get himself sloshed already this early in the morning? And on the pony champagne no less!

"Me?" That question seemed to blindside the Count. He stared at his hoof thinking deeply. "I don't think so?" He swayed, but caught himself, straightening out. "Maybe just a little," he concluded. He tried to look at me straight, but his eyes didn’t quite focus right. “But that’s nothing. I’ll be fine. I can still be of assistance.”

"Get out." I sighed. The lordling was barely useful when sober, much less like this.

“But Miss Shimmer!”

I picked him up in my magic, and carried him to the door. "Out."

The Count sighed, but duly stepped back into the corridor, looking to each side. "Miss Shimmer.” he said, suddenly clear and focused. "I know you feel like you have no power in this situation. But if I could give you some advice I once got from a deer friend of mine — sometimes, the power is not just in what you have, but also in what others think you have."

"Go get some sleep, my lord.” I sighed. “Just... not here."

“Now,” I turned to Gwyr, who tried to lower his wings and keep away from the sticky carpet. “Where were we?”

“A plan, Lady.” He sighed, settling back into the chair. “We need it.”

“Right, right.” I settled back into the bed as well, opening the windows to chase away the saccharine smells of spilled champagne and the lordlings posh cologne. “A plan.”

“We need that document. Without it we have nothing.”

“We do.” I thought about the Count’s last advice. And then a memory, a faint association, bubbled up. A party - a get together, pony drinks, pony colours, a joint and salt-licks passed around, and Lulamoons showing tricks and hustles, cards flashing in his hoof, twisting and turning: a simple Three Card Monte.. “But sometimes the trick is not about where something is, but where you think it is.”

“Huh?”

“Listen.” I tried to grab at the idea, feeling the excitement of finally having something. “Listen. What if we already had it?”

“Yes, as you said, we’ll have to keep it secret from my brother.” He said curtly. “Reveal it at the Convocation. But we don’t.”

“Right. That’s what we would do. But what would the creature do?”

The understanding slowly dawned. “He’d try to get it. If it was the counselor, if he’s hiding it from my brother, he’d need to have the other one too.”

“If!” I started, raising my hoof…. but it was pointless, so instead I sighed and let it go. “Yes, whatever. Whoever is doing this, whoever found the second scroll, he’d be lured out.”

“Same as you.” He pondered. “It’s a stretch.”

“But it’s a plan. The only one we’ve got.”

“We’ll need a fake.”

“And a way to pass it to me, so that the creature knows...”

“...but not my brother...”

“...and spread the rumour…”

“... set the trap…”

We were so in sync, finishing each other's sentences, as the plan snapped into place one by one. The arimaspi did not stand a chance.

Or so I thought.

Author's Notes:

Foreheads, covered with curls, sweating late in the night,
 And a spinning sensation of a joyful, sweet dread... 
We got dizzy from that scent of fabulous fight, 
Which was pouring on us from the pages we read.
 
 And we tried to perceive - we, who knew not of wars - 
What an ambush felt like, what a chariot was; 
Why the borders were set, what it means to obey 
When retreat is called for, but one has to stay.

Fancy Pants, Count Hoofington
Ballad of Strife

CHAPTER IX: ONE-TWO ATTACK

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It took me a while to find this place.

Hidden as it was within the maze of Gormenghast, I spent what seemed like hours searching — a long miserable trek, compounded by the fact I could not fly as a Griffon would. But finally I found it — the Iron Room.

That’s what Gwyr called it and now I understood why.

The room itself was not iron — the walls were the same dull grey stone that comprised most of the castle. But on the walls, going stories and stories up along the spiral staircase, beneath murals and tapestries and statues, there was iron aplenty.

Pegasi aegii and spears, neighpalese ghost daggers, dragonforged diamond lances, arabian zulfikars — bronze, iron and steel upon murderous steel, all screaming out for blood; All carrying nicks and marks. Some small, some almost enough to cut them in two. Not just marks — clawmarks.

Just being in this room made my hackles and memories I’d rather keep away rise.

Here the middle Prince sent me, and it was here, surrounded by statues and tapestries of Kings and Princes past, amongst the weapons and ancient trophies that Gideon chose to hold his court.

Seated on the perches far above me — Gideon and his youngest brother, his griffon coterie: young tercels in matador red sashes, and the counselor — the arimaspi, his giant figure trying to curve itself to be less towering. Opposite them, and quite distinctly not together — some older nobles, looking out of place in Gideon’s court, and the Count with them, rather strangely looking not.

And, of course, Graven, still at his Prince’s side.

I looked away, and shrank behind King Grover’s statue. There was no time for another wing-measuring contest with the little bully — I needed to be a good little filly for now. The arimaspi creature would be looking for any cause for me to be sent back, and the nobleponies would be only too happy to help him, spineless as they are.

Instead I made a decent imitation of curtsy when the Prince turned towards me, and tried to wave down the little princeling from his perch.

Galad flew down obligingly, hovering in front of me.

"Hi!" he threw a look back at his brother for some reason, and then landed. "What brings you here, Lady?"

"Have you got it?" I met the princeling at the bottom of the tower, just hidden enough by the statue that we still could be seen by the griffons above.

“Uhm, oh, yeah. Gwyr asked me to give this to you.” The princeling passed me a scroll case.

I nearly dropped it - it was heavy. Not just leather — I could see it lead-lined as I opened it.

The parchment inside looked veritably ancient. Goodness knows what archive or dark corner of the library did Gwyr dig it out — it even had a trace of Celestia’s power, and the clawmark of some griffon King.

Palsimpsesting the old document, using Celestia’s own feather for writing — it was clever, but it was a pale imitation, resembling the real thing no more than a shadow of the rose resembles the flower. But then again I had no intention of giving the creature a chance to examine it closely.

The arimaspi on the far side of the room - his head whipped towards me the second I opened the scroll-case.

Gotcha.

"Thank you." I put it away, slow and sloppy, making sure that it would half stick out of my saddlebag, the lid only half-screwed back on the scrollcase, as the arimaspi disentangle himself from Gideon’s group.

“What is it?” he craned his neck trying to look into the scroll case. “Gwyr wouldn’t tell me anything about this thing.” Galad pouted a bit, “Just that you needed to have it.”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” I waved my hoof vaguely, “Just something I needed for my research.”

“For your lessons with The Princess?” Did he really sound envious? I decided I was imagining things.

“Yes. Exactly.” I answered offhoof, watching the arimaspi hobble towards us in his lopsided canter with the corner of my eye. “We don’t get much information on Griffon history back home.”

"Well, if you’re done here — do you want to go for a fli— for a walk? Or maybe visit the library again?" He sounded so desperate.

"Oh. No. I, um, I can't." Ice and Nightmares, I wished I had rehearsed this. I wished I'd seen this coming. "Delegation business. You know. Politics."

“I see.”

He clearly wanted to say something, but didn’t quite have the courage for it. Instead we just stood there, in the awkward silence.

Several slow minutes passed, with me shifting from hoof to hoof, and cursing myself silently for not thinking it through, until finally the arimaspi joined us in the shadow of King Grover’s stony wings.

“Hello.” I waved my hoof at him, which he ignored, still trying to burrow through the lead lining of the scroll case with his gaze. “Can I help you?”

"May we have a moment, Your Highness?" he finally said, as he bowed to the little prince.

“Err,” he looked for my approval, and then deflated when I nodded. “Sure. I’ll wait.”

He fluttered back up toward his brother and other griffons, leaving me alone with the creature.

"What is it that you have, little pony?" The arimaspi sniffed at the air, his wide nostrils flaring. "Yes, that paper from the little prince."

"It's a surprise." I grinned the most shit-eating grin I could muster.

He did not like it. His sole eye narrowed, and his hands crooked into claws. "Tell me, little pony. Tell me what it is."

"Now if I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise, would it?" My smile grew even wider. “Just a little something I got from the middle Prince. Turns out there’s a lot more to Griffonstone library.”

That he liked even less. "You told him!" he said it as if complaining about it being unfair. Like I broke some sort of unspoken agreement to keep it just between us. "You long-tongued little pony."

"And what are you going to do about it?"

He made a claw-like gesture with his hand, the curved fingernails sparking golden magic, my horn took with subtle green flame, and for a second both of us hesitated: Too many griffons around, too many witnesses if either of us started flinging magic around — it held the both of us in check.

He put his claws away, and after a second I took down my magic as well.

And just in time too - we already have been noticed.

"Hey. You." Gideon, who finally noticed the absence of arimaspi, descended from his perch towards us. "Creature. Don't you have a chorus of those crows to lead?" He waved at the older griffons he just escaped. They did not at all seem pleased with the description. "What are you harassing the little pony about anyway?"

"It was nothing, You Highness." I waved his concern away with a flick of my tail. "Just discussing a passage from one of the documents upon which we could not agree”

"Yes, yes." The creature nodded awkwardly. "It's nothing, my lord. Nothing at all. Your old servant was just leaving.” He stepped away, but then he hesitated, turning his lone jaundice-yellow eye toward me. “Little pony," it called out, "What I told the arrogant one, yes this thing that you heard — it was no blood magic, yes. But true it was anyway."

I snorted. Be it a base soothsaying or real haruspicy, nothing coming from that creature would come true — not if I had anything to say about it. I let it hobble away, subsumed into the griffons crowd, even as they were getting closer to us, following their prince.

"So, what brings a little pony to the Iron Room?" the Prince regarded me coldly. “This is hardly a place for a unicorn.”

"Err. I just wanted to see it." I said. I did what I needed to do, and I really should not be getting more involved: I was already on thin ice with the Dame and the pony delegation, after all, and getting mixed up in Gideon’s pseudo-court was the exact opposite of that. “And now that I did…” I tried to move away.

"What’s the rush, Miss Shimmer — why don't you join us instead?" the Count waved at me with his glass. "We were just talking of your exploits.”

"Yes, Lady, please come in. Feel free to..." a griffon in Gideon’s retinue made a pause, looking at Graven, "be yourself."

The griffon company tittered, and Gideon clapped Graven on his back, but Lord Graven did not smile. He looked at me with black, vicious anger.

Ice and Nightmares. Damned lordling always managed to put me on the spot.

“Hello,” I said, giving the Count my best death glare, “that’s why my ears were burning. Pleasure to see you again, Your Highness, my lords. Graven”

"So." Some griffon chuckled, as Gideon’s coterie surrounded me. "This is the little unicorn we heard so much about?”

“You’re the one who watched the corrida?”

“The one who was telling the story…”

“Yeah.” Lord Graven snorted. “She tells a lot of stories.” He said it quietly, almost off hoof as he looked at me quickly, but still it was loud enough that I — and the Prince — could hear it.

My smile grew a little more wan, but I managed to hold back the response. I just had to get through this meeting without stepping on any tails, and I’d be fine.

I saw the arimaspi’s eyes flash at that moment, and his spine curve even further, as he leaned to whisper something to a griffon next to him.

“Well, if you’re here,” Galad asked, “maybe you would like a tour? I know all the stories!”

I hesitated. History has long since been a passion of mine and the room was just chock-full of it — certainly far more than the scant archives of Equestrian libraries.

“Which one would you like to hear? The story of Prince Gvido — the only Griffon to fly the Gauntlet of Fire? Oh, oh, how about the story of Princess Gerda? She went beyond the Frozen North to save her beloved, and fought the Last Queen of Windigoes to do it! Or maybe—”

“Or perhaps the Lady would tell a story of her own?” Gideon suggested. “We’re still to hear the ending of the last tale she was telling.”

That suggestion left a sour taste in my mouth. I really did not want to go to that place in my memories again, to pick at the barely-scabbed scar his death left in my mind. But maybe I could do it. Just tell that story, or maybe some other, keep them entertained for a bit and then disentangle myself from—

"Perhaps," someone's voice piped-up from the back ranks, cutting through the murmur of the crowd, "You can tell us the story of how you dispatched Lord Graven?"

I don’t know who said it, but somehow that one question that fell right as everyone else was paused, sole and loud enough to echo from the wall like a cannonshot.

"Dispatched!" Graven spat the word, as everyone turned to look at him "Why I—"

"She did beat you quite thoroughly there." Gideon laughed, ignoring his friends. "’Hiding behind his monarch like a foal behind his mother's tail’. Hah!"

"I saw it myself," the princeling piped up, looking at me adoringly. "It was amazing!"

"Quite so!" The Count chuckled, "and with such ease! Not every day you see a unicorn beat a griffon so soundly."

"It was a cowardly attack!" Graven flapped his wings hard, raising a gust of wind. "An unprovoked ambush. In a field, I would—"

“I’m sure you would.” The Prince’s tone was all wry amusement. “I’m sure you would. And if Gally stepped into the field, why, he’d be the champion!”

Galad turned away, his neck stiffening, as Gideon’s friends laughed again.

"Now, now," the Count raised his hooves in a placating gesture. "There’s no call for this. You should really make up. No need to escalate this to something we would all come to regret. Besides, I don’t think the Princess would approve of Miss Shimmer entering the field"

“Brother.” Prince Gwyr entered the room, joining our company. “You should not tease Lord Graven so.”

“I will stop when it stops being funny!” The Prince chuckled. “In a year or two, perhaps.”

"Is everything alright? You've been here longer than I expected." Though Gwyr was speaking to his brother, he threw a sideways glance at me as well.

I tried to convey a shrug without moving my shoulders too much, but I don't think it worked.

“Just entertaining our guest,” the Prince took another amused look at Graven’s fuming, “or rather she’s entertaining us — we were just discussing the unicorn entering the field.”

"Well, as Milord Fancy was saying,” I tried to demur, ”I really shouldn't. My Princess would never permit it. "

"Well, if it's the Princess." The Prince's expression changed somewhat, and his wings inflected subtly, as the disappointment in the room grew almost palatable.

I felt anger start climbing again with this humiliation. If only I had thought to bring Counts snuffbox to take the edge off... I threw a glance at him, but he barely shook his head, having none as well.

At least Gwyr occupied his brother's attention for a bit, leaving me surrounded by other griffons. Awkward, but at least it afforded me some breathing space.

"You really dodged an arrow there," somegriffon clapped on Graven's back. "That is one little pony I would love to see on the sand!"

"I'm not afraid!" he protested, unprompted, even as he eyed me cautiously. "It is the little pony who is lucky she won't have to face me in real combat."

"Calmly, milord, calmly.” Arimaspi whispered in his ear, loud enough still for all of us to hear. “I've heard, yes, this unworthy servant has heard that the master is still hurt after his last meeting with the little pony! You do not want to provoke her again."

"It's just a little pony unicorn!" Graven scoffed, now emboldened by my silence. "What's she gonna do, prissy me up to death?”

That was starting to get on my nerves. And the snickers of his mates — unsure yet, but growing louder — did not help it either.

The Count winced, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Miss Shimmer does not strike me as a mare who would 'prissy up' anycreature.”

I glared at him. He did say what I thought, but that was not the time!

"You heard her — she won't fight. Her little pony 'Princess' won't allow it."

He spat on the ground.

This was it. He may insult me, but this! This was too much.

The thumping of blood in my temples became unbearable, and I stepped forward, pushing into his space. "Well I just might!" The words escaped my mouth before I could hold them back. "Unless you run away to hide behind your king again!"

“Like a foal behind his mother’s tail!” somechick shouted out from the back ranks with some relish — and to other griffons great amusement.

“I—, I—” he flinched away from me, trying to come up with a comeback.

“Oh, but he shouldn’t run, Lady. Why, he might bump into something.”

“Or someone!”

I thought Graven would have a fit, with all that blood rushing to his face. "If you weren't my lord's guest—"

"Then what?" I pushed into him, forcing his words back down his throat, all the little pony niceties be damned. "What would you do then, little bird?"

Sudden silence slammed down. The conversation, the heckling it all just stopped, the griffons, the Count, even Gideon distracted from his conversation — all just staring at me and Graven with intense anticipation.

"Perhaps Lady could sort it in our custom?" the arimaspi suggested from behind, all fake-hesitation and pensiveness. "With all the tall tales we’ve been hearing, surely she is not afraid." He sounded awful smug, believing he had trapped me.

"But—" Graven wanted to object as the realisation started to hit him. “She’s a—”

"I don't think it's necessary..." Gwyr fluttered his wings desperately, silently begging me with his eyes. "If we could all just—."

"No. Let the unicorn speak for herself,” Gideon said slowly, looking at Lord Graven. “She is right — he should not have said such a thing unless he meant it."

“Oh, I’m sure Miss Shimmer won’t be holding it against the Lord. Especially if he apologizes.” Well, if there ever was a way to make this situation worse, the Count has surely found it.

“Apologize!?” Graven flushed hot with anger. "There are no apologies between an eagle and a dove, a lion and a mare!"

"She’s a little pony," Galad protested hotly from my side, "Lady shouldn't have to have this silly fight, just because Graven finally found someone who's not afraid of him. He’s just being a bully like he always is. It's stupid, and it's unfair!"

"To a griffon, his pride is the most important thing.” The Prince looked levelly at Graven, his predatory eyes narrowing. "When you have nothing you still have your pride, but if you don't have your pride — you have nothing. You are less than nothing. So, what is your pride worth to you, griffon?"

"Anything!" Graven declared hotly. “Everything.”

"You would do well to learn from Lord Graven, little brother."

The princeling nodded, pouting like a puppy someone kicked in the ribs.

"And you little pony? What is your pride worth to you?"

"Lady, this is hardly the proper Equestrian duel," Gwyr tried to warn me one last time. "Our challenges are way more... messy. And your Princess..."

"I ate the meat at your table. I saw the corrida. I can handle the Griffon duel." I grinned, her predatory grin boiling from within. "And my honor is not worth any less than his. Bring it on!"

The Count winced. "Any one thing, please," he said. "Let's be sensible here."

The Prince waved his wing regally, allowing it. "Any one thing shall be the stake of the duel. Brother?"

Gwyr semi-folded his wing in a complex gesture I couldn't recognise and gave a long sigh which I could recognise as exhaustion.

"I'll make the arrangements"

***

"Well.” The Count settled into my chair, “That happened. And you were doing so well too," the Count added with a sigh. "I was really rooting for you Miss Shimmer. I guess you still have some growing up to do."

"Well what else was I supposed to do?!" I pointed at the Count. "And you! I don't even want to talk to you right now!" I reached for the snuffbox, but the Count preempted me, pening it for me before I could. I gave him a glare, but acquiesced, taking a snuff. "At least now we know where and when."

"If you're still in Griffonstone when the date comes."

Dumb boastful lordling and his dumb big mouth. I should not have ended up in this situation!

"No! Wait. Wait. We can use this!" I stood up, pacing with the excitement of the thought. "This is an opportunity. That creature, that ...thing. He did it on purpose, needling me, needling Graven, even the Prince. He wanted that — and we could use this. The creature will know I'm busy, and my room is empty — and if he does..."

“That’s… quite a conjecture,” Gwyr did not sound persuaded, but nor did he contradict me.

“It’s more than just a conjecture. This is our chance to sort this whole mess!"

"You’ll sort this whole mess?'" The Count raised his eyebrow. "One of the biggest political crises of the decade, and your little amateur group will 'sort it’ in a day?"

"Not. Talking. To you!"

He rolled his eyes, but still at least he kept quiet again, before I threw him out.

“But what about the pony delegation?” Gwyr was still not convinced. “I’m sure your Dame will not let us— Let you even step on the arena.”

I sighed. Yes, if I was even going to be here come the day of the duel was still a question. Those nobleponies never wanted me here, and she would take any chance to get rid of me. A chance my big fat mouth now provided them with. “I don’t know.” I admitted. “I could try talking to Dame Strawberry, but…” I had nothing to say.

“Perhaps if I could talk to her instead,” Gwyr shuffled uncomfortably. Putting his claw so visibly on the scales was not his nature. “Mention that my brother — both of them, really — would be most disappointed if you were to leave.”

I shook my head. At this point it would not help. Even if the Dame wanted me in Griffonstone, even if I was one of her brainless little charges, putting a little pony in an arena with a griffon, much less for something as abstract as honor would not be something the Dame could ever agree too.

"It may just so occur," the Count, hitherto silenced, tried to talk again, "that the Dame and other little ponies may not be in the castle while all this..." He made a vague gesture "unpleasantness happens."

I looked at him, and he smiled his toothpaste-advertising smile. "I may be persuaded to arrange a tour for them. The town, I'm told, is quite beautiful. Weather facilities, historical countryside, young-wine-tasting and all that. Would occupy the ponies for a few days at least."

"You can do that?"

"Of course," He closed the snuffbox with a click and passed it back to me. "As easy as dangling keys in front of a foal. But I thought you weren’t talking to me.”

“You!” I ground my teeth so hard I think they heard it in the next room, “I—! Why didn’t you do that in the first—” At least he had a good sense not to laugh, but I could see the smile tug at the corners of his lips, as I struggled with my annoyance, which only maddened me even more. “Ice and Nightmares!” I stomped in frustration. “Will you help out or not!?”

“If you so ask.” He gave me a little mock-bow, “Anything for a pretty lady.”

I felt my cheeks redden. "Well, I'm asking!" I tried to be as curt as I could, but it was coming out whiny instead, making me blush even more. Still. he raised his eyebrow, expecting more. "... please?"

That finally satisfied him.

I gave a curt nod to him as he left, and found Gwyt looking at me curiously.

"What?"

"Nothing!" he looked away, "Nothing at all."

His beak didn’t move, but I was sure he was smiling. Grinning in fact.Or whatever the griffon equivalent was.

I shook my mane and suppressed the urge to stomp my hoof again. "Well, then, that settles this. The Count will take care of the little ponies, so we can do it now."

"My brother will also be busy - there is no way he would miss the bout." Gwyr nodded. "And with the ponies busy, this may be the opportunity we need. '' His expression darkened, his half-raised wing lowering listlessly again. "As long as you live through it."

"Pft," I snorted. The little bully did not worry me. "You do your part, and I will see mine done.“

"We'll need to make arrangements," he sighed. "And I take it would mostly be me?"

"Well, yeah." I shrugged. He was always the one to do this stuff. “Err.. unless you need my help?”

"It's ok." he sighed, and his wings half-rose. "I'm used to dealing with this sort of thing." He stood up. "You know — you and Gideon, you are quite alike. Both very griffish."

He left me to ponder this, without saying goodbye.

Author's Notes:

In public Her face turneth to thee, and pleasant Her smile when ye meet.
It is ill. The cold rocks of El-Gidar smile thus on the waves at their feet.
In public Her face is averted, with anger She nameth thy name.
It is well. Was there ever a loser content with the loss of the game?

Fancy Pants, Count Hoofington
Certain Maxims of Hisan

CHAPTER X: STOP-THRUST

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The thin walls of the small, cramped vomitorium did not stop the chill winds from the arena, or buzz of the crowd outside. I ignored all of it, concentrating on preparing for the combat, the calming ritual of readying my combat spells.

The little princeling was pacing at the edge of the corridor, nervous and alone. "Are you sure you want to fight him, Lady?" He put his claw against my shoulder, trying to stop me before I reached the arena. "He's a bully," the princeling said with sudden bitter anger, old and stale, like a festering wound. "And he's not big and strong like Gid, but he's quick, and his claws are sharp. The other griffons call him El Corte — the Cut."

I semi-shrugged vaguely, ignoring him as I lined up the energy carefully, folding it into a spell. It was unfinished, still missing one critical element, a key-thought and a bit of energy before the circuit of magic would be complete and the spell could be released.

Unicorns of Canterlot frown upon this practice — hanging the spells, leaving them almost-cast, to be released with a thought or a word. A true wizard ought to know his spells to the bone of his horn, ready to cast and modify them as needed — and to be fair, I was familiar enough with those spells that I could do so should I need to.

But that would require thought and concentration — two things that are in short supply during combat, and I have always valued the integrity of my hide quite above the integrity of my academic achievement.

I would hardly need more than one spell against my little problem, but it was always better to overprepare. False pride has once nearly cost me dearly already, and I had to do better — be better than that.

The spell froze like a crippled butterfly caught in a spider's web, captured in the aura around my horn. I checked it again and prepared to start on the next one.

"How are you doing?" A blue-maned head peaked into the room, and the Count pushed himself in. "Anything I can do to help? Oh, and greetings, Your Highness, I hope I’m not imposing.”

The princeling his wings fluffed up, nodded back, eyeing the Count.

"What are you doing here, my lord?” I was coming to like this lordling, for all that he infuriated me, but I didn't need him here — not during my spellwork, not when I was about to fight. He was a distraction, worse, he was a little pony, not made to witness things of violence. And loath as I was to admit it, I did not want him to see me like this either. “This is hardly a place for an Equestrian noble."

"I decided to hang around," Lord Fancy not-quite-explained, "just in case. Mind if I...?"

"Please." I watched him grab his — my snuffbox off the bench and take a sniff. "But there is really no call for you to be around. I can handle myself quite fine."

"Oh, it's no bother," he waved my objection away carelessly, "Besides, you need a second."

The prince made a strangled sound from his side and looked at me desperately.

"Galad is my second, milord," I said coldly.

"Are you sure? He is just a child."

"I'm sure. I don't need you, Fancy." The lordling did not seem to understand my meaning: I needed no pony witnesses to what I was about to do to that griffon, none who could take the word back to the Princess. "Go away."

"I'm afraid I can't do that.” He sighed guiltily. “I'll be out there, in the stalls, if you need me."

"I won't.”

He shuffled on his feet uncomfortably for a few more seconds, bothering his lower lip, as if trying to find a way to say something, but then, he finally bowed to Prince and to me, and left us alone.

I sighed.

"Thanks for choosing me." the princeling whispered. "Though I'm sure the Count would be a better second. If you prefer him..."

"No thank you." I stood up myself, crumpling the half-finished spell. My mood for spellworking was irrevocably spoiled by the encounter, and besides, I was done anyways. “I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

"Oh. I—"

"And now! Eagles of Griffonstone! Ponies of Equestria!" The arena-masters shrill announcement penetrated easily the buzz of the crowd and the doors of the corridor. "This day! This hour! Before you! On the Gormenghast Field of Challenge! Lord Graven! El Corte! Son of Godric! Son of Gigas! Thrice champion in the Arena! Eighteen years! Twelve Challenges! Eternal Glory!"

“It’s time.” the Princeling said, just as I thought it, his crest and wings drooped. “They are waiting for you. Are you sure…?”

"It's ok," I put my hoof on his shoulder, reassuring the flustered princeling. "I can take him."
He still stood there, struggling to find words while I trotted to the doors and stepped into the arena.

"And his opponent! This day! This hour! Lady Shimmer! A unicorn! Baroness of Winsome Falls! Student of Celestia! The Fire of Seven Oases! The Red Witch of Beruna! Seventeen years! First Challenge! First time on the Sand! Eternal Glory!"

I ignored the griffon's brayings. I was not here for the glory, eternal or otherwise, or the entertainment of the crowd. I wasn't even here to fight for my honour or to win against the little bully.

I was here for the fight itself.

I needed it. Sun above, I needed it, every bone aching for the signal to start. It has been too long, so many cold, empty nights. No drug, no drink, no sex — nothing could ever replace this.

'Red meat’, the creature had said, ‘red meat and blood for my wine’. Once you taste that sweet delight, once you admit how much you love it, nothing else will ever sate you.

“Are you ready?” the referee asked when we stopped at our positions. Not the perfectly measured distances of the Old-style duel — merely some arbitrary lines in the sand, separating me and Lord Graven, each few steps from the referee in the middle, our seconds settling on the perches behind us.

I nodded, concentrating on my breathing, forcing down the feverish excitement of the nascent fight. Even now that it was so close, I would not be able to enjoy the fight fully — the Count was somewhere there in the crowd, watching me. He was Canterlot nobility, and his sort was bound to tell.

“Does any party wish to apologize?”

Lord Graven snorted, fluffing his wings. I said nothing, my magic gathering around my horn.

"Eagles of Griffonstone!" the referee fluttered up to his perch. "Now! This day! This hour! The fight begins!"

The starting–flag flashed downward; and at its first sight, long before it struck the ground, Graven went up in the air, gaining distance, gaining height.

I did not hurry things along, watching him. Real, life-or-death fights are messy affairs that give little time for thought and strategizing. A duel, however, was hardly that. I had time to study the griffon, to try and to test him — him and myself.

"Onyx," I released a spell with a thought, making the wind thicken around him, catching him like a fly in tar.

His claw jerked up in a protective gesture and his talons sliced up my spell into ribbons. That was the griffon magic — sharp claws to cut anything away. ‘Claws of steel, eyes of gold,’ they used to say about griffons in the Old times, though it was a misnomer. There is no steel sharp enough to cleave a lighting bolt apart, thin enough to cut through the very strands of magic. Griffon claws were sharper by far than any steel.

That's why he went in the air — the distance gave him time to cut apart any spell I could cast. And when he'd attack—

He fell on me. Like an eagle with a war-like screech, and before I could even finish the thought, his talons ripped through my shield like a knife through butter.

Sloppy. He was fast, though not pegasus-fast, but he had no control. He slashed again; I took it to the shoulder, feeling his claws leave a bloody mark and pushed him away before he’d reach my neck. He rolled on the sand, as I stumbled awkwardly back.

He snapped his beak, flapped his wings again, and he rose in the air, back into the attack position, hanging in the air, black inkblot against the pale-blue sky.

Right then. I reconsidered my strategy: In this battle, I was the bull. Though I stood immovable, and it was him who attacked me, every spell I cast was like a pass — he'd dodge, or cut it, and then he'd counter before I had a chance to react. Given enough attacks like this one, I'd bleed out pretty fast, even with all the alchemy in my blood already working to close the wounds.

Well, if he wanted a bull, who was I to disappoint? I began casting again, a spell, big and complex, and utterly useless. Nothing but a tangled mess of puffed out spellwork, it shot out, like confetti out of the party cannon. A cut — I timed it as it obliterated my spell — the flash of his claws, and then a dive and another line of pain bloomed across my right leg, dripping with blood. He was fast — faster than I could dodge.

He went up again, back to his position high in the air, as I dripped blood on the sand, and clutched my trophy underfoot — a single feather ripped off his neck while he was too busy cutting into me. His feather, with a single droplet of blood still stuck to it — more than enough to work with.

He hung in the air, giving me time enough to bleed out — and time enough to craft my spell. A subtler magic than the ones I’ve been tossing, one learned not in Celestia’s school, but in my nighttime travels. Like connecting to like, blood calling out to blood, my magic calling out to the fear I seeded in his soul.

"Hide!" I pushed the thought into his mind like an ice knife. “Run.”

He screamed, calling on anger to drown out the fear and struck again, his claws stuck in my shield, halfway through. With a bit of effort he ripped through, and once again I had to duck, leaving pieces of coat and bits of blood on his claws.

"Fall, curl thyself into a ball and weep," I pushed again, "For there is nothing to be done against the fullness of my power."

He struck again, sticking to my shield, screaming and thrashing, his claws cutting criss-cross through the spellwork. All I needed was for him to grow angrier — at me, and even more at himself, at the cold waves of inexplicable, ice-cold fear that drowned his mind. To abandon any strategy and thought, lashing blindly out, and then I'd have my chance.

"Flee! Thou might a moment gain, a minute perhaps, before I come upon thee. . . ."

I threw him away from my shield, slashing him across the face with a quick whip of sand and wind, only barely missing his eye. He recoiled back and flapped his wings, gaining altitude. More distance, more height, more speed, more power.

"Beg and plead." I pulled on my spellwork, adding another push to the spell I channelled through this feather. "Crawl back to your prince, beg for his protection again." Another tiny, subtle push, another trickle of magic, feeding the cold fire of fear in his fear. "You’re weak, you will fail. Fall, grovel, submit so that all may see how weak you are..."

I stumbled with my wounded leg, and for a second my concentration wavered, my shield falling apart. He reached the apex of his ascent, turning back down towards me, and fell.

All caution dropped, all defence abandoned. Zero thought. Zero control. Pure desperation of a cornered rat, rage of a wounded wolverine. Every ounce of his speed and power, every fear and humiliation of the days past concentrated on the edges of his claws.

So sloppy. So wasteful.

I breathed in, drawing the power from the earth, just as he dove.

“Eee!” With a short, exhaling shout, disguised as a terrified squeak I dropped the shield and released the light-spell right in his eyes. Even in the daylight, it was bright enough to blind him and the crowd alike. He fluttered his wings, bolting randomly and trying to change course. Instead of striking me with his claws he bumped awkwardly into me, his chest crashing into my shoulder.

For a second, I held, the strength I’d drawn making me as immovable as an earth pony. He bounced off me like a rag doll and I caught him in my magic on the rebound, dragging him back in and headbutting him right in the face.

His head jerked back on a limp neck like a ball on a string and I pulled him in and hit him again, collision making stars dance before my eyes, and then I threw him on the ground under my hooves. The crowd, only now blinking away their blindness and shocked by the sudden development, went deathly silent and I could hear his every wheeze as he tried to stand up.

Rearing, like a wild horse gone mad with fear, I fell on him hooves-first. Once, and again, I kept hitting him, until he stopped trying to get up. My strikes looked random, haphazard, but I took my time to drop on his wing, savouring the long, rolling crunch of the hollow bones under the feathers, enjoy the swallowed scream turned into gurgling when I stepped on his throat, the weak shudder of his flesh split under my hoof…

"Stop!" The referee-griffon hobbled towards us, stretching his claw, and I almost lashed out against him as well. "Stop! That is enough, please, Lady, the duel is done."

“Control, little princess.” the coarse whisper in the back of my mind, returned me to reality and self-possession. I breathed out, shivering with the last giddy shivers of the battle, and stretched, tip of my horn to the backs of my hooves, dumping the feverish energy of the fight into the ground.

Red meat. I looked at the mess of a beaten and bleeding griffon before me. Red meat and blood for my wine, and I finally had my fill.

"The field and the sky go to Lady Shimmer," the referee mumbled quickly, before I had a chance to kick the fallen griffon again, "Lord Graven is forfeit, his word and deed bound..." I ignored him.

The griffon crowd around me came off their shock, and was growing flustered, abuzz. Faces blushed, feathers fluffed, voices pitched with that slight hysterical edge: They've experienced but a sliver of what I had — vicariously, safely, cowardly, they felt death go by and they still rode that high.

"You won!" The triumph left the princeling so giddy he literally floated. "You beat him! That is so amazing! Were you scared? Are you hurt?"

“Just a scratch.” I shrugged again, feeling the scabs of the coagulated blood shed off my coat. I have not allowed the griffon to do any serious damage, “the flesh will serve.”

"I'm sorry you had to do it, but it's all worth it to see Gid's face. He will be soo annoyed."

"Marvelous showing, Miss Shimmer." The Count stepped up to us, even though he was not quite as enthused as he tried to sound. "I made quite a fortune in the betting pools, thanks to you." He revealed a bunch of cheques like a fan in his hoof.

"Hope it wasn't too grisly for your tastes, milord." I was impressed — not many ponies would have stayed and watched the show. "They say little ponies don't have the stomach for the tercel's sports."

"When needs must..." he sighed. "May I?"

I lent him the snuffbox again watching him take a sniff to dispel his queasiness, and almost dropped it as my horn grew abuzz, the spell in my room triggering the silent alarm.

Finally.

"We should celebrate!" the Prince, still floating on the euphoria of his vicarious victory, kept chirping in my ear. “Drinks, and… we should invite Gideon, and all of his griffons, and oh I just can’t wait to see all their faces..

"I… I think I need to lay down." I said to the Prince and the Count. "Can you take me to my rooms?"

"But the celebrations! The party is indeed customary, I believe. It would be rude to leave now, Miss Shimmer, are you sure..."

“I don’t feel so well,” I stared at the lordling, trying to impress on him my need to get back.

"Wait, you said it's just a scratch!"

Yeah, that was stupid"

"...Adrenaline?" I offered, trying to imitate me swaying on my hooves. "I'm sure there's nothing serious, but I really need to lie down."

"Ah." The Count sighed. "Well, then. I suppose I must accompany you."

"I'll go too. As your second I have to look after your health!" The Princeling hastily insisted, pushing himself between me and the Count. Which was fine by me — the more witnesses, the better.

“Leaving already?” A shadow landed by our side, red and heavy. Winds scattered beneath the Prince's wing.

"Your Highness." The Count bowed politely. I didn't.

He turned to me, wings flared, and his claw went up, the sun glinting off it — and landed in a pat on my back. "Bravely done, little pony!” he boomed, “excellent showing. I shall demand you in the bouts next year! And perhaps we'll even meet earlier than that, eh?"

“Thank you, Your Highness.” He thought he was being subtle and clever with his implications. He wasn't. I grit my teeth and forced a smile "I’m afraid I can’t stay."

“Why not? The feast, the re-telling of the fight, the boasting — that’s the best part!”

"The Lady is leaving, Gideon." Galad pushed himself between me and his brother. "She's tired."

"Well. That's a pity," he dismissed me with a wave of the wing. "Congratulations with your first win."

“And my prize?” I demanded.

"A Griffon's word is as firm as the mountains." The Prince shifted his wings. "As any thing you wish of Lord Graven is yours, pony. I'll see that it's granted." He waved away dismissively towards the crumpled heap of Lord Graven, already attended by medic-griffons. "For whatever it is worth."

He turned away. Weakness was indeed not appreciated in Griffonstone.

****

My room was still as I left it. Mostly. The only two things different was a barrier of pale green energy around the door - my trap sprung just as I planned, and my quarry still trapped inside.

The arimaspi, half-crouched, like a trapped beast, looked at me and my companions, still clutching a half-disassembled drawer full of my notes.

"Oh my," the Count softly whistled. "To what do we owe the pleasure, counselor?"

"Yeah, what are you doing there? Did the Lady invite you?"

"I..."

Still giddy - and somewhat lightheaded — from the fight, I almost laughed at the feeling of panic in the creature's eye, but the best part was yet to come.

"I..."

The King himself, — followed by Gwyr, my faithful co-conspirator — has turned the corner, arriving at the corridor in my rooms. "She is a guest, Father,” Gwyr said insistently, finishing some unheard argument. “Your guest. To not check on her after this - it would be most improper—"

The King silenced him with a wave of his wing as he saw us. “What,” he turned towards my rooms, with arimaspi still inside, and our small group, “is the meaning of this?”

"You!" Well, that was a nice variety in it’s vocabulary, as the creature finally understood what exactly it had stepped in, and his eyes shifted, from the Count, to Gwyr, to the King. I kinda fell under-appreciated, but I also had more important things to care about.

"Your Majesty!" I ran to the King. "This... сreature broke into my room!" My voice broke into the bad-drama-falsetto instead of righteous indignation, but it was close enough.

"Dad! We came here and he was right there, digging through the Lady's things!" the princeling seconded me, flying to his father.

The King gave the creature a single glance. "Is that so?"

"Your Majesty, I-" the creature tried to say something, half crouched like a hunted beast, half-bowed. "I—"

The King tested my shield, his eyebrows rising slightly when it would not immediately budge under his claws.

This was not a shield cast in the heat of a battle — this was a result of almost two hours effort. My spells teacher would have been proud.

Gwyr looked away for a second, closing his eyes.

"You are a guest, little pony. You should feel safe in my home." He did not so much give me the look, but it was enough to make a tiny shiver in my back.

Triumph of Equestrian classical magic against the griffonkind did not last long, however - a push — a merest touch — of his power burst my shield like a soap bubble, releasing the creature from my room.

"And yet you were not." His gaze returned to the creature, and what was displeasure in his voice turned to almost anger.

"Master, I was merely trying to—-" the shield disappearing, the armiaspi fell on its knees in front of the King, but he was already turning away.

“Your Highness!” the creature tried Prince Gwyr, “have I not been your loyal servant? Haven’t I helped you? Was not my council useful?” It wrought it’s clawed hands, and whined, “yes, will you not give word for your slave?”

Gwyr stepped back, and folded back his wings, his neck hard and his eyes even harder - and so the creature tried to turn to the youngest prince, but before he spoke, King’s wing has barred his way. "Remove him from my sight," he commanded tiredly. "It's been long past due."

The creature snarled and raised his claws, rising in anger from his knees, and suddenly it was evident that even crouched in his permanent bow he was still twice as big as anygriffon. Motes of golden magic coalescing around his talons, and the Count winced and leaned away in fear, but as if by magic two griffons were already by his sides, grabbing his chained arms into their claws, and pushing him back down.

If looks could kill... but then he was nothing compared to his master, and I withstood his glare well enough.

***

"There is going to be no war!" I declared, right as I slammed the Count's door open. "I have a solution. I just need to talk to the eagles at the Convocation."

It was a long day for me. Long couple of days. I had to dodge all the ponies, just come back from their field day, break down the arimaspi's protection he put on his rooms and find the damned scroll, but it was very much worth it if just for this moment.

I threw my prize on the table. "I told you we'd have it settled."

The Count did not seem as enthusiastic about it as I would've expected. He shot a glance at me and moved away from the bottle he was nursing. "How wonderfully... Equestrian of you." He snorted, taking another generous swig from his glass. "Well, it's worth celebrating, then!" with sudden vigour he hopped out of his chair, hooves clopping loudly against the marble, and swiped a new bottle off the winecase. "But not here. Come, Miss Shimmer."

"So why not in your rooms?" I asked as we entered the balcony. "Too afraid I'd raid your wine stocks again?"

"Not at all, Miss Shimmer. Always happy to share good wine with a remarkable mare. But this is a special occasion, and the walls of Gormenghast tend to have ears."

I chewed on my lip a bit. I wasn't looking for a celebration, but...

"Come on Miss Shimmer, live a little. This is a cause for celebration!" He grabbed my scroll off the table.

Eh, why not? The scroll was secured, the creature was rotting in some dungeon downstairs, and I deserved some me time.

We set up on the terrace where he first invited me into his room — a strange symbolism, and a strange place for a meeting with the chill winds and vertigo-inducing view.

He cast a shielding spell to keep the winds at bay and poured the wine.

“So, you stopped the war?” he chuckled. “Do tell.”

"Well, not yet, “ I admitted. “But it’s as good as done. Look, this—" I put the first scroll -- Gwyr’s copy of it, at least -- on the table, "--shows that Equestria has promised to pay for the lands Prince would claim, and here is the proof that the price was indeed paid."

"I see."

Even though he nodded, he still did not seem to get it.

"This invalidates Gideon's claim!" I said, annoyed at the lack of reaction. "No claim, no reason to fight, no war."

"Well, you do seem to have it sorted quite readily. To your success, then." The Count saluted me with his glass, and by rote I mimicked his motion, drinking from mine.

It didn't taste quite right — there was something off about it, and I wanted to set the drink aside.

"Subtler pleasures, Miss Shimmer," Count smiled thinly, seeing my dislike. "It's an acquired taste."

His aura touched mine on the stem of the glass, correcting my grip. "Take a smaller sip. Try to describe the flavour."

I followed his lead, rolling the drink on my tongue. It tasted like wine, so I tried again, feeling my tongue grow numb from the alcohol. "It's acidic and sweet?" I ventured a half-guess, trying to describe the flavour. "Like blackberries."

"Good. That's vanillylacetone you're tasting. It means that this is a Syrah wine, derived from the grapes of Prance." He moved closer to me, topping up the glass. "Now try it with just the tip of your tongue. Hold the wine there."

"It tastes like... dark chocolate." The impromptu lesson caught me, and I even closed my eyes, trying to feel the taste and the texture of the drink. "And coffee."

"Correct." His coat was warm where his forehoof touched mine while he poured again. "That means it was grown in warmer regions that give it more dihydroionone while the grape grows, and then kept in an oaken barrel, which gives it the slight smoky flavour. Try again, back of the tongue this time."

I let the wine singe my throat with its slight burn, making me feel lightheaded. Was it the drink that was so deceptively potent, or was it his scent that was making me weak in the knees? It was not the refined scent he wore before — it was a more familiar tone somehow making me think of home.

"It's bitter." I realized, as the sweet and the sour notes faded away, opening the taste they were masking. "Like wormwood, but thinner — like... almonds." My eyes shot open with surprise.

"Quite so." He nodded. "That's how you know it's been poisoned."

I lurched, up and away, knocking down the low table as I tried to fight or flee, but the weakness and dizziness I’ve been feeling turned to head-spinning vertigo, my hooves buckled under my weight, and there was the fall and the darkness and the last thing I saw was the white blotch of the Count’s form, holding his own untouched glass.

CHAPTER XI: TOUCHE

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There was a dream; a black, sickly dream that tried to swallow me, consume me with darkness and heavy, black words.

It wasn't a nightmare -- I didn't have nightmares anymore, but still, it was all wrong, heavy and draining. It was dull grey nothing that dragged me in, full of whispering, slithering spells that pulled on my horn, that seeped into my bones, twisted upon the very core of my magic, drawing me deeper and deeper into the formless abyss...

I ripped away, the fire of my magic tearing through the nightmare, and without opening my eyes, feeling the enemy with nothing but raw instinct, I launched into a spell from prone.

A whip, weaved from stale air and stone-dust, ten steps of coiled sharpness stretching towards him from the tip of my horn -- it struck him across the muzzle, the green flash of my magic lighting up the one-eyed face, the matted hair and coat, the curved horns and sharp teeth.

It cried, a short goat-like bray of pain and surprise, and his curved horns shimmered with the black-and-gold haze of his own magic, scattering the light around the room. Blood flowed, and sparks of my magic scattered across his form when he ripped my spell apart like a shoelace.

My body was sluggish, weak, poisoned, but my mind was still mine, registering every surrounding detail as much as I could, through the darkness in my eyes and the black, heavy fog that enveloped my mind. Awareness was the first rule.

The cell was small and damp, giving the advantage to the bigger arimaspi, and making my already unstable hooves skid along the uneven floor.

He threw the chains at me — no, they moved from his hands under their own power, as if alive, rearing like attacking snakes before lunging at me. I batted them away with my magic, stepping back. Darkness clouded my eyes, and I could barely see him through the vertigo and sickness of the poison, but I pressed again, a half-formed, mangled spell breaking against his crossed hands, flashes of emerald lighting a web-like pattern of wounds and scars under his fur.

He barked an ugly, twisted spell, and his horns shone with black and green as he threw it. It slipped clean through my shield and exploded in my face, throwing me back down on the ground, making stars dance in my vision and my lips pop like overripe berries. I forced my numb body to move, tumbling through an awkward dodge against the follow-up swing of his giant paw.

He whimpered when his claw scratched against the stone and muttered a string of curses, ugly gash in his cheek flapping with every word.

There was something wrong with his magic, something that I would figure out if I could just have some time to concentrate, to push away the haze of the drug and the half-laid curse, the elixirs in my blood and the spells in my bones already working to purge the poison. I stood up, wobbly and unsteady, and tried to figure out what he did to me, what spell was he weaving—

I pushed the irrelevant thoughts aside. First rule of life: When in doubt, step forward.

Stepping forward, I spat a proper hex, short and vicious, like a glob of acid. It was meant to take his eye, but I was still woozy and it hit his shoulder instead, black magic sizzling as it dissolved the flesh and seeped into his blood, the skin, scarred with magic patterns, peeling from the bone in ragged strips.

Whining, the arimaspi made a gesture with his hand, trying to weave a spell, but I was faster. My light-spell ripped the darkness apart, blinding the creature in the middle of his own casting, and before it recovered, I released another spell. A chain of my magic whipped round his neck, dragging him down to the uneven floor with the weights conjured out of thin air, and tying him to the bars of the prison, dragging him down as it suffocated him.

He wheezed, and pulled madly on the choking collar, fluttering like a shored fish, before he managed to collect his wits. His undamaged hand, whipped about, twisting in strange gestures that seemed to dissolve my magics where his skin touched them, but before he had the chance to draw a breath, a raw blast of magic rammed into his gut, throwing him on his back, and I was already on him.

The arimaspi did not try to stand up — he lay in a heap where the spell threw him, whimpering in pain, and trying to blend into the wall. He stretched his hand towards me, shielding himself against the strike.

First rule of life: One does not kick fallen enemies -- one destroys them so that they will never rise again.

“Please…” he begged, “Please!”

But it was already too late: From within me, dredging up the last reserves of my power, a feeling ripped out, the fear of almost being bound and anger and pain of the poison rising like the vomitous bile through my horn in a wave of pure energy. I could not stop myself if I wanted to, and in that moment it felt too good to even try. Screaming, I let myself be subsumed into the pure act of destruction — sloppy and inefficient, it would still be enough to crush the ugly creature forever.

The arimaspi twisted underneath me, intersecting the flame with his left hand, and the symbols scratched into his paw glowed in the brilliant light as he caught my spell. A chain of Coltec-patterned scars lit up under his coat, all ugly angles and twisty coils, running down his arm and his shoulder, and up his horn. His sole eye shone, with triumph and there was an explosion, like a clap of thunder between us, throwing me off, and skidding on the floor.

I rose, unsteady and half-blind, grasping for a curse at him, malformed and misshapen, while he tried to stand up, suddenly invigorated, but my magic slid off his coat like water off the pegasus’ wings. He hissed a slithering, ugly spell in turn and pain exploded in my guts.

"I own your magic, you little spy!" he screamed, jagged shards of sharp teeth flashing in his ripped mouth, spittle dripping everywhere, his rage a revenge for the humiliation and fear he experienced a second ago.

He hit me again, as I tried to stand up, grabbing me by the scruff of the neck, his hand shining with green magics and throwing me against the wall. The pain, blazing through my ribs and the side of my face was the only thing that kept me from the black oblivion of unconsciousness.

His horns sparkling with black and emerald, he stretched his hand, and long bands of green flew off his hand, slipping clean through my shield and my skins, ignoring my defences and the spellwork woven into my coat like they weren't even there, my own magic turned against me, binging my limbs and horn.

“I own you!” he rained another blow on me, an awkward pawing slap that pressed my head into the floor. His spittle flew off his mouth, mixed with the black of his blood. “You’re mine now!” He kicked at my belly. “Mine!”

I tried to rise, struggling against the bindings and he clasped his hand slowly, his horns burning with black and emerald -- my emerald — magic, and it was like ice exploded in my chest, wave of nauseating cold spilling all over my body, and the light dimmed in my eyes. "I—"

"Enough." Fancy stepped from the shadows, his magic slicing away my bindings. “That was not the deal.”

The arimaspi punched me again, and then a few more backhanded, awkward kicks for good measure, but finally he seemed sated. He stepped slowly back, and allowed me to breathe and slowly uncurl on the floor. I wanted to fight him again, to lounge again, spell and horn but I was battered and could barely move. And though the pain didn't bother me so much, and I may be able to force the battered flesh to serve, there was no more fight to be had until I figured out what he had done to me. So I stayed down and breathed, as deep and steady as my bruised sides would allow, waiting for the red circles to stop dancing in my vision.

“How do you feel?” the Count asked me, with what seemed like genuine concern. His magic wrapped around me, making my skin cold and numb with the pain-killing spells. “It is quite remarkable that you’re even conscious right no--”

I threw up. A long retch, almost enjoyable despite the waves of pain and nausea brought by each spasm of my stomach. I could feel the poison purging from my body along with the undigested daisies and Count's fancy wine. Finally done, I was parched, and there was a foul, acerb taste in my mouth, but at least I started to feel better.

"Drink, Miss Shimmer. No poison this time, I swear."

The Count passed me a bottle of water. I wanted to break it and stab him in the face with the glass, but I have outgrown pointless gestures.

First rule of life -- empty threats are a sign of weakness. Never threaten that which you cannot destroy.

He took a demonstrative gulp from the bottle and brought it back to my lips. It was cold, and it was good. I drank, while he cleaned the blood and the bile off my coat. I concentrated on my breathing and watched the arimaspi and the Count through half-lidded eyes.

Without its robe, I could see its body clearly. He was a gaunt, almost skeletal thing, without a single ounce of fat on its lean frame. Its skin stretched so tight over the hard cords of muscle, it threatened to snap, like a thin layer of wax melted over an anatomy model, covered in marks and lesions and outgrowths.

He whimpered, looking over the cuts on his hands and testing the ripped-up cheek with his fingers, and then green and gold sparks scattered down his coat, tying the flesh together with a vomit-inducing sucking sound.

"For what it's worth I do apologize for the poisoning. I’m afraid it was somewhat out of my hooves."

“Can we talk now?” The arimaspi was growing impatient -- funny, given that in prison he must’ve had nothing but time.

"You." My faculties still not quite present, I felt the need to state the obvious. "You're working with him? How long?"

"It's not like I had much choice, Miss Shimmer." Fancy pursed his lips in distaste. "First meal I took when I arrived, and, well..."

The arimaspi giggled, a scattered, hyena-like chortle cut short by a pained whimper of his bothered wound.

Fancy ignored him. "Same thing as happened to you, though in much less unpleasant circumstance. I’m afraid we have to give him what he wants. “

“And what is it that you want?” I turned to the arimaspi.

"You have hurt me, little mare. Hurt me, hurt my plans, yes. Now I hurt you, but that is not enough, not enough at all. You shall help me now, go out and do my bidding, yes."

"I..." I licked my lips. “You want the Idol, don’t you?”

"It is mine!" he hissed with sudden anger, half-healed cheek ripped anew, spurting ichor everywhere. "It belongs to us, not the mangy, thieving cat-birds!"

“Why would I help you?”

“Because the war is coming on the wings of griffons.” The Count glared at the creature. “There is no other way to stop it. The Idol and the war are a threat to Equestria now, but the arimaspi is a long-term problem. He can be dealt with later.”

“See, little pony, there are common interests to be achieved by us working together,” the arimaspi said. “Not just your life,” he raised his hand, and the flickers of black and green ran up his horn, echoing within my chest, “But your goals depend on me, yes, yes they do. That is the wisdom of the world little pony, yes, the one that Griffons knew once. Plomo o plata, lead or silver. Give this choice to anyone, and they will choose right every single time. And so will you, yes, yes you will.“

I lowered my eyes. I felt cold. Cold and tired. I nodded, showing that that I was willing to listen

My time would come. Any trap, unless immediately lethal must have an escape -- otherwise there is no point. All I needed was to figure it out. For now I concentrated on the Count's words and tender mercies, keeping to the act of the defeated and broken mare. I even threw up again, though, that one was not exactly voluntary.

“How?” I said, after recovering from the spasms. “How would we get it? I don’t even know where it is.”

"In the bowels of Gormenghast, there is a cave, yes, not as old as the castle. Geskleithron it is called and stolen from us it was, yes, taken when master’s cities fell. There they hide the Idol of Boreas, tlaotani's treasure, yes, yes, his treasure. Locked it is, protected day in and day out. Not dogs, though dogs there are, yes, not eagles, no, though they stand by the door, a spell - a vile, vile spell, closed with royal blood, carved with griffon claws, howling with the icy winds. None may pass, yes, none may pass but the King and the Prince and his son, and his son’s son when there is one, royal blood to three generations. There you must go, yes, and come back and bring the Idol to me.“

“It’s not quite as grim, Miss Shimmer,” the Count interjected, encouraging me. “There is a way.”

"First you shall need to find the path in, past the guards, the dogs and the eagles. "

"You're close enough with the Princes," the Count interjected, "we can use that."

"Then, oh, it is a spell they did, yes, but there is a way around it. With the royal blood, the King's feather and the claw of the griffon, if you know how, if you know the way you can get through. But only when the winds are not there, no. The Prince must take his winds -- maybe to the West, yes, yes, in great anger he must summon all of them."

"The King's feather?" there was no way I could get something like that. I looked at the Count, but he merely shrugged guiltily.

"Yes, yes, little pony, it has to be the King," the arimaspi repeated impatient with my slowness. "The most proud one, he who sits on the leaden throne unopposed, he who wields the power, it has to be him. Bring me the claw and the feather, and I shall give you the Prince's blood and I'll teach you how to defeat the spell, yes, yes I will."

"But..."

He inclined his head, listening to something I could not hear.

"Go, little ponies mine, yes, leave now. Do as I say, yes, find a way to enter the cave of Boreas. I have the blood, yes, I still have the royal blood, hidden safely in my veins, but you will find the King's feather and the griffon claw, and then you'll bring me the Idol. Then you may live, yes, only then will I release the spell.” His horns flashed green and the prison door swung open. “And remember--" another flash, green and black, made my magic rip from in my chest with the dull stab of cold, throbbing pain, just as Count by my side grit his teeth as well. "-- I own you now, yes, yes, I do."

***

The Count had helped me to his room, guiding both of us through the spider's web of servant's passages and secret doors.

"Here." After I was seated, he produced a small porcelain bottle from within his suit. "Drink this."

Cold tea, weak and sweetened to death with honey. Only when I felt the sugar on my tongue did I realise how impossibly hungry I was.

"Cold and hunger are the first signs of magical depletion." He levitated a blanket to my shoulders as I drank. "You may not have felt it yet, but your body has been quite drained of it's magic by that creature. You should eat plenty of sweets today, and find some mandrake root tomorrow, Miss Shimmer -- you would probably not be able to hold it down today."

I glared. I knew how to treat magical exhaustion.

He turned away, digging through some compartment of a nearby cupboard for something, turning his back to me. I tensed, feeling for my magic.

Even drained and hurt and yes -- still poisoned, I could overpower the posh little lordling, take the scroll I saw him put away, and then--

"Miss Shimmer," he didn't turn away from his cupboard, "think it through."

That was the rub. I could take the lordling, but then -- there was no then. Not even a heroic last stand. I fell back into my chair and tried very hard to suppress another glare when he returned, with another cup of tea.

He sighed a tired sigh of an adult faced with an unreasonable child and cast a spell.

It was a complex weave, I appreciated, especially for one cast this quickly. It spread from the markings on the floor and things scattered around his room, and skittered up the walls, sparkling where it encountered any other magics, encompassing us in a shimmering dome of golden light. At the top, in the middle of the ceiling, where waves of magic met each other, a bush of roses bloomed out of the stone, their scent filling the room.

"Now we can talk. Whoever is listening will hear something else."

That was a strange thing to do. Who would be listening to us?

"I have told you before, Miss Shimmer, when you weren't inclined to listen -- there are dogs in this castle, and then there are dogs. And they serve different masters."

"The dogs serve the arimaspi?"

"Yes. Glad you caught up."

I should have known -- I should have realized. The dogs, they served Ahuizotl once, long ago, and to this day they feared him, with old fear and worshipped him with the same dull loyalty any oft-beaten dog has for its owner-- and they would serve the arimaspi just as readily.

But if the Count was unwilling to talk in the presence of the dogs, it meant--

"We shall not be delivering the Idol to arimaspi," he said, once he was sure I was listening. "That is not why I brought you into this mess."

"You?!"

"Contrary to what our common new friend believes, you were not chosen by that creature on his own. I have chosen you -- not because of your talents, Miss Shimmer, nor your closeness to the Princes. I needed an ally, someone I could trust in this game. Someone capable of drastic measures."

"And that's why you betrayed me to that creature?!"

He sighed again and took a dainty sniff from my snuffbox.

"I have given you all the subtle guidance, all the warnings that I could, but if we are to work together, the arimaspi must think that you’re working for him. Otherwise - well, he has me in his grasp at least as much as he has you."

"What about the other delegation ponies? Why me?"

He reached for a needle and stitches - and of course, he had both at hoof - starting to clean up my wounds, careful and skilled as he stitched up my lip and applied the healing charms.

"Childish slaves of social rules," he scoffed. "They will be stuck in politicking and begging, appealing and appeasing. Given time they may have achieved something with the King and Princes but time is not something we have. And they cannot help me out of my predicament with the creature. I need someone less restricted in her choice of actions, so, eenie, meenie, minie, mo —I choose you."

I couldn't argue with that.

"Why'd you stop me then?" I asked, soon as he took the needle off my face.

"Well," the Count said reasonably, packing his implements away, "For one thing, if I didn’t I'd be dead."

"So you're not just a traitor, you're a coward as well. You should've taken your own poison." I declared, throwing the blanket off. "Living instead of achieving your goal is nothing but cowardice!"

"And to die without gaining one's aim is a dog's death and fanaticism!" Count countered, "I too have read those books, Miss Shimmer, but this isn't one of the olden pony stories. Victory matters, and my death or yours would not have helped anypony."

"I had him! And then there would not be any war!" It was a screaming match now, and I could scream just as well as any Canterlot lordling.

“You would have failed, you insufferable child! You had nothing!”

“I just needed to talk to the convocation!”

"Well maybe go and talk to them, then, and then both of us will be bloody dead!"

“Well, maybe I will!”

"Fine!"

We both glared at each other, until he turned away and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Let's make a deal, Miss Shimmer,” he offered tiredly. “If you listen to me tomorrow, and we get the arimaspi off our backs for a bit, I will give you back that scroll to bring into the Convocation of Eagles, and you can say your piece, whatever the consequences may be."

"Even though that means you will die?"

"I’d rather not. And if I’m right and your plan won’t work, I won’t have to. But if you’re right, and it stops the war -- Equestria is worth dying for." He said it simply, like stating an obvious fact. "The Princess is worth dying for."

Perhaps there still was something in the Canterlot nobility that redeemed their titles after all.

"How can I trust you?" I asked warily. "Unless you swear."

He looked at me curiously.

"The Old way," I specified. That oath nopony would be stupid enough to break, even on the pain of death. “So that you can’t back out.”

"I had no intention of—"

"Swear!" I demanded. "Or no deal."

He hesitated, and then he said the words, and the words were heard and could not be unsaid any more.

I nodded. I would not take action against the lordling — not yet. We were on the same side after all, and just as the shield on his wall said, the same Sun was above the both of us. But I would be in no hurry to turn my back to him, and nothing was forgotten -- or forgiven.

Author's Notes:

Here are no leaders to lead us to honour, and yet with out leaders we sally,
Each man reporting for duty alone, out of sight, out of reach, of his fellow.
There are no bugles to call the battalions, and yet without bugle we rally
From the ends of the earth to the ends of the earth, to follow the Standard of Yellow!
[i]Fall in! O fall in! O fall in![/i]

Fancy Pants, Count Hoofington
Spies' March

CHAPTER XII: BALESTRA

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“That --” said Count regarded me critically, as I showed him my preparations. “Will not do.”

I glared. I liked this dress, and it was a gift from my Princess. Maybe it wasn’t as decorated and up to the latest fashion as those featherbrains and vain turkeys that populated the halls of Gormenghast would have it but was that really important?

“I’m going to watch and talk, not to be displayed like a mannequin.” I stomped my hoof for emphasis. “What does it matter how I look?”

“Form has an essence of its own Miss Shimmer,” he said in his dry ‘school-teacher’ voice. “Neither form determines the essence, nor the essence determines the form. Both are important. Style, grace and beauty -- those can be your weapons as much, if not more than the spellwork.”

That may have been true -- a thought that made me frown -- but I would have no idea how to even approach this. But then again, I was always a quick learner, especially when I had a good teacher, and such an opportunity would be a waste to miss.

“So, I take it you have some alternative, my lord?”

He nodded, summoning two purses from the next room.

“I don’t need money!” I protested. I may not have had a silver mine in my backyard or fancy rent houses in Canterlot, but I had my pride and my Princess’ stipend.

“It’s a gift.“ Count smiled, waving my protestations away. “And not for you Miss Shimmer -- for an old acquaintance of mine. I hope you know a good cloud-walking spell - I made the requisite arrangements and she shall be expecting you today.”

***

I found her bathing on the roof. The steaming water, heated by the red-hot stones in the bath felt warm even at a distance.

She rose when I approached, water streaming down her luxurious black fur, and her beauty in the moonlight struck and overthrew me. The immaculate elegance of her features underscored perfectly her smooth, sinuous grace -- she moved as if the gross flesh, the constraints of bone and skin did not dare limit her motions.

It went beyond mere physical presence, beyond the perfection of her movements. All that was superfluous, no more important to her appeal than the sheath of a sword to the deadly beauty of the weapon. It was something primal about her, something that made you yearn to own that beauty and be owned by her in turn.

Some distant part of my brain free of the instant infatuation still managed to work, figuring out that she was the midnight-black pegasus the youngest Prince was so hesitant before, and I felt a distant surprise at the notion: The Count had sent me to a whore.

She shook off while I gaped, the tiny shivering motion setting the water streaming down her sides aided by the pegasus magic without clinging to the fur or feathers, and stepped forward, regarding me as an owl might a rabbit, her sapphire-blue eyes sharp and alert.

"Help me, child." She nodded towards the straps of her sandals. Her voice matched her appearance: deep and smooth like velvet.

My higher mental faculties still not quite engaged, I reached for the leather with my magic, but she stomped it back down.

"Properly now," she admonished. "Things are to be done in the right fashion, or not at all."

That was something I could get behind -- the rules to the game, a semblance of a ritual, something to do while my brain racked the correct etiquette for this occasion. Bowing down to tie them with my mouth and hooves, my cheek glanced against the inside of her foreleg. Her coat was as soft as the richest velvet and as smooth as the thinnest silk, and she smelled almost subliminally of summer peaches.

I strapped her shoes and dried her off with a towel. She needed little drying but she requested it nonetheless. I did so -- properly, with hooves and mouth, relishing the warm touch of her soft body.

“Good.” she nodded after she put on a plain white toga. The thin, almost transparent cloth covered nothing and accentuated everything.

Bluette -- that was her name, like the flower on her cutie-mark I could see through the silk -- led me back down. I followed like a calfling on a tether, still unable to articulate a thought, the soft strata of the terrace shimmering around the enchantments on my hooves.

Her cloud-house, far above the valley of Granath, the only cloud-house perhaps in all of Griffinstone, had many rooms. Rooms sharp and stark, with floors of black and white cloudstone made hard as marble, alternated between the snow-fresh alabaster and charcoal blackness, rooms of gold and silver, made to griffon fashion with opulent, barbaric decor, rooms soft and warm, and filled with thin silks and soft velvet and smelling of incense that tickled my nostrils and inflamed imagination, and the room we ended up in - a small and cosy affair, with hard floors and tall mirrors and a sole chaise lounge.

“Wine?” This, for one, was not an order - this was an offer, a flourish of her wing pointing to the tray, where a bowl of honeyed fruit was arranged along with an amphora of sour pegasi sky-wine.“You are a guest, after all.”

She poured wine, adding honey to mask its sour tone, and, wine in hoof, settled me into a huge plush chaise lounge. I drank and waited while she walked round me, studying me again.

"The Count told me you would come. And it’s so good of him to send you to me, else I would have to invite you myself"

"Me?" I gulped down the sweetened wine, trying not to drown in her green eyes. "Why?"

"You're an interesting one, child. A student of the Princess, a night-traveller if rumours are to be believed. And you made quite a mark on our little princes. I intended to make your acquaintance, but here you are, coming to me, all by yourself." The way she licked her lips, the breathy husk when she said that word sent shivers down my spine. "So tell me, child, why are you here?"

“Sir Fancy….” I reached for the ‘gift’ the Count has given me, “...sent me here. For the ball this evening?”

“The Count expects miracles,” she sighed, setting the gemstones aside. “But perhaps not the impossible.”

She stopped behind me, hidden behind the back of the chair, and I heard the sound of a drawer opened, steel being drawn.

“Stop fidgeting, child,” she said sternly when I turned, twisting my head to follow her. “Let me do my work.”

I caught her hoof as she dragged a band of white silk across my fetlock, tickling my skin, and loping around the armrest. Words sprung to my lips like a protective charm -- and it was a charm, one of eighteen, to make any fetters burst from my legs and any bindings from my hooves.

"You’re too restless, child,” she explained, softly wiggling her foreleg out of my grip. "Don't you trust me?"

"No." I trusted nopony... but I made no further motion to stop her from tightening the knot.

"Clever girl, "she laughed as she reached for a razor - as sharp as a good razor should be - and dragged the flat of the blade against my coat, cold metal sending shivers through my skin, making my heart beat a touch faster.

I was starting to like this game of hers.

"Perhaps a little nick," she mused. "Perchance a little taste:" her lips were almost touching my ear. "You are a rare treat, my little lady. Some other time, perhaps. You will come back to me, child, won’t you?"

She snipped a lock of hair off my mane, and the razor moved again, round the back of my neck where I could not see, a wake of her feathers tickling me as a counterpoint. And then the blade came back and the true magic began.

***

“You clean up nicely.” Fancy appreciated. I watched him watch me, his eyes sliding up and down my body. “Bluette does good work.”

I stretched. Not my usual stretch to warm up the muscles and speed up the blood -- a strange intuition guided me through a luxurious little wave, allowing the Count to see the movement of my body underneath the dress and imagine everything else. A smile appeared on my lips, surprisingly coy and I almost managed to make my face blush, though I could not quite hold my giggle when I saw his reaction.

I was beautiful that day: the stitches and bruises hidden under the expert glamour of Bluette’s alchemical supplies, my mane cut and released in full flow with colours toned down by a shade, my coat made soft and glistening with aromatic oils. I was now dressed not in a frilly equestrian ensemble of a faux-noble, but a sleek and simple dress, with a single green scarf to match my eyes -- like a schoolgirl that just ran away from prom, a permanent fixture in the erotic fantasies of any grown stallion and fervent dreams of adolescent colts.

“There’s something missing though.” A box levitated off the nightstand in his golden magic and opened revealing the fans inside.”I have a crafty dog in the city, so I asked him to make this little nothing. Hope they are to your liking.”

They were perfect. Twin, perfectly equal in weight, size and balance, mirror images of each other. One - red vellum and gold, the other - yellow vellum and red gold, they were made in my colours. The spokes, gilded with a silver pattern were steel: light, strong, and -- I appreciated -- sharp.

It could be used to complement any outfit, wielded with magic or used as a melee weapon of last resort.

I ran my hoof over the small stamp of three golden crowns at the base of the handle -- the mark of the one who gave it to me. "They're beautiful." This time there was no need to feign any awe or gratitude, as I swished the fan, letting the sharp spokes stab into the neck of the imaginary foe and opened the both of them, one to rip wider the hypothetical wound and another to cover myself against the inevitable splash. "Thank you, Fancy."

***

I entered the ballroom hanging off the Count’s right side like an ornament, my shiny new fans at my flank, trying to listen and to watch the random motion of ballroom pleasantries trying to filter out the meaning in every look and gesture, as the Count has instructed.

Quilineze silks falling off the high ceilings in waves of silver-embroidered drapes, the redwood of the Southern Jungle for the tables and the floors, and the crystals of the Frozen North on the chandeliers -- everything in the room screamed of the power of the Griffon King to bring every luxury from the four corners of our world.

“Chin up, back straight, Miss Shimmer. Try not to stare at everypony,” The Count suggested sourly, without turning his head. “Remember the plan. And please, at least try to smile.”

I smiled.

“Maybe without clenching your jaw quite as much.”

The liveried dogs in the corner were playing their musical instruments, while others carried trays of food and drink. I felt a sudden, wolfish hunger at the sight of the hors d'oeuvres, and I had to down a glass of champagne to calm my nerves and my stomach.

The politicking was just about as I imagined it -- getting dragged from one backroom to another, where old Griffons would speak in implications and half-riddles.

Talks within talks, implications within implications, messages between the lines of messages between the lines. This was machinery as complex as any spell I weaved.

Now I was beginning to appreciate...

...the way an inflexion can move the crowd

"But isn't the prince afraid that Equestria..."

...the way an off-hand phrase can stab worse than a knife

"I'm sure your word is just as important to the King, but if I could just talk to Senor Gawain..."

...the way an implication can be hidden in a phrase not unlike poison in a wine.

"The griffon's words are as firm as a mountain, so one needs to choose the right griffon to follow..."

It was nauseating, vomitous in how circumlocutous it was, but it was power nonetheless and any power has its own beauty: Behind the soft façade of a Canterlot nobling, drinking the wine and making offhand comments the Count really was a sublime violinist playing two crowds of griffons at the same time, each sentence, each phrase playing differently for different listeners, straddling the very edge of the wave where either one or the other would understand too much or too little, pushing and pulling them apart. And the dogs -- the arimaspi’s little spies, scurrying to and fro in their silver liveries, would be none the wiser.

He was... Dangerous. Yes, that was the right word, weird as it was thinking of the posh Canterlot unicorn in those terms. Dangerous enough to move the Griffonstone court, dangerous enough to try to fight the arimaspi, dangerous enough to bind me with nothing but a smile and a trick.

And I found that I liked it.

"...now there are some... interesting news from the south." the Count continued another conversation.

"Surely it's not the Drowner?" Wings flew up, and claws glinted in the morning light.

"True, he stirs," the Count looked askance at me, and I found a very interesting piece of the floor I that demanded my attention. "And Daring Do is dead again. But the news I talk of, come from beyond the jungle. When I was at the Pearl Court in the Mount Arris..."

The conversation continued, all implications and half-statements, as I watched and listened, as the Count instructed -- as he had shown me how to look.

It is not a trivial matter to understand a griffon unless they apply an effort to be understood by a pony. For them, there is another layer of language, concealed within the bend of the wings and positions of the feathers. An angle of the wing, a spread of alualas as easily recognized by griffons as you and I would know a frown from a smile.

Pegasi may learn it, others make do with fans -- that was the other meaning of the Count's earlier gift.

"Are you sure that going against the Prince is a good idea?" the griffon to his right asked. "Can we trust the little ponies and the halfbreeds to carry it through? They are part-pony after all."

I've been studying it recently, and now I could recognize how their wings were lower than you should, barely touching the position of Respect.

Seemed like they needed a reminder.

"Speaking of," I stepped softly forward, arranging my fan into the position of Curiosity. "Is Lord Graven ok?"

"He's fine." The wing lowered by an inch, and there was perhaps a touch more respect in his voice. "Recovering in the castle medical ward, I was told."

"Ah," I said, satisfied, still holding his gaze. "That's good. Wouldn't want there to be permanent damage."

For a few seconds, the griffons kept silent, their wings barely moving, and then their leader nodded. "Yes, indeed. Now as to your proposal my lord..."

They exchanged glances.

"We shall send an invite."

The Count nodded, satisfied, "And?"

"And we shall talk to the younger Prince."

“My lord,” I said, trying to hit the tones of a bored party-filly, “I believe you promised me there would be dancing.”

This was the sign we agreed on -- the sign that I saw the little princeling lurking around, and gathering the courage to actually talk to me.

“I see,” he smiled towards the griffons, arranging his own fans carefully. “If you excuse me, my lords, I’m afraid I cannot keep the lady waiting.”

“Now Miss Shimmer” he walked me towards the dance floor, where the Dogs were arranging their instruments, “You’ve observed my method, and you’ve seen the floor. Tell me, what do you see?”

"Well, um,” nobody likes a surprise quiz. But being the Princess’ student, I knew to adapt. “The Prince wants to start a war, because of the arimaspi and that old scroll, but the King his father does not allow it, so the Prince needs the support of the convocation. With it he will have the power to do as he wants and he wants to throw the Winds against Equestria. That's what we want to stop."

"And what of the other Princes?" the Count asked. "You only mentioned the heir apparent."

"The others…” I guessed, remembering something the arimaspi said, “... the coward and the dreamer?"

The Count looked sharply at me.

I shrugged. They had no power, so they hardly mattered in the grand scheme of things."Err... Gwyr. He's following his brother? They always argue, but in the end, he is going to do what Gideon wants, and Galad will do nothing at all.”

“Now I believe you wanted to have a dance?”

No, I did not want to dance. At least -- not here, not at one of those fancy dance parties. The bland music, the rote moves… dancing should be about passion and display, for igniting desire and expressing yourself. Not for the lazy rotation of dressed-up geezers going through the motions like puppets in a clockwork.

But we were on the dance floor, and Lord Fancy bowed most artfully, inviting me to the first dance. I could hear the murmurs of the Equestrian crowd and, sighing, I bowed back, my very best, as taught by the Princess, and took his hoof in mine.

The music started. It was not what I expected - the strings went low and threatening. This was no drab Equestrian waltz -- it was the paso doble, the bullfighting dance. The first cry of the horn, low and threatening, reached into my bones, making my blood flow hotter.

“Now, Miss Shimmer,” The Count stepped forward, I felt his magic flow around my frame, gripping me with a blanket of tangible force, helping me into the first step, and protecting my bruises and wounds. “You are a quick learner, and you did well intervening, but still, you need to be more subtle.”

I twirled around, guided by him, and shrugged. It worked, didn’t it?

“Do you see the little Prince?”

I did -- even twirling to the double-step as the music began playing in earnest, waves of strings swirling like a rising maelstrom to the call of the trumpet, I knew where the princeling was lurking. Awareness was something I knew well enough, and I could easily find Galad’s rouge in the crowd, and our eyes met, even as the Count’s magic gripped me by the flanks, raising me for a turn.

"Very good." He nodded. "But do you know what he is thinking?“ I didn’t, but he -- he did, he knew what the prince was thinking, and he knew that I did not, without waiting for me to answer. “Now, Miss Shimmer, if youlend me your ears -” Movement became faster and more complex, as the pairs whirled and moved around us in every shade of white and scarlet. He held me tight in his embrace, guiding me through the steps and pirouettes, making the world spin around in step with the music. “I shall be your eyes.”

I nodded, and his magic gripped me tighter, stripping me of all control over my own body, as the music broke the rhythm again, the sound of the trumpets rising against the current of the strings and the clicking of the claws, and started it anew.

With his power, he wielded me like a cape through the movements of the dance, spinning and twirling and weaving in between other dancers and I felt myself grow hot with the alcohol and music. The speed of turns and pirouettes, the thin, sharp scent of his perfume and the perfect control of his magic made me giddy as I leaned against his body, clinging to him tighter than his own shadow.

In time he would teach me to dance, though I had little interest in the art of it. But more importantly, he would teach me to see what he saw - and then I‘d learn so much more. To divine, the secret thoughts in the tremor of the hoof and the direction of the gaze, to guess one’s true desire by the pitch of the voice, to cleave the lies from the truth with a single glance and to control stallions and mares like puppets with but a choice of words. The power of silver and lead, silken promises and steel-like threats. Diplomacy and intrigue are not that different from fighting or warfare. The basic principles remain the same. Awareness. Control. Finding weaknesses and exploiting them. It is just a little more... subtle.

But the dance grew over, in a last few triumphant сhords, and the swirl of the dancers slowed, but his hand remained on my foreleg, and his magic on my flank. "There are many such things I could show you, Miss Shimmer,” he said, his hoof tracing up to my chest, then my chin. “Things subtle and powerful. If you let me…”

He moved closer, his magic holding me tight, forceful, rough and insistent, going down my cutie-mark and below, pulling me in, his muzzle inches away from mine, hungry lips half a breath away, a quarter, even our hearts beating in the same rhythm, a and a spark jumped between our two horns, joining our magic for a brief moment I almost wanted--

I slapped him across the face. Hard, with a flat side of my new fan, making an entirely too satisfying sound that echoed around the room like a party-cannon shot. The music stopped, and the dancing fell apart, the whole crowd now staring at the two of us -- me, still clutching my fan between me and the Count. Him, holding his hoof to the quickly reddening cheek.

"Stay away from me, you..." Bereft of words and breath, I almost hit him again, the fan only barely deflected by his own magic. "You bastard!"

Ripping out of the residual grip of his aura, I twisted, and ran, away from the non-music and stares, up and away. I wanted to go back to my room for a second, to hide, like I once did. But that never helps -- the monsters I faced were not ones to be stopped by the night light and the safety blanket.

I circled round instead, like a wounded animal, unable to leave, afraid to stay, until I found my way up, to the balcony that looks upon the dancing floor, dark and empty. There I waited, alone and in the dark. I did not have to wait long, though.

"Lady Shimmer, are you all right?" The youngest Prince finally found me, interrupting my meditations.

"I'd think you'd be dancing, milord." I noted, avoiding the question, "the griffon ladies certainly would be happy for your company."

"They don't like me," he said, simply. "Not really. They'd much rather have my brother. He's the proper griffon, he's the real Prince."

My opinion of the Prince went up a notch. Not every colt this young could spot that girls did not like him, much less admit it.

"And of course, I'm entirely too much griffon for Equestrian ladies," he said.

"Did you imply that I'm not one?" I asked, enjoying his little blush.

"You're not like the other Equestrians," the Prince said, his wing angling up and alulas spread to indicate a compliment "You aren't afraid of us. You don't just think of us as predators. You ate meat at our table.” He sighed. "I wish you could stay a while longer. Even with this dreadful business, Gideon started..." I recognised regret in his voice and his wing-gesture.

I could not have asked for a better straight line. Arranging my fan carefully in a gesture of regret, "I wish I could stay," I echoed.

"Surely there are parties in Equestria? Much better ones, at that."

"It's not the parties, it's the ponies." My eyes tracked Count's form pointedly. He was telling something to a group of griffons who nodded sagely at his explanations. "Some can make any party unbearable."

"I..." he noticed the direction of my gaze, just as the Count knew he would, "I've seen. What happened?"

"He...he overstepped, and..." I covered my face, with the fan. "I don't want to talk about it. Please?"

"Oh." he gestured, long, almost hugging gesture that I now knew was meant to indicate a desire to comfort. "Of course. If there’s anything..."

“Just stay,” I asked. “Please. I don’t want to be alone right now.”

"I must confess," the princeling said, moving closer in an awkward semi-flapping amble. "though it is selfish of me, I am happy that you decided to come -- that awful incident notwithstanding. It is good to have someone to be alone with, sometimes."

"Yes," I said, my hoof moving to touch his claw. "It is. Sometimes."

Together we stood, watching the dancers below until the music died and the floor began to empty.

"Ah, Miss Shimmer," the Count appeared from behind, swaying slightly as if drunk, the fizzy wine in his glass wobbling precariously. "There you are! We should go."

It was not his usual conspiratorial "Miss" -- this time it dripped with such condescending poison, that were he to address me like that when we first met, I would've ripped his throat out on the spot.

But the ruse was to be maintained. I recoiled from his words as if stricken, moving behind Galad for protection, and his magic stretched after me, spilling across my coat, gripping my limbs, sticky and controlling, pulling me back towards him.

"Shall we?"

"I think the lady does not wish to go with you, sir," Galad said sternly, fluffing his feather with a fighting-cock-like flutter-step.

"And I think that this is none of your damn business, milord," Fancy parried. He had an excellent expression of haughty countenance, with that nice edge you can only get from a truly upper-class upbringing. “No one appreciates the third wheel.”

“Perhaps," Galad grew pale, and his voice was so devoid of inflexions as to be deathly. "You should then leave, sir. The lady may stay." His claw rested on my shoulder, cutting away Count’s magic, and his wings unfurled as the eaglet mustered his courage.

“Oh dear me. Will you run off to fetch your brother?" Fancy asked. "I'm sure he'd make good on your little threats."

"Galad, please," I said meekly. "You’re only making it worse. I have to talk to the lord, and I’m sure I can sort it out..." I shifted, and his claw slipped off my shoulder, and he stepped back, aghast and utterly lost.

***

We moved away from the Prince and from the ball, and I overtook the Count as we neared our quarters.

I looked at the Count. That knowledge he had, how he controlled that eaglet with only his words, playing him like a fiddle, winding him up like a toy soldier, that power….

Want. Take. Have. That’s all there is to life.

The hunter’s moon in the sky was making my head spin with all the wine I drank and the lessons I’ve learned, and I could feel his scent making my blood boil with desire. I definitely knew what I wanted -- whom I wanted -- and the consequences be damned.

“Perhaps milord would want to show me some dance moves in the privacy of my room,” I suggested, my best attempt at coy and sultry leaving no doubt as to the type of moves I have implied.

He was taken aback with my directness - that much even I could see.

“Are you sure of your words Miss Shimmer? We should be more circumspect, with the political situation, and that creature....”

I moved too close to him, reaching for his ear with my lips, tickling his fur with my breath.

“In Hind, there is a riddle, a saying:'' I whispered, “‘Imagine’, they say, ’you’re hanging at the edge of the cliff, only a bush of wild strawberries holding you from a fall to your doom. A fierce tiger guarding the edge of it should you manage to climb up. And then, imagine that two mice start nibbling at the very vine that holds you against the fall. What would you do?”

He cocked his elegant eyebrow, returning the question back to me.

“What would you do then… Sunset?”

My magic flowed around him, just as his did before with me, grabbing him to pull him into a nuzzle, and whispered:

“I’d eat the strawberries.”

I closed the door behind us, and for the rest of the night nothing could have tasted sweeter.

Author's Notes:

I go to concert, party, ball --   
   What profit is in these? 
I sit alone against the wall
   And strive to look at ease. 
They never notice me at all
   Instead for him they pine; 
And that's because I'm seventeen
   And He is forty-nine.

Fancy Pants, Count Hoofington
"My Rival"
Burned shortly after writing

CHAPTER XIII: CORPS-A-CORPS

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It was strange waking up to the pleasant afterglow after a night with somepony. No blood on the bed sheets, no strained muscles and throat sore from screaming, no bruises, cuts or burns pinging you as a reminder of the night. Just a floating feeling of fulfilment, body still drowsy from sleep as relaxed and pliant as the soft bed beneath me. I felt like I was sixteen again.

By the time he woke, I had already slipped away through the servant’s passages into my room, and I was into my second set for the morning, sitting on my haunches and balancing a spell on the edge of my horn.

The transfiguration matrix of the spell was just barely incomplete, ready to be released, as I kept it almost-cast, changing the weave pushing against its desire to erupt from my horn as fire or steel, poison or ice, studying the complex interactions of the magical weave--

There was a noise at the servant’s door

I moved with pure reflex, months of training and practice crystallized into a singular form, my spell scattering apart and jagged shards of it launched in the direction of the intruder, turning furniture to ice where it hit it and the rest stabbing into his shield.

Coming out of the roll I punched with my magic, extra ‘oomph’ in the last stretch of the spell to kick through the iced-over shield, made brittle by the half-spell I launched. What could have been a mortal strike relaxed an instant before it hit him, turning from a blast into a wet blanket of dispelling magics, extinguishing the aura of his horn and dowsing any spell he’d try to cast, pulling him down into the ground and sweeping his hooves from under him. Before he had touched the floor, my magic was already on him, falling like a hammer from above and binding him like a steel garrote on his neck, ready to snip at a moment’s thought.

I caught the tray, coffee pot and toast that I kicked off his hoof, every droplet frozen mid-flight and placed into the cup on the tray, almost as an afterthought. Then I took a long, easy breath.

In and out.

My magic swept around for the last time, scanning for threats and ambushes and flickered out, released in every direction as I relaxed, taking off my blindfold.

“Well, if that is your greeting, then there will be no more morning coffee for you, young lady”, Fancy said dryly, eyeing the deadly spell on his throat with tired wariness.

“Pish-tosh” I shrugged, snatching a toast off the plate “Don’t be a baby. I wouldn’t hurt you… unless you ask nicely.” I released his binding with a flick of my tail to his nose.

“Do you do that every morning?”

I nodded. “Have to. I don’t do my sets for one day, and I can feel it. I skip two and the Princess will see it. I skip three and the whole of the Canterlot court will be abuzz with how Princess’ prize student can’t cut the mustard.”

He stood up and poured a cup for himself, transforming the chair back to its natural form with an aside spell, before sitting down. “Hardly looks like something the Princess would teach.” He noted.

“But it is. This month it’s transformation and transfiguration. I just have my own approach to practice.” I looked at him, and stretched, showing off the languid motion of the body and the subtle rise of the tail. “Unless the lord wishes to occupy me with some other morning exercise?”

He smiled - a pensive sort of smile, no doubt brought by a memory of the vigorous exercise of the night past.

“In a manner.” He moved the coffee towards me. “We need to plan.”

So much for my fun time.

"You did good work last evening--”

"If only that I knew what I was doing," I said sarcastically.

"We need to get you to see the Idol. That is what our associate demands -- to see how it can be extracted or-" the shine of his horn became almost visible, and the smell of wild roses hit my nostrils again, "-- to see if it can be disabled somehow."

"So how does the princeling come in here? And all those things that I said?"

"Well, I'm courting you---"

"I noticed." I showed my teeth. "Though I thought it was the reverse."

"--as far as everyone else was supposed to know," he finished, ignoring my interjection. "And the recent altercation has put an end to it."

"...okay," I said, carefully. "And the point of that was?"

“Pleasant the snaffle of Courtship, improving the manners and carriage;
Though a colt who is wise will abstain from the terrible thorn-bit of Marriage.”

"Spoken from experience, I take it?"

"Quite so," the Count was unabashed. "I like my little indulgences far too much to get tied down." He looked at me, "I hope that is not something you..."

'Me -- married! To the posh Canterlot lordling, no less. I snorted. That would be the day!

"Well, why then? All the pleasantness aside, I assume the whole spectacle was not just for your amusement."

"You heard our common friend: 'Blood will have blood'. Only the King and his sons can get to the Idol, and we need to manufacture a reason for the boy to take you along. This is how Miss Bluette was accepted to the flock of King Guto -- he was quite taken with her, and thus, when she had asked to stay in Griffonstone, he had taken her to the Idol, though whatever defences they had, and there she gave her oath on it. Whatever it did, it marked her, made her one of his subjects rather than our Princess’s."

I nodded. I've seen that mark, like a cold scar left by griffon-claws.

"So that's what we're doing. If you follow my commands, the young prince shall bring you to the Idol, and there... well, there you'll have to figure something out," he waved vaguely with his fan. "Evaluate how we can take it for the arimaspi or see if it can be disarmed somehow."

“As to the mission -- you'll need Dame Strawberry for the next step," I gritted my teeth remembering my little humiliation at her hoof. "and you'll start by apologizing--”

“I do not apologize,” I interrupted the lordling. “Not ever.”

“Well you’ll have to make an exception,” The Count waved away my protest, “We really need--”

"No."

"Miss Shimmer, you're being unreasona--"

"I am not apologizing to her!" even the pronoun felt sour in my mouth. "I will not look weak in the eyes of those--"

“Miss--”

"She humiliated me! Threw me out like a filly needing a timeout!"

"There are rules to the game of politics, Miss Shimmer, not unlike rules of war or magic. You came in expecting -- wanting -- a fight, armed and engined for the same. Lady Leaf merely obliged you, though in her own way and in the field where she has the advantage. You cannot fault her for that."

"I do not apologise." I refused. "Apologies are a sign of weakness. And I. Am. Not. Weak."

"You're damn right that it is a sign of weakness!” he exploded, bashing his hoof thunderously against the table, “I need -- we need -- for you to show weakness. Art of war is the art of deception, and politics is just extension of war through other means."

For a second we stood against each other until finally, I nodded.

“You will apologize to Dame Strawberry. I will tell you how, and you shall do so, exactly as I tell you. Because that’s what the mission requires. Because that’s what we agreed to.”

"Fine.” I sat down. “I'll apologise to Lady Strawberry if that's what it takes.”

"The Sun is above, Miss Shimmer." He too had returned to his seat and his food, sounding almost apologetic. "Above what we want or don’t want."

"I said fine, and I’ll do it. But what will you be doing meanwhile, milord?" I asked, still irate, "there's still a war to be stopped."

"I shall be assembling my allies." he shrugged, "and see if the older Prince's attentions can be diverted from Equestria, and towards better goals."

"That's not enough!" I tried to argue.

"Subtler means, Miss Shimmer, subtler means. And you'll have your chance later -- as we have agreed. Now dress up -- we have a lot of visits to make."

So we had. I gritted my teeth and swallowed my objections. I would play dress-up for the lordling, and I would regurgitate the words he fed me like a good little filly, if only to see him fulfil his part of the bargain.

***

I knocked. Three sharp raps, hoof against the wood. No turning back now.

A few seconds later the green mane of Dame Strawberry had appeared in the crack of the door.

“Sunset,” she opened the door fully, stepping out, “what are you doing here?”

I peeked behind the door. Cakes and savories, a steaming teapot, a couple of featherbrained noblepony fillies in their frilly dresses. Dame was having a tea-party, and I was very much not invited.

"I wanted to apologize," I said. The words felt rotten in my mouth, but I rehearsed them enough that they came out easily. "For my behaviour in the meeting. I was wrong to speak out of turn and to say all those things, and I'm sorry."

Her face softened. I would not have noticed it, if I weren’t told what to look for -- the tiny crows-feet wrinkles smoothing by a shade, angle of brows a touch less sharp, tightness in the cheekbones releasing. She nodded, and stepped aside, inviting me to her room.

“It’s fine, honey. Come in,” she waited for me to come in and settle on the couch."Do you want some tea?" As if by some hidden earth-pony magic teacups and facny plates were produced almost before I found myself seated. "Cake?"

I took a token sip, and a token bite, accepting the hospitality. I didn't want to eat, but to do otherwise would've been rude. "Are you alright? I saw you with the Count yesterday. What happened?"

She wasn't feigning her concern -- I could recognize that now. She wasn’t picking at what she thought was my wound, or trying to humiliate me in front of the other nobles -- she genuinely cared if I was fine. That almost disarmed me.

But then again, I had hurt good ponies before. That hardly should stop me now.

"Oh." Eyes downcast, tone sheepish, hooves nervously twisting the fan hard enough to make the spokes creak: my pose was all weakness and vulnerability, just as the Count made me practice. "No, it's -- it's all fine. Lord Fancy just, er, took me by surprise, is all."

The featherbrains behind the Dame exchanged their glances, and I could almost feel their smirks and their fake-pity. I wanted to kill the lot of them.

"Do you want me to talk to him? If you don't feel that what he did was OK..." Dame Strawberry trailed off uncomfortably.

"No-no-no, please, there’s no need. It was just a simple misunderstanding, and already apologized." I reached for the snuff-box, and took a sniff, taking the edge off my anger with the instant clarity of the betel. "We've already made up, " I added. "Vigorously."

That last part wasn't in the script: I just wanted to wipe the smirks off their bitchy little faces. It worked like a charm too, as they blushed and stammered, envy, curiosity and mild disgust.

The Dame frowned, whether at my crassness or my newly acquired habit, I couldn't tell, but she said nothing.

“Why are you here, Sunset? You didn’t come just to apologize, did you?”

"The party you’re planning," I said. Strawberry looked at me, surprised. "For the Griffons. I know you did not invite me. I want to come." That wasn't right. That wasn't the intonation or the words the Count had taught me. It was way more.. me.

Well, at least I got to try it my way, to see if I could've done it without the wily lordling's tricks.

"You have to let me attend."

Her expression hardened. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Sunset, honey,” she said carefully. “The situation is very delicate, and I’m not sure if you are…” she waved vaguely with her hoof, trying not to offend me.

Anger, hot and thick, rose from within. That brainless little---

No.

That would not do.

Control little princess, her voice hoarse and deep. Speak not, lie hidden and conceal, Miss Shimmer. the Count's voice joined hers.

I wanted to take another sniff from the snuffbox, still in my magic, but instead I breathed, and pushing my anger away, I said the secret words the Count had given me, recited like a magic spell. "Lady Strawberry, please. I think I can help, and I promise I’ll be at my best behaviour. I know we're not friends, but we are on the same side, and you're the only one who can help me."

"...are you sure, honey?"

It was like magic -- 'Master words of the ponykind' the Count had called them. Not a spark has left my horn, not a thaum of magic energy has moved, and yet the pony before me changed her expression as if enchanted. It was a secret thing, a true magic of unicorns, more potent than thunders of Cloudsdale and blizzards of Griffonstone.

"Yes!" I shot up."I can help. And the Princess, she expects..." I sighed, “I need to do better. To be better. Please?”

The truth had always made for the best sort of lie.

The last of the crow's feet wrinkles in the corners of her eyes smoothed out, and slowly she nodded. I had her.

"You promise you will behave properly?"

"I promise." I nodded eagerly. "I just want to help out. I'll be nice, and I'll not pick any fights. I just want to talk to Galad again. "

"Well, then, welcome to the planning committee. You can help us prepare the party." She poured me more tea. "I believe we were on the topic of streamers."

I ground my teeth so hard it's a miracle my molars didn't crack, forced my lips into a smile and prepared to discuss the streamers.

***

"Hey!" Pinkie jolted up with a start and fiercely wiped away the drool from the corner of her mouth. "Streamers are important!"

“Yeah.” Sunset sighed. "Yeah. They are. I actually learned quite a bit about proper party planning from that little talk. Dame Strawberry was really good at it.

“Still, back then I was young and stupid, and so I was very relieved when Gwyr came for me and, having learned way more about the ribbon-placement and balloon-arranging than I ever cared, I finally could slip away."

***

"Lady Shimmer," Gwyr waved at me conspicuously. "It's time. Come."

It was the hour, then. I put the last streamer in its place, and looked at the Count.

He shrugged, true to his word. "Go, Miss Shimmer. I promised I won't hold you back, and I will not tell the creature, and I won't. I’ll cover for you with Dame Strawberry too."

"The Princess is worth dying for." It sounded so pretentious when I said it, but I said it nonetheless. It was true, after all. "She is."

"Quite so."

Well. I had my permission, if not quite a command, and that would have to suffice.

Standing up, I gave a curt nod to the Count and followed Gwyr, through the guest-stairs and into the closed-off little corridor with an almost invisible door at the end.

"A servant's passage?" I was getting better at identifying them and learning the vast web of Gormenghast's tunnels was promising to be quite useful in the future.

"Aye." Gwyr dismissed my interest with a wave of his wing. "It leads up to the Convocation." He shot a furtive glance up and down the corridor before leaning to me to ask in urgent sotto. "Do you have it?”

I nodded.

"Down there" - he pointed to the door a floor down from with his wing. "From there you can get to the galley. Don't attract any attention until you have an opportunity to speak."

"Don't worry." Whatever the Count said, this would work. It had to work. We had all the cards -- all the scrolls, at least, and neither Gideon nor arimaspi knew what we were about to do, so they would not be ready. "It'll work."

It'll work. There would not be a war. And then... I forced the thought away, by taking another sniff from my snuffbox. ‘Then’ didn’t matter. The war would be stopped, the arimaspsi would stay in the prison, and, well, that would be that. That was the right choice - the quick choice.

He nodded, and his claw gripped my shoulder for a second before he fluttered up, to join his brother.

I looked at him as he flew, joining the flock of Griffonstone, and then I made my own way down. Be determined and advance, as they said. The warrior's way is found in...

I touched my left shoulder -- a reminder of lesson past -- and stepped in, trying not to jostle anyone, keeping my face down, and cloak tightly closed.

There were a lot of griffons -- Two rows of them, the floor and the galley, all stuffed full of the griffon peers, coming to see what their Prince had to say.

There was a stark divide between the two: the floor below was all silver and gemstones, greying feathers and quiet, intense stares. The true nobility, peers in their own right. By law, theirs was the voice of the convocation. Up here, on the galleys were the younger ones, Gideon's equals in age or about that, his coterie and the future of Griffonstone. What they lacked in jewellery and wisdom they made up in vigour, pushing on each other and cheering when Gideon stepped to the small speaking podium.

“Griffons.” Truly he was their Prince: His words silenced the crowd, old and young waiting for his word. “We have been robbed.”

"We sit here on a rock at the edge of the world. Watching. Growing dull, growing cowardly, growing old and weak and content.

"HAVE WE FORGOTTEN?"

His stentorian voice, amplified by the blast of cold air, boomed through the hall, and the thing, the nigh-invisible power behind him grew wider, enveloping the room.

"Rotting on the inside, and pushed, constantly pushed by the same little ponies, by their smiles and their parties taking our pride. Taking what makes us eagles, makes us lions. Their poisonous politics of peace.

"And it all is based on a lie!"

He shook the scroll, letting it spill from his claw down on the floor.

"Ponies sit on land that's ours. Growing fat off the rich soil of the continent, playing with gold and with gems like children's toys, while we are left with nothing but empty lead.

“These lands were ours! These lands were conquered by our King, by our blood, by our claws. Taken from us by the little ponies, when they had the Power and we yet had none, with threats and lies and promises.”

"It is time we go wWest and take it back. Back me, griffons, and together we shall take what is ours, together we shall claim our birthright!"

The crowd in the gallery stirred in their seats, raising their voices in support. Like one large, restless animal, they moved and stretched growling and rumbling.

"The war!"

"Take back what’s ours!!"

"Let us go!"

"To the West!"

"What say you griffons?"

The older lords looked at each other, suddenly placed on the spot, jostling each other with their wings as the crowd behind them grew more restless by the second.

"If I may be permitted." Finally, an elderly griffon struggled to his feet in the front row close to the stage, his wings unfurling slowly.

“Speak," Gideon allowed, "if you so wish." His tone implied that this wish would be unwise.

“Thank you, Your Highness.” His cracking, wispy voice was absurdly small after Gideon's stentorian call. It barely carried, and even I had to strain to hear it, “If I may—” he began.

“Speak up!” called someone from the back. There was a ripple of laughter.

The griffon cleared his throat and tried again. “Your Highness is a bit premature,” he started, "We've had a long history of alliance with Equestria," finally he had found his footing, and began talking... well, not smoothly, not with his hoarse, almost cawing voice, but at least he settled for some sort of mentor-like tone. "Trade treaties that our economics rely upon, the common weather programmes..."

"Are we then to forget what is ours?" the prince's voice was like a lash. "Because of trade agreements? Because little ponies are just so nice that they deserve to take the land we bled and fought for?"

“That’s not… I mean, if Your Highness would let me continue…”

"Go on." the Prince stared at the griffon long enough that he almost reconsidered. Almost.

"Now as to the war itself," he started, "it would be a hard proposition. The ponies have an army--” the chuckles ran across the galley, "and weather teams that outnumber-"

"Coward!" someone shouted my right. "Afraid of the little ponies!"

I gripped the scroll tighter under my cloak.

“Are you even an eagle?”
“Craven!”
“Crow!”

Words tossed about, sneer and mockery, like bouncing off each other, growing louder, growing angrier.

"Order!" from below came a loud voice, covering the young ones sneers and cheers. "There will be order in this room! Have you no self respect? Have you no pride, griffons?"

"Even to this,” he pointed at the scroll in Prince’s claw, trying to assemble his last, best argument. “Your Highness bringing this document to us so suddenly. We’d need to probe it, examine.” he coughed a few times. “Look in the archives. Perhaps the claim had been paid," he offered, "we don't know--"

"I do!" I rose, dropping my cloak and revealing my colours. Now was the moment of my triumph. "It has!"

The griffons buzzed with surprise.

"You speak out of turn little pony," Gideon said, his wing rising in Surprise and his eyes narrowing when he found his brother in the crowd. "This is a Griffon matter."

"And you will listen to me!" I jumped down off the galley, a long, magic-assisted jump that made my knees scream with pain on the landing, but I pushed against it, scrambling to the centre of the stage, turning back to the audience. "Here!"

The scroll unfurled right in their gasping little faces.

"Your claim has been paid, and paid in full," I said, throwing my heavy argument in their beaks, the crowd rippling with growls and whispers. "The Idol of Boreas -- all you are, all the power you possess, it's been your payment from Equestria. There is nothing that Equestria owes you any more."

The buzzing in the room turned to shouting, as everygriffon, back row and front, spoke at the same time, shouting over each other.

"What?" eyes widened, wings in Surprise.

"No!" denial, voices raw with outrage. "How dare--!"

"Perhaps--" doubts and apprehension, ruffled feathers, wings in Confusion.

“Remove her!” demands and questions mixed into a confused cacophony.

"Order!" older griffon's shouting drowned out by the roar from the galley, "We have to--"

"Starswirl made your Kingdom a Power.” My voice barely covered all of theirs, even though I was shouting. “Celestia's pittance made your King. Is that not a payment for you? is that not enough?!"

And with that, the crowd went silent. Deathly, perfectly silent, hundred of griffons looking at me with their eyes, as their minds processed what their ears heard.

The Prince snatched the scroll from me, staring at it blankly. He had nothing - nothing to say, his whole strategy destroyed.

But something wasn’t right -- he did not look defeated. There was a twitch of his claw. His wings rose, angling above his back, and his tail lashed against his side. "No," He said. "It is slander." His claws twisted, ripping the scroll apart. "A fake!" he halved it again.

"No! Give it back!" I moved against him, gathering my magic, but I might just as well have attacked him with a child's toy. A wave of his wing and a blast of cold air rammed into me like a freight train, throwing me against the wall.

"That’s all this is," he threw the tatters of my best argument flying to the ground, “a pathetic little pony lie!”

The pieces fell, swaying like leaves in the wind. Without, a sudden lightning ripped the sky like a magnesium flash, thunderless and silent when they touched the ground.

Trembling, the old griffon rose again. "Will your Highness not consi—"

"I will not."

Gwyr cleared his throat. "Brother, if I may first exa—"

"You may not.”

Silence sat over the council chamber. Once again, Gideon surveyed the faces of the Lords and Ladies of Griffonstone.

"Glory.” He said, swiping his gaze across each of them. “Eternal glory and deeds of renown without peer. Or a content stupor at the edge of the world, sated by the lies of little ponies. Decide now, griffons." There it was, the subtle pull of the power, setting my teeth on edge, making the Prince seem more than just flesh and blood and magic. It filled the room, making everything brighter and more stark, griffons straightening their backs and unfurling their wings, eyes burning with fierce ambition. "If you're worthy of that name."

The galley crowd rumbled, low, threatening, angry. Demanding.

And one by one the lords stood up to cast their votes. Their shadows grew long, in the dusk light, and there was but one thing they could say:

"Aye!" the younger lord declared first, jumping eagerly up. “To the West!”

"Aye."

“Aye.”

"Aye." Claw after claw raised in the air, and the island of those who held out grew smaller by the second.

"Wait!" I forced my body up, trying to stop it, to stem the tide of agreement before it would sweep the room, "Stop! You must listen!”, but my voice was too small, and I had nothing, nothing to make them listen, nothing to make them stop. ”Please!”

If I still had a heart it would’ve sunk in my chest, as I saw my hopes dashed, with every vote. What was that power that sent them to deny logic, self-preservation and even their own word? Fear or duty, or faith in their Prince? Or was it just that damned griffish pride again at play here? I looked into their eyes, but I only saw a reflection of myself and their Prince.

"Aye," Gwyr was last to speak, but just like the others, he raised his claw. "We are with you, brother."

The Prince spoke some more. It was rousing, sure, but I was not listening. I sat where I stood, dumbstruck and lost until the meeting ran out, and the griffons began to leave.

I picked the tatters, fumbling like blind, even as Gwyr walked past me.

"I... I am sorry." He stopped briefly by my side, his wing gesturing regret before he hurried again to follow the other griffons.

"It was bravely done, Miss Shimmer." The Count put his hoof on my shoulder as I left the room. "But it was a doomed effort."

"It's not over yet," I growled, shrugging off his grip. "There's still the King."

"Miss Shimmer!" the Count shouted helplessly, as I trotted away, but he did not pursue me.

***

The view from the tower where I found the King was as vertigo-inducing -- no parapet or border separated the small terrace from the sky and the long, long fall down the side of Gormenghast wall, and the steep rocks below. The stone was slippery with recent raain, but the storm that started while the Convocation was in session, has already passed.

The guards stopped me before I reached the King at the rim of the roof.

"Your Majesty!" I raised my voice, straining to reach him through the howl of the sharp, cold winds. "May I speak with you?!"

He did not turn toward me, just gesturing something -- condescension? permission? -- and I was allowed to trot up to him, and take my own look down the parapetless wall. He dropped some birdseed down the walls, and the ravens gathered below cawed greedily, delighted with the sudden feast.

“Vile birds,” I noted. “To be distrusted even under the best of circumstance.”

The King kept looking at the birds as I spoke. “They’re honest. They want food, and they care for little else. Sometimes I find that refreshing.” He sounded tired.

We stood together for a while, the King and I, watching the simple beasts and their simple desires. The sky grew darker, rumbling with the unscheduled storm.

“The Prince will fly out again tonight, won’t he, Your Majesty?” I said quietly. “Taking the Winds to the West.”

He nodded absentmindedly, still concentrating on his birds.

"You knew. You knew about that and about the convocation. About the whole thing."

Another nod.

“You could stop it.”

“Perhaps I could, Lady Shimmer. Perhaps I couldn’t. But either way -- I won’t.”

“Why!?” I asked, stomping my hoof in desperation, “Why not? You know what it costs, you know what it will lead to!”

“It is the nature of the eagle to sharpen his claws, Lady. Even a King can’t go against it.” He sighed. “You’ve seen them there -- so young, so full of energy, so proud. Even if I would order them to stop this foolish plan, even if I had the power to make them listen -- they’d just come up with another scheme. This way the illusion is maintained: The King orders--” He dropped another clawful of food to his pets, “And the eagles obey.

“For us, mere mortals, all power is thus, Lady: no more than an illusion based on consent, coercion and trickery. For the illusion to be maintained in Griffinstone, Equestria shall have a war.”

“But--”

“Enough.”

He did not raise his voice or unfurl his wings. It was just the tiniest measure of power in his voice like a blast of cold wind that cut off any arguments -- he was the King and I was just a little pony, and I have overstepped the bounds he allowed.

I bowed stiffly, and with a wave of his wing I was excused and my last, desperate hope for peace was extinguished.

The Count was right: nothing I had could’ve stopped the war. And as I trotted downstairs, I swore to myself, with an oath dark and terrible: if the price for Griffon King’s power was a war in Equestria, then the House of Grover would fall.

***

I came back to the Count’s quarters, still fuming.

“By all means, be my guest Miss Shimmer,” he said nonchalantly as I barged in and plopped into one of the armchairs. “Drink my wine, eat my bread… don’t fill up though, I have ordered a dinner for us to be brought here.”

I stared him down when he suggested wine, but he wasn’t joking -- it was merely a formula of hospitality. I sighed and moved towards the table.

“I have warned you,” he didn’t say while he arranged the plates and the cutlery. The Dogs brought the food, and I poured wine, keeping my silence as well, as we settled to eat.

I took a small bite, examining the flavour. It was delicious -- succulent artichokes complemented perfectly by the tangy sauce and the sweet rose oil -- and none of the bitter notes of wormwood and almonds at the back of my tongue.

My efforts have not escaped the Count's attention.

"Don't take a bite off the side, Miss Shimmer," he recommended. "Try a different part of the dish each time. The poisoner might learn your habits, and leave a part of the dish untouched for your first taste."

"It seems evading poison is more of an art than poisoning, milord." I smiled a strained smile and followed the advice, selecting a bite at random.

"There are spells and techniques to test for poisons if you're willing to learn," he shrugged. "But there is a better method."

I ate another forkful and gesturing for him to elaborate.

"Watch for the poisoner, Miss Shimmer, not the poison. Know who has access to your foods, who has the knowledge, the means and the motive. Watch for their face when they offer food, at the dilation of their eyes and the redness of the tips of their ears: the signs of fear and guilt. Most poisoners fail due to their delivery, not their alchemy."

"So the first rule of testing for poisons is awareness?"

"Precisely."

He took a sip of his wine. I took another bite of the artichoke, this time choosing a bit at random.

"So, I never had a chance to ask - how did you find Bluette?" the Count asked. "I met her in the old Kemeli village, you know," he boasted. "In Samakh province almost by the Urusian border -- a dancer for the local sheikh, if you can believe it. We travelled back to Equestria together, and she was quite a sensation, back in the day. Though she was never content to sit in one place, always seeking for something. I never quite found what--"

"Why?!" Unable to tolerate the idle prattling any longer, I threw the fork at the plate, "Why did it not work? How can he use one scroll to start a war and then declare the other one fake? Why does anyone listen to him? It makes no sense!"

"You've insulted their pride, Miss Shimmer.” He sighed, setting his glass and story aside, and not in the least surprised by my outburst “And if there's anything more bound to aggravate a griffon it's an attack upon his pride."

"I didn't--"

"You very well did." The Count interrupted me. "To say they've been paid like common merchants, to say that their most prized possession is but Equestrian pittance... you hurt their pride, and that is something no griffon shall accept. And at the end of the day that was not what doomed your effort.

"Then what--?"

"It's not about argument or legalese or which document is true or not. It’s not even about the feelings or emotions or a wounded pride -- not directly. I could have given you words to say sweeter than honey and make your voice smoother than olive oil, and you still would have failed.

“It's about the griffon -- in the end, it's always about the pony or the griffon or the yak in question. It’s not the document that started it, not even the arimaspi’s scheming, for all the creature thinks of itself. Defeating them meant nothing.

“It is the Prince himself who wanted the war. He needed it, he put his everything into it. He can no more just stop than his bull friends can stop mid-gallop -- if you put a wall in his path, either the wall must break or him."

"I played it as if it were a game," I said, understanding finally the words I once was too stupid and priness-y to comprehend. "I still believed that if I followed the rules, if I made a good argument, scored enough points, the other side would pack up and go home in good graces. But this is not a game, and power is what matters in Griffonstone.”

"Quite so."

"And since the prince has the power, then we shall need to break him," I said grimly.

The Count laughed for a moment before he realized that I was not really joking.

"Err, no, Miss Shimmer, merely redirect. Have you seen nothing in the corrida our young friend demonstrated? We wave something colourful to attract his attention, we make the noise and distractions, and then we make sure that all that youthful energy is directed in the less... destructive path. Subtler means, Miss Shimmer, much like subtler pleasures, often prove to be the best."

He sighed, and took a sip of his champagne, enjoying the food and the drink, before he concluded.

"But we will need allies, and I will need more time. And I'll have to write a lot more letters after we’re done with the lunch."

“I’ll get us some time,” I promised. The plan, my own, not the Count’s, was starting to form in my head, a thing of sharp moving parts, silver and lead. “You do your part.”

Author's Notes:

Lived the famous Griffon King  .
Fierce he was and swift of wing,
And when scarcely more than twenty
Wrought his neighbors wrongs aplenty.
Aging now, he changed in mind,
Would give up the warlike grind
For a life serene and festive.
But his sons, now growing restive,
Caused the grizzled King alarm,

Griffon fairytale

CHAPTER XIV: POINT IN LINE

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Prince Gwyr was happy to invite me for a talk.

His room was the same as the last time -- the giant table in the middle, the cupboards and shelves with reagents.

"Sorry for the--" he started again, sitting down in one of the chairs.

"It's fine," I interrupted him. I paced around him slowly, moving past the bookshelves towards the alchemical equipment and reagents. "It was a foolish plan anyways. Nothing you could've done, milord. We learn our lesson, and we move on."

He gestured -- Gratitude, I guessed. "But what can we do?" Sorrow replaced the Gratitude as the wings drooped almost to the floor. "The convocation was my last hope. Now Gideon’s case is stronger - and he's more pig-headed - than he has ever been before."

I said nothing, waiting for him to go on.

"I am afraid that after what he said, all those eagles following him, he won't back down, won’t accept any defeat or surrender. Not until he's..." He grew silent, and I did not need to turn my head to know his wing was gesturing Fear and Concern.

"The Count and I are trying something. I cannot talk of it yet, but we need more time."

"I've got nothing," he sighed. "I exhausted every argument, trick and distraction just waiting for the ponies to arrive. Now with the convocation behind him, he's going straight to Father today, and there's little I can do."

"Your brother is strong," I agreed, walking now between the rows of the bottles, calciners, and worm-pipes, reading the labels as I went. "He's a powerful griffon, and his ideas have captured your kin. But the whole thing hinges upon him and his strength. Were he to fall ill..." I levitated a bottle of nightshade, "or should his strength abandon him" -- I added a vial of featherbane to the nightshade, "the war would be postponed."

Or perhaps... My eyes slid over the arsenic and cyanide and the jarrin root. ...averted entirely.

"And your brother's life would be spared," I said instead.

Still, he hesitated, his gaze switching between me and the poison, unable to decide.

"You cannot be..." His wing shot up in disbelief and fell back down. "My own brother!"

“We are of the same blood, ye and I, Prince.” I turned to look at him, twisting the words once used as a sign of trust into a weapon. “They are the brave, the bold, the charismatic. We…” my helpless shrug was only half-fake. “Are not. Such is the truth of the world, this or otherwise -- they wield the power, they get the spotlight. All we ever get is the hard decisions -- and regrets.”

“Aye,” he echoed softly, his eyes settling on the vials I’ve arranged on his table. “Regrets. One way or the other.”

***

An Equestrian party can be a sort of high wizardry in its own right when the right party-pony takes the reigns and Dame Strawberry was very good. Yet I could not shake away the feeling of wrongness whenever I looked. Plush Equestrian carpets clashed with the hard masonry of the walls, the bright colors of the party-ribbons seemed pale under the leaden winter skies of Griffonstone, and the strange mix of soft and flowing Equestrian materials and the harsh architecture of Gormenghast seemed almost unnaturally perverse to my eyes.

Still, there was certainly unicorn magic at play -- not quite the one cast with the horn, not magic of spells and energies, but the one the Count was teaching me. The ritual of the party, the games and snacks, the cosy plush room pulled even the proudest of griffons into joking and boasting, trying their claw in pony games and stuffing their faces with pastries and hot cocoa.

But not all games and not all tables were equally occupied by the griffons. There was a subtle tension in the room, and the eagles aligned themselves along it, like iron filings stuck between two lodestones.

On one end there was the King, watching the crowd from his high throne-like chair. Even though there was a table at the foot of the throne, with ponies pulling cards from the piles and moving tokens aroubd the board, the King was alone, apart from everyone else. He sat still, like a statue of himself, brow furrowed, his attributes dropped on the clawrests. Only once in a while he'd make a gesture or comment on the game in front of him, but griffons and ponies listened when he did. But now, when the true nature of his power was revealed to me, I could see what eluded me when I have first seen him, that obscured behind the veil of his Power there was something wrong with him, like a shade cast across King's brow, a haze -- in the nigh-invisible slump of his back, in the crease of his forehead, the lethargic movement of his wings, in the eyes that looked not at the board but studied the floor as if trying to find something.

Dame Leaf was playing at the same table, trying to talk him in between the moves, but it was futile -- even I could already see the currents of the floor set against her motion. Whatever she was saying would not be relevant, not to the King, not to the Prince and therefore ultimately not to Griffinstone.

At the other end, there was the Prince. Power is the ultimate aphrodisiac, and he had it in spades: he stood out like a rock above the ebb and flow of the floor: It's not his strength that singled him out, not the peacock-like opulence of the silver and gemstones -- it's how he moved, puffing himself bigger with wings and feathers, crowding in and filling the space, making others back away, a waxing-waning tide of dominant body language. His self-confidence, the magic of griffons, the shadow of Boreas behind his back -- the pure mana he had over everypony else made him the second centre of gravity around which the griffons arranged themselves, a second axis mundi in the microcosm of the room, chicks and tercels alike drawn into the aura of his power.

He reached for the wine, his wings and muscles flexing.

"Maybe you should lay off the drink, brother," Gwyr suggested, as always at his brother's side. "You've been stuck to the bottle since yesterday."

"I am not drunk!" Gideon waved his brother's protestations away and snatched the bottle out of Gwyr's claws. "I have the metabolic endurance of ten eagles!" He twisted off the cork, and took a swig straight out of the bottle, wiping his beak with his wing. "Tonight, Gwyr. It happens tonight."

His coterie, a motley cavalcade of chicks and tercels vying for his attention stiffened at his words.

"Tonight." the whisper rolled through them, "to the West. To take what is ours!"

A voice was missing from this chorus: Lord Graven was not joining the party. He was still supposed to be somewhere in the castle hospital -- the last I heard he was too hurt to transport. A small, if delightful comfort in this situation.

“But first, I’m gonna show you--” he grabbed a ponytail off the silver tray held by the dogs, and let one of the griffons blindfold him, ”--how you pin a tail on the pony.”

“Your Highness,” the Count stepped up as if on a cue, pulling carefully Gwyr aside into a group of older griffons. “A word?”

They herded him towards another game, something with dice and cards.

"We hoped you could join our game."

"Your council would mean a lot..."

I kept half listening in theconversation as I moved through the crowd, mixing with this crowd or that and keeping up the appearance of participation. Meanwhile, I scanned the enfilades and the little prince. He too had a place in our -- my -- plan today.

He was up on a remote perch, clutching his notebook and watching the ponies quietly, with a dreamy expression of a colt preparing to unpack the biggest Hearthwarming present.

For a second our eyes met, but I turned away quickly, stepping back into the pony crowd. And back to the Count’s games.

“I will talk to my brother, but...” Gwyr, spread his claws apologetically “we would need something more to move him.”

“Well, perhaps…” the hesitation in that griffon’s voice, the way he stepped forward, almost pushing the Count away, “perhaps Your Highness would consider that if it weren’t your brother making the decision…”

“What?”

“If the heir were to step down… let the cooler head prevail temporarily…” he dropped his voice so low I could barely pick out the words now. “...or perhaps even per--”

“I can’t help you, my lords.” Gwyr’s expression turned hard, wings stiff at his side.

"But the Kings will--"

"Will always be fulfilled. But so far King-my-Father has not yet spoken on this matter."

"And we believe he will not. Please, Your Highness, you must do something. If the pony was right, we'd be breaking an oath sworn, and griffons word..."

"Is as true as the mountains, yes, yes, I know. Look, my lords, I will stall as long as I can..." He shot a short glance towards me that I pretended not to notice. "Meanwhile, there's nothing more I could do."

"Perhaps your Highness would consider..." the Count tried to intercene.

"I'm sorry." Gwyr's voice went strained for a second, his wings rising to Warning. "There's nothing more I can do for you, my lords. Please."

"But.."

"Gwyr--" the elder Prince interrupted them, "it's your turn, brother."

"Huh." He looked at the pony target -- still tailless. "You missed."

"Shut up, and take your turn." The Prince forced his wings from Irritation into half-Jest and punched his brother in the shoulder. "Consider it your chance to win for once."

They left the Count stitting at histood there there for a while, as the griffons abandoned him, moving on to the next game. He sat there pensively,staring at the tabletop and idly rearranging the cards in his hoof as if he could still change the outcome of the game.

My pockets heavy with the things Gwyr did not dare to use and therefore would not miss, I joined him.

"Wine?" I offered, raising the bottle from within my saddlebag. It was one of his vintages, and I've already started working through it.

He nodded gratefully, taking the bottle from my magic and gulping down a glass.

"That bad, huh?" I poured again, and stepped behind him, putting my hooves on his back, my tail hugging over his flank. He was tense, but a little touch, a little wine and he started to relax.

“Something is wrong,” he said. “It’s not going as I hoped it would. You did too good a job, Miss Shimmer. I hoped you would attract the Prince's attention, but your... fighting spirit has made him more sure that the little ponies are a worthy adversary."

"It's a poor master who blames his tools," I shrugged, working through the stubborn knot in his back, and almost able to feel the intense stare from where the little prince’s perch was. “And no plan survives contact with the enemy.”

“At least the Prince has not made his declaration. Whatever it is that you did clearly worked -- I was half afraid he’ll declare it right here and now, with everypony present.“

“I tried my best,” I said modestly, “but what of your part?”

"I hoped Queen Novo would arrive, then I’d bring her right to the Prince, right to the King if I had to! Then they’d listen.” He finished the glass. ”I don't know how they got their hooves on their accursed pearl, but now they don't need us, don't need Griffonstone. Darn cowards, running away into their underwater caves!"

"In the matters of life and death," I noted, "one's friends have a habit of disappearing quickly. And allies... well,their number goes to even less than zero. It was bravely done, milord," I smirked vengefully, "but it was a doomed effort."

“Just do your part, Miss Shimmer.” He gave me an angry look, “and I’ll do mine. There’s still the Prince, at least.” He marched off, pushing through the crowd to find Gideon.

I had to give the lordling his due -- at least he was persistent. Even if it was the persistence of a gambler doubling down on a rigged game.

I moved in the other direction, circling slowly widdershins through the crowd, and as I tried to find the Princes again, I almost stumbled into Bluette.

Surrounded by a crowd of every sort of creature she was... flirting is too small a word for what she was doing. A flick of a mane, a smile, a wave of the tail. Warm tone with the slightest equestrian accent, throaty, silken, gratitude for every small favour, her wing flutters like butterfly to chest, to leg, to shoulder, summer peach-scented fragrances intoxicate, promises unsaid confuse the thoughts.

I wanted to go there, and throw those griffons out, to claim her as my own by right of conquest, to drink the breath from her lips like sweetest wine. To want, to take, to have.

She raised her head, noticing me, and smiled, the way only she could -- the way that is meant just for me. My heart would’ve melted if it were still in my chest, and I could almost feel the sweet summer peaches of her fragrance. She was art, she was grace: impossible to quantify, and my thoughts scattered like scared butterflies, even as I smiled back, hiding the sudden blush behind my fan.

I wanted to come up to her, to bask in her presence, to ask to be invited again into her cloud-house, but I had no gift, no tribute to bring her…

Forcing myself to look away, I found the Princes again -- just in time.

"Your Highness..." The Count reached them just as Gideon was taking off the blindfold, and looking at the pony-tail stabbed deep into the stone.

Nowhere near where the pony flank was.

"Go away little pony." The prince's wing shot up in anger, as he ripped the blindfold again from the servant-dog's paws. "I'm going again!"

"Perhaps you did have too much," there was worry in Gwyr's voice now, not levity.

"Shut up, Gwyr." The Prince stood back, annoyed at his miss. “It’s just rotten luck.”

I grabbed a few tiny sandwiches while I watched. This was about to get really interesting. After some thought I kept the whole tray to myself -- something really worked up my appetite today.

He fumbled with his claw and the silken handkerchief slipped through his talons, dropping on the floor, and the prince swayed almost falling to the ground.

"Gideon--"
“Milord--”
"Your Highness--"

"What?!"

The griffons said nothing, pointing at Gideon's trembling claw as if it were made of living snakes.

"What are you looking at?!" he dropped it on the floor, pushing the palm into the stone to force the tremors away.

"Perhaps you did have too much," Gwyr's wings moved to Worry. "Or maybe you're ill?"

"Shut up, Gwyr." he twitched his wing.

"But Gideon you're clearly..."

Gideon's wing lashed his brother across the face, and he raised his claw. "I said shut up!"

"Brother I," Gwyr was at a loss of words, "I meant no... I didn't mean!"

"Do you think I'm weak?!" Another wave of the wing and the blast of cold air threw him off his legs before he could stand up. "Now?! How dare you!"

"Young Prince was just just conce-" the Count tried to intervene, grabbing Prince's wing in his magic, but it was a mistake - Gideon anger switched to him now.

"Little pony, you dare challenge me in my castle?" Gideon twisted on the spot, and hung over Fancy like a rock over the waves. "Perhaps you'd like to take my brother's place? Do you too think I'm sick, or ill? Maybe you wish to step into the arena with me?"

"Err, I'm sure there's no need..."

"Do." With each word the temperature in the room dropped by another ten degrees. "You." Glass in the Count's hoof cracked from the cold coiled around the prince like a spring ready to be released. "Challenge me?"

"I..."

I saw the exact moment the Count lost his nerve. When his voice broke, his eyes lowered and ears flattened against his head, and his knees grew, for a second, weak.

He looked around wildly, trying to find me, to get me to step in, but I knew not to be in sight.

A little pony, all alone, save for a giant griffon hanging over him -- he was not ready for this.

"No. Not at all. I was mistaken and I apologize." he tried to look nonchalant, and suave, but it was just words. Power mattered, and there was no clearer way to show that he had none.

"Good." The Prince's tone grew low now, sinister, and his power flowed across the room, chilling ponies and griffons alike, freezing the game pieces to the boards and hooves to strings of the instrument. "Anyone else think I am weak? Anyone else dare challenge me?!"

"GIDEON!" The King rose in his throne across the room, and his voice was like a steel trumpet covering the music and the voices of everypony in the room. "What is the meaning of this?!" he jumped -- flew -- towards the row in one flap of his wings and a single breeze, the crowd scattering before him, and in a span of an eyeblink he was there, between Gideon and the Count. “What do you have to say for yourself?” The King hung over the Prince.

Gideon looked around, but his coterie scattered before the King like leaves before the wind, and he wasn't ready, not yet, not so fast, not with his own body so close to betraying him.

"The ponies are my guests. They drank our wine, they ate our bread, and you dare start a fight? Have you no pride?!"

"Y-you!" Gideon, suddenly confronted by his Father and his King in the worst moment imaginable, tried to gather his thoughts after his outburst. "I have... me and the eagles..." he looked around at the eagles scattered by his outburst, still watching his wings and claws for the treacherous tremble. “N-no.” His muscles knotted so tightly that I wondered how his ligaments hadn't been torn out at the roots, “there was no fight, sire -- just a little misunderstanding." He lowered his eyes. "It's all sorted now. Isn't it?"

“Y-yes.” The Count nodded, still taken by the fear it came out less like a nod and more like a spasm. “All sorted now, Your Majesty.”

"May I please be excused, sire?" At King's annoyed wing-gesture, the Prince turned, and, ignoring his brother's attempts to follow him, took off.

Slowly, the party got back on its track, though there was no more joviality to it.

The Count tried to muster some gratitudes or apologies, but the King had barely spared him a glance and a nod before releasing him from his royal presence, letting Fancy drag himself back to the edges of the crowd.

Meanwhile, I did have my own part, and my own Prince to play. I slipped back and found my way towards where the crowd was thin, and quiet. Hiding behind my fan, I waited, like a spider waiting for a fly.

It did not take long -- not even a few minutes had passed when he landed by my side. Quietly, almost without inflection he recited:

‘How often, by the motley crowd surrounded,
When to my eyes, as in a dream confounded
Tossed in the din of music, laughter, dance
And whispered buzz of shallow chattering talk
The soulless images of the creatures stalk’

“Do you not find the party entertaining, my lord?” I asked, still not looking at him. “The ponies worked very hard for it.”

"It's not the party, it's the griffons." It must have taken practice -- I could never show such subtle emotion with just my fan. That gesture, that subtly inflected wing, that showed both intention to jest and lack of laughter, like making a sad smile. “It was supposed to be a friendship meeting. Ponies coming from all the way to Equestria to visit us here. Dancing, making merry, making friends with the ponies. Instead, everyone sits in their corner, fake smiles and fake words, making politics." He spat the word like an oath, his coltish falsetto breaking with emotion it could not contain.

Looking at the dance hall from above I could see it now. Plastic eyes, fake smiles, no one saying what they meant, no one meaning what they said, all looking not at each other but at the King and the Prince. The herd of ponies did walk as in a dream, confounded and helpless, only the stiff upper lip and manners of nobility drilled into them since birth, keeping them going through the rote movements of polite friendliness, even as their minds refused to comprehend what had almost happened seconds ago.

Galad did have an uncanny eye -- the griffon’s golden eye -- for detail, and quite a way with words.

“I’m sorry--”
“I apologi--”

We both grew quiet after the awkward interruption.

“I’m sorry about our family squabbles spoiling the party.” He finally went first. “They always squabble, but never like that.”

"I'm sorry too. For that thing you had to witness last evening," I said, snuggling deeper into my cape. "But the Count, he--" I interrupted myself. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing I can do anyway.”

“Well, just tell him to keep away! You don’t have to wait on him, wing and claw like you did.”

"But I cannot. I have to -- I am to be married to him," I lied. This sounded ridiculous when I said it out loud, like a line from cheap melodrama, but the princeling took to it like a hound to the trail, ruffling his feathers and watching me with wide eyes. “The Count has demanded me as his trophy, his prize for brokering the peace -- and it had been granted. This is where my life of adventure and studying magic is going to end.”

"Well," the poor tercel tried to come up with something to say. "Count Fancy is not that bad a pony, I'm sure yesterday was not..."

"Oh he puts up a front," I interrupted him, bitterly, "I even thought he was courting me. I told him no and..." I moved the fan over my face, removing Bluette's glamour and make-up, revealing all the marks of the recent encounter with the arimaspi. The broken lip, stitches still visible, the bruised side of the face that looked like a purple nightmare under the coat, the cuts and abrasions... the Prince paled and stretched to brush over my bruises with his wing, as if to make sure that they were real. "What he wants - he gets. And he is not gentle when he gets it."

“Can’t you do anything?” He asked, my feigned desperation infecting him. “Fight it?”

There is a sadness in my eyes, just as we practised, a subtle shadow of something mournful laid over my face. I turned away, covering it with my mane, and wrapping tighter into my dress, in a posture of tightly closed insecurity.

“But… you’re a hero! A sorceress, a student of the Princess -- you fought Graven, you even stood up to my brother!. How could anyone make you do anything?”

"My Princess is wise and kind," I sighed. “But she has a kingdom to rule and I am but one of her subjects. Count Fancy is powerful in politics,rich in wealth and influence -- if the choice would be made it would not be in my favour. And I do not wish to force my Princess to make that choice."

My shoulders shook, and I turned my head to catch the light on the tear in my eye. A troubled young lady, way over her head, hoping, beyond hope for a knight in shining armour to save her.

“I would fight tooth and horn if I could. But he always moves in the shadows, never appears head-on. He… haunts me, where I cannot strike, he threatens my father’s livelihood and my mother’s career and I…” I suppressed a sob, hiding my face behind a fan.

"Something must be done," a swish of tail slashed across the Prince's flank. “There has to be a way to do something.”

"Perhaps… perhaps I could run away.” I said, “to Aris Mountain or Frozen North, to hide from him. "

“No!” he said, “there got to be a better way.” An idea occurred to him, finally, and his wings moved slowly to Resolve. "I will try to do something. To defend you, to help you. Here!" He grabbed a brooch from his chest and pressed it into my hoof. "Find Miss Bluette, give it to her. She is a little pony too, she will help you, hide you from him. I’ll find you there."

"I can't! It must be priceless." The gems alone, the best I could appreciate, cost more than my entire house back home.

He waved his wing. "I intended to give it to her anyway. When I grew up." His cheeks grew pink, and he covered his blush when his wing moved to Embarrassment. "But now..." he waved his posture away. "You're more important."

“Thank you!” I breathed out, not forgetting a quiet sob of relief. I took a bit of time to fix my mane, as I restored my self-possession, which I’d never lost. Finally, my mane fixed, and my face back to the appearance of calm, I summoned another rose from the air. I held it in my magic for a moment before I tucked it into my own mane.

Not yet.

As the Count had told me: The promise of reward is the best coin -- and the cheapest one to mint.

Author's Notes:

If He play, being young and unskilful, for shekels of silver and gold, 
Take His money, my son, praising fortune. The kid was ordained to be sold.

Fancy Pants, Count Hoofington
Certain Maxims of Hisan

CHAPTER XV: CHANGE OF ENGAGEMENT

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"What have you done?"

I ignored the lordling and went straight for my flask. I took a sip -- bitter and burning, just as usual -- and I threw it back on the table. I liked the feeling, that feverish excitement after my talk with the Prince, almost like a buzz of the arena and I didn’t want to mute it with the drink.

"Miss Shimmer!"

"I did as you asked, Fancy," I snapped. "The princeling is all riled up. At this rate will be ready to take me to the Idol by tomorrow."

“I meant the heir! I had time to think about what happened, and it shouldn’t have. I have never seen Gideon like this before. What he did to Gwyr, the way he behaved after...He’s like a tercel possessed, almost rabid. And those twitches... -- there’s something wrong with him, and I can’t but think it’s your hooves doing. What have you done?!”

"Ah, yes," I said smugly, almost giggling, "That's what fear does to a pony. Or an eagle, I suppose. Threaten to take away what they value most, what defines them and they turn berserk, willing to do anything to get it back, pay any price. It is his flaw, the chink in the armour of Prince’s soul."

"So it was you! What. Did. You. Do?!"

"I did nothing." I did not like his tone. "His brother, on the other hoof.... poison, or else a curse, something to take away his brother's power, sap his strength, and well, the results speak for themselves. Weakness brings fear, fear leads to anger. As we have seen.” I looked pointedly at my empty glass, but the Count did not seem to notice.

"I knew brothers like that once," I added when he said nothing. "Envy and adoration, love that borders on self-hatred. All it takes is just one little push."

“You stupid girl!" The Count hissed. He was seething with anger of his recent humiliation, barely contained within his eerily calm tone. "You rank, arrogant amateur--!"

He stopped when he felt the velvet of the fan at his neck, steel tickling under his chin. "Take care of your words, milord,” I said coldly. “Some parts of you Equestria needs..." Another fan came up behind and below, "others I merely like."

“Miss Shi--” I stood up, my steel at his throat, my magic flooding all over his body, reminding him just how much stronger I was. “Be reasonable! Now is not the time.”

“Apologize.”

“What?”

"Remember this:" I said, tightening my magic grip, "I am stronger than you." my magic constricted around him, as I swatted away his feeble counter-spell. "Faster than you." A fan drew blood from his throat. "More powerful than you. And there is nothing you can do to stop me."

His irises like pinpricks as he fought for every breath, mesmerised by the vision of death that was me.

"And I will not be treated like a misbehaving child. Are we clear?"

"I apologize." Weakness - in every motion, in every single breath, same as I have seen before -- but what else could I expect? He was a Canterlot nobling after all. He was just a little pony.

I released him.

"But you must understand, Miss Shimmer,” he took a swig of wine to calm down, to drown out the whiny notes in his voice before he put it back under control, “You’ve overstepped and made the position untenable. We still have no solution for our common problem -- and we're no closer to preserving the peace between Griffonstone and Equestria than when we started." His voice was calm and his hooves did not tremble, but there were still the leaden notes of fear, the snivelling, fawning overtones in his voice.

The fear of the monster, of the raving, unhinged psychopath who could do anything with no provocation, whom you’re powerless to stop -- I knew that well. I packed away my fans and reached for the snuffbox. "And it's only a matter of time before they figure out the reason for the Prince's ailment."

"Precisely, Miss Shimmer, you understa--"

"And once they do, whoever they find shall be the focus of Prince's ire."

"It'd be High Treason," the Count said still aghast, "or, in your case, casus belli. With how he behaved today, he’ll go after you. No matter who tries to protect you -- me, Galad, Celestia herself -- they will throw them off the highest wall of Gormenghast, and then there will be war like there has never been before or ever will be again!"

"So someone else will have to take the blame." I raised Galad's feather.

He stared.

"This is the wall that will break the Prince. Even if he breaks it first -- just as you said."

“What you propose--” his hoof trembled when he brought the wine to his lips, gulping it nervously down. “It’s too much. Sunset, he may end up dead. If you do that, if you keep provoking the heir, Galad - that griffon, that person may be dead before the end of the week.”

I looked at him, bereft of words for a second, unable to process the sheer folly of what he said.

“This is war. Enemies die.”

“It’s not war yet, Miss Shimmer, that’s what we’re trying to--”

“‘The Statesman who, knowing his instrument to be ready, and seeing War inevitable, hesitates to strike first is guilty of a crime against his country.’” I let my history books speak for me again, interrupting his babbling. “Sometimes it’s most cruel to be kind -- you know that milord, you must know that. The war is already here, and we must strike first.”

He looked away. “I will think about it,” he said, but there was no conviction in his voice.
"Don't pretend you didn't want this, Fancy. You wanted this. You needed this. That's why you asked me."

"I did not!"

"Oh yes, you did. You didn't want me for my magic, for finding that scroll or my friendship with the little Princes. No, you wanted me for my savagery. You wanted a pony that killed."

"No... I needed someone..."

"Strawberry Leaf is a great diplomat. She's a good leader, she's better than me in every regard, except in one: She's a good little pony. My only advantage, the only thing I stand out in the whole delegation is that I'm a monster. No pony else in Equestria has taken the life of another in hundreds of years - Sun above, Fancy, they can barely stand to break rules, much less break bones. And I -- I am a monster. You wanted this Fancy and that is what you got."

He looked away. “I will consider it,” he said, but there was no conviction in his voice.

That weakness again.... was it fear or foolishness that impelled him to stall?

"Please. Think about it," I asked again. I don't know why I needed him to agree, but I wanted it so badly -- some approval, a confirmation that what I was going to do was the right thing. A command and permission to do what we both knew needed to be done -- was it really too much to ask for?

"Fine," I relented after he would not say anything. "there's still time." The time I had no intention of wasting. I reached for the bottle I had prepared. "Meanwhile - more wine, milord?"

***

I needed to talk to someone. Not plot, or plan, or scheme, not to recite the lines fed to me by the Count, especially now, after our fall out. I needed a conversation, a warm touch of another pony, a normal equine connection. With Prince’s token in tow, I found myself at Bluette's door.

The servants took my gift and let me through without a word, guiding me to her bedroom.

She was playing a melody I did not know. It was a lyre -- that much I could recognize, even if I never really had much taste for classical music. It was never my thing, no matter how much Celestia tried to push it on me, but still, I stood and listened for a while, guessing at the notes. The fourth, the fifth, the minor fall, then -- major lift…

I pushed the door open.

"I played this melody for the King once." She set the lyre aside. "They said it pleased Lord Guto. But you're not here for music, are you?"

I shifted uneasily. I didn't know why I came here, exactly, and all the recited lines evaporated from my head when I saw her.

"Sit child." She pointed to the place on the floor at her hooves, relieving me of the need to choose what to do and what to say. "Your mane is a mess, and we can talk while I fix it."

I settled down and she produced a tortoiseshell comb, parting my mane with gentle strokes.

It was relaxing, just sitting there at the feet of her chair, leaning into the monotone, almost hypnotising strokes. It brought back memories of childhood when I would come home, climb into the bathtub and wait for my mom to come back from work and wash my mane.

“I saw you with the Count on the marble arch.” She smiled as her hoof untangled some invisible knot in my mane. “Bravely done, little lady, but you’re too direct. Love is not a victory march, it is a subtle art.”

"There is no marching. It’s the Count -- he's so..." I gestured my annoyance. "...annoying."

"Ah," she said. "Annoying."

Her placating brushing held me in place when I wanted to turn her to check for signs of irony or mocking.

"Let me guess how it went, child." she ventured. "He came to you first -- when you were distracted, your emotions roused. He mocked you -- just a barb: a half-hearted compliment, a little sting, soothed by praise, or perhaps some form of alliance, commonality implied. ‘Us’ against ‘them’, as if you were of one blood, him and you, an inner circle of some sort."

I wanted to protest, but she thumped me on the head with the comb before I could speak.

"Hush now, child, hush and listen."

My nod was rewarded by the comb returning to my mane. Another rule of hers -- a tender touch for silence, a little pain for interruptions. I learned my lesson and kept quiet.

"There was a thing -- not quite a gift. Something for you to keep on his behalf. Precious, but not overwhelming, new, but not exceptional. A memento, reminding of him, an excuse for him to drop by whenever he pleased."

I thought to the snuff box of patinated silver and baby-blue sapphire I still carried with me, and said no word. A pet on the head, straightening out a stubborn cowlick, was my reward, like a cat scratched behind the ears.

"He offered you help then," she continued. "Whenever you'd want something -- money or skill, he'd be there to offer his assistance, his resources. Not too close, almost indifferent, but always present, a mentor to the young ingenue, a father figure to the little filly. He’d barb you on occasion, making you angry. Making you think of him."

That…. That was a good guess. But that was all there was to it. It had to be.

"And then finally a clincher. A dash of peacockery, dazzling a young girl with his knowledge and his wealth, and then there'd be something else. A touch? A smell?"

"You can't know that!" I protested and got another light smack for breaking the rule.

"Oh, I know so much more than that, child. Let me demonstrate." She did something behind me, making my neck shiver with a cold draft of strange magic.

"No peeking, child," she ordered before I even thought of turning back, “you don’t want to spoil a surprise, do you?”

Obediently I kept to watching the wall, listening intently to the rustling behind, focusing on the changing smells, until I felt it, one note among all of the various fragrances she released in the air, the same thin, acerbic scent that made me so distracted when I was talking with the Count.

"There we go." She didn't need any confirmation from me -- she read my mood in the sudden tension of my spine, the shiver of my coat. "You're from Baltimare, child, aren't you? The harbour area."

She laughed. Her laughter was rich and sweet, like coffee with milk, and the comb returned, dipping lower and brushing my tail now. There would be no answer to my question, voiced or unvoiced, merely the scent that drifted through the room, the brushing of the comb. It was something my Princess would do sometimes when she still tutored me personally -- the answer hidden within the question itself.

I closed my eyes, remembering the Count's impromptu lesson on wine-tasting, trying to feel and describe the scent, filtering out the heavy heat of the room and Bluette’s smell of summer peaches, concentrating on just the thin perfume. It was a cheap scent; sharp, chemical and citrusy.

Baltimare… -- that’s why I did not recognize it before. I was too used to feeling it interleaved with something else: the smell of old books and dust and salty water of harbour outside the window. A smell of home, where a filly could climb on her father's wide pleather armchair to look at the strange accounting books and play with the click-clacking abacus, and hear him explain how the numbers told of exotic winds and brave sailors bringing goods and magics from towns and countries far and near.

A low growl escaped my lips. I've been played -- for longer and much more thoroughly than I ever thought.

"All things are fair in love and war, child." Bluette petted me on the head. "And it seems you've been a victim of both. Now bring me the wine," she commanded, done with my tail, and giving me a push with her hind hoof, "it's on the high shelf, downstairs."

I brought her wine as she demanded, and sat at her hooves as she talked of love and of the games ponies play. She gave me the lesson on the things that govern kings and ladies, mages and paupers, and I thought of how Count has played me, and I would play the little prince. There was no revelation in her lesson, no single moment of "Eureka" where I could see the light -- for all that it was true, it was a cold and broken revelation.

And then, when I grew tired, and the wine ran out and the sun had left the sky, she drew me upon herself, and I pulled on her silken toga to uncover the softness of her belly. There was more softness down below, where her coat grew shorter and thinner.

There, upon the couch, she gave me another lesson on love -- one without words. I studied it thoroughly too.

***

I fell asleep after we moved to her cloud-bed, luxuriously warm in her embrace.

In my dream, I had two shadows, one black and sharp-edged, the other translucent and forever wavering, like heat haze, and smelled faintly of summer peaches. And in the red, pulsing room that was also my heart, I gave myself advice in soft velvet whispers.

I remembered none when I awoke, but neither have I truly forgotten them.

***

I woke up famished, full of coiling, frenetic energy, and just in time for my nighttime rendezvous.

The Prince already waited for me eagerly, pacing along the short landing.

"Are you alright?" He asked as I stepped into the light of the sole torch.

"I'm fine. I was hiding here today, as you said. He cannot follow me here."

"Good, that's good." He tried to imitate the sage nod his brother tended to give, but on him, it looked more awkward than wise. "But you cannot persist like that forever.”

I said nothing, as the Count had told me to. Conversation, much like nature, abhors a vacuum. Let the eaglet fill it -- he will say things he never would have said otherwise, lead himself further than I could ever do.

“Something must be done!” A swish of the wing, a tail lashing at his side, he worked himself up further and further. “Before he hurts you again. I will not allow it! I cannot!”

His voice echoed off the walls, dissolving into silence and darkness.

"You..." his voice broke, when he finally reached the obvious idea. "You could stay here. I could protect you!

"I could ask Father..." he fell quiet. "No, he wouldn't, not with Gideon's stupid ploys. And Gwyr is such a coward, he'd never go against Gideon." He paced again, his claws scratching the stone, his wings raised in impotent Anger. "I have to do it myself. I don't need their permissions."
he said, his tail swishing angrily. “I… I am not my brother's subject!"

It was close, but it was not enough. There was still a hesitation in his words, a slight hitch. I needed him to commit, to push him past all doubt.

"I am sorry.." with the Сount's guidance, my voice became a musical instrument of uncanny precision. Speech that dripped, corroded and poisoned with the subtle stresses, seeping right through the chinks in what little armour the princeling had. "But whatever you do -- your brother would simply overrule you. He's the King-to-be, and you are..."

"A child," he said bitterly. "Eternal Prince, never the King."

I said nothing again, letting the awkward silence twist of the knife in the wound of his pride.

"No!" His wide wing gesture, his stretched claw -- a gesture of Resolve so full of pathos it almost made me laugh. He truly was now a hero of his own story playing out the giddy gossamer dreams that little colts and eaglets learn from ballads and books. “Gideon is not the only Prince. I can wield the power of the Idol just like he does! I will leave a mark on you, and you'll be one of us then, a citizen of Griffonstone. No one will be able to touch you!

“No one..."

He repeated as the meaning of his own words reached his ears. His wing wavered, his posture deflated.

I needed something more; just one last push, and in that instant, split-second decision you rationalize after the fact, I moved closer to him, putting my front hoof on the fluff of his puffed-out chest.

"Would you do that?" as if by magic, my voice trembled. "Go against your brother? Your father? For me?" Those strange overtones, that filled my voice, the perfect pleading look, as my hoof traced across his chest, the trembling lip -- It was not something I recited with the Count, it was a strange intuition, rising from within my mind... I would've frowned if I weren't afraid to break the spell I just weaved.

“I would!” he declared, making fists with his claws, his chest puffing out, and wings flaring, gesturing resolve. “I will!”

A lightning-sharp jolt of success, scared and surprised even myself. I had him! No muscle moved on my muzzle, and still, my face was downcast, only barely lit by the fragile hope of the desperate, but on the inside, I cried the savage joy of my triumph.

"Tomorrow." He muttered feverishly, drunk on his own rebelliousness. "Tomorrow, yes, tomorrow. When Gid leaves with the winds. At night. I shall meet you in the hall between the Room of the Silver Bells and the Porcelain Gallery at the witching hour. There is a door, and then.. " he gestured Secrecy -- no, not Secrecy, this gesture was more of a promise of surprise -- "you'll see."

Author's Notes:

I want to live; I crave for sadness - 
Against my bliss and love, in truth; 
They sank my mind in idle gladness 
And made my brow so very smooth. 

It's time for high life's derogation
To blow away the hazy peace;
What is bard's life, void of desolation?
And what are void of tempests seas?

Galad, Prince of Griffonstone
Notebook in private collection

CHAPTER XVI: SECOND INTENT

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I did it the next night, when we were together and the Count was inside me. Lying on his back, he let me take control, to move my hips in my own time. We reeked of sweat and sex, a panting, wet mess of bedsheets and mutual pleasure.

I lowered my barrel to his, finding his neck with my lips, feeling the hastened thump-thump-thump of his blood through his jugular, in rhythm with the throbbing of his flesh within me, and then moving lower, caressing and tasting, the wave of my flowing mane sweeping over him like an aftershock of bites and kisses.

My tongue snaked in between the coat of his chest, finding the bare skin, and then went deeper. With a spark of emerald, it darted through, and I tasted salt and iron beneath, probing deeper and deeper beneath his skin, pulling the wound wider with my tongue and my hooves.

His breath caught with the sudden stimulation, and his hips rolled and surged, hitting deep and strong, forcing me to moan with pleasure. It surged through me, up the spine and through my horn, weaving into the spell I was doing, fuelling the green and the black that poured into the widening wound, and I watched the spell bloom in sync with the heat that was building in my nethers, coiling around his heart, spreading its tendrils up his spine and into his veins.

I closed my eyes, shuddering with pleasure, but still, I could see his figure, a skinless creature of arteries, muscles and organs lit from within by the green of my magic -- a macabre exhibit of anatomical theatre thrusting and writhing in the empty darkness, the poison flower of my spell growing within.

He wheezed and and rasped beneath me, but he couldn’t stop the movement of his hips, thrusting deeper and deeper into me, bringing me closer to the point of no return, even as I delved inside of him with my magic in turn - a debased, perverted union of lust and sorcery.

“Faster...”
“More...”
“Close...”

Whether he said it or I didn’t matter. It was a perfect unity of will and passion, magic turning my whispers to his desires, to the movement of the bodies, to the mingling of the flesh and fluids. And then, inevitably the whiteness exploded from beneath like a nova, flashing through me like lighting and I arched my back and gripped him tight inside me, my horn pulling on the green strings of the spellcraft.

My target slipped through the gash in his skin, and his eyes widened as he saw his own heart, severed from his body, floating in the air in front of my face. It rotated slowly, suspended by the thin threads of my magic, still dripping blood and ichor that left black stains on the whiteness of his coat.

“Wha…” he tried to speak up, but it was too late. His own release had found him, and he gripped my flanks and pulled me in closer, pouring inside of me.

He orgasmed as he died, the twitches of his flesh inside me merging with the last fits of his agony, ichor dripping of his bleeding heart like emeralds in the green grip of my magic. Not quite the blue blood claimed by nobility -- just regular Type Q.

Common as muck.

I rode his final thrusts out even as I levitated a leaden box to capture the heart, the click of the lock echoing his final pulse.

My horn sparked with a final bit of magic, and the green flower of my spell bloomed, pulsing with his blood and my power, a living, hungry thing intertwined with his body, shuddering with its own, alien life. A beat of the pulse, and another, the spell within him convulsing and pushing his blood through his veins. He drew a long, ragged breath, coming back to life, and opened his emerald-green eyes.

We fell apart, spent and out of breath. Chill night air breezed through the hairs of my coat caressing my foam-covered flanks, as I clutched the box with my prize to my chest.

“What…’’ he tried again. I could feel him move, touching his chest with his hoof, where I knew his flesh has already been re-knit into a thin scar by my magic. “What have you done to me?”

“I took your heart,” I said, still not entirely believing it myself. “And put my magic in its stead.”

“Why?”

I scoffed - that lesson I’ve already learned.

“Plomo o plata, my lord, a foundation for my trust. Your silver is your freedom from the arimaspi and this - this is your lead. Cross me over, leave me behind, try to go against my plan… even if you manage such a feat now, a witch like myself in possession of your heart will give you more than just a heartburn.”

“I should be afraid.” He wasn’t. “I should fear and hate you now. For tricking me, for binding me, for threatening me… but somehow I don’t.” There was a surprise in his voice, the detached curiosity of someone probing for a missing tooth with his tongue.

“You can say your heart just isn’t in it,” I could not resist the pun. “It’s my magic that beats in your chest, my little lord, and my will that keeps the blood flowing through your veins. You could no more wish to act against me than you could wish to act against your own heart.”

“But how…” he started, but I was growing tired of the pillow talk, of the explanations. The exhaustion of the spell and sex has caught up with me, and my hoof ran over the leaden box, spreading a little shine of emerald across its engravings.

“Sleep now, my little lord. Sleep and dream of me,” I whispered, and my will slipped into his heart, making his blood flow slower and his eyes close, carrying him away into the heavy slumber.

I snuggled closer, wiggling underneath his forehoof, trying to escape the evening chill, but somehow, despite the steady beating of my magic in his chest, he felt cold.

***

The hunger woke me early in the grey mists of not-quite-morning. Grasping half-blind in the darkness, I mixed and boiled and distilled, by long-ingrained rote, to put together a drink of mandrake root and rainbow essence, sour and spicy: a familiar morning cocktail, rich in sugar, propylhexedrine and amphetamines. It helped me to wake up and replenish my magic after the exercise of last night.

A cold shower chased away the rest of the exhaustion and Count's smell on my fur, and I was ready to meet the Prince and to see the sanctum sanctorum, the heart of Griffinstone. And yet, there still was time before our meeting.

Grabbing some wine -- a random bottle from the Count's collection-- I settled in one of his chairs, watching the dark skies out the window.

Even though I could see in the darkness easily enough, there wasn't much to see there, from this side of the castle -- rocks of Griffinstone and the waves that'd clash against them endlessly, and nothing more. A waste of empty space, with nothing known behind it.

And now we journeyed to the end of earth,
Remote, the Scoltan wild, a waste untrod.

Count's wine, Count's chair. Even the words that came to my mind from the old stuffy books Miss Edge let me take from the Baltimare school library were something he could've said, with his love of clever verse.

The plan -- my own plan this time, not arimaspi’s or the Count’s -- was still brewing in my mind, a machine of many moving parts, some risky, some as of yet unknown, but all of it beginning with this. Here and now was my last chance to back out. Last chance to change my mind.

Count’s wine, Count’s chair, Count’s silly, princess-y thoughts, long since alien to me.

I sat, and I watched the nothing past the window, and I drank the last of the wine, nursing each sip like a love affair. And then I stood up and went to see the Prince.

***

"You came!" Galad's soft sotto was almost as scream in the deafening darkness of the night. "I have almost feared..."

I have almost hoped I heard behind his voice. The princeling was losing his nerve.

His voice echoed through the damp hall, repeated back by the rough stone walls. For the very heart, the middle of Gormenghast this place looked lost and abandoned, neither dog or eagle to set foot in it for a while.

"So have I."

Nothing is more calming to the nerve of a young boy than to see someone more afraid than him. That was not the Count’s wisdom - it was something I heard some time ago, or perhaps in a dream. But it worked: in a blink he was at my side, covering me with his wing. “I would never!” he said, his wings twitching into mock-indignation. “Griffon word is as firm as a mountain!”

“I’m ready,” I said simply. “Shall we?”

“Oh, right, yes! I ought to be right here.” There was a chain on his neck, with an intricately-forged complex figurine that I would not have recognized as a key. It fit perfectly into the almost invisible keyhole in the wall.

"Gwyr gave it to me," the Prince explained. “On my fifteenth birthday. Said it was--" he swished Vagueness with his wing, "--just in case."

He couldn't turn it, though. Perhaps the thing had been unused for too long. Perhaps it was just too tight for his not-yet-grown claws. I seized the key, my magic overlaying his claw.

“Together.”

“Together.” He nodded, and we twisted. There came a click, and then a silent slide of metal on metal as the door turned, revealing a long, narrow tunnel, straight down, like a well to the centre of the earth itself.

The Prince grabbed the torch in his claw, and stepped through, hanging in the air. Only then had it dawned on him that we had a problem. We looked at each other, for one long second. Then I looked down. There was a lot of "down" to look at.

"Oh", Galad said. "I..."

"It's fine,” I assured him. It would not be an easy spell, but the halls of Gormenghast were damp after yesterday's storm, and I could work with that. My horn shone with light green auroras, pulling on the air around me, as the drops precipitated out of the air. Fog swirled around my knees, growing denser and solidifying until there was a soft surface of cloud beneath my hooves.

I pushed it forward and hung over the abyss of the shaft. Another spell later, I stepped on it slowly. The cloud, thin as it was, held.

"That's so cool." Prince flapped his wings, in excitement, swishing round my cloud. He landed by my side, careful not to damage the delicate weave of my magic with his claws.

"Is that a spell? You're a unicorn, but this is more like pegasi magic, right? I wish I could do that." his nervous chatter filled the silence in lieu of elevator music as we descended slowly, past the moss-ridden walls.

"Can't you?" I asked, "Griffons have their weather teams, don't they?"

"Griffons destroy, not create," the Prince sighed, staring at his claws. "Even with the weather -- we shepherd the winds and cull the clouds, but we cannot make them."

"Griffons have their own magic." I reached for the Prince's wing, unfurling it carefully and running my magic along the thick down of smaller feathers. "It is a marvellous thing too. I wish I could study it."

He blushed, his cheeks all aglow, and snapped his wing shut. "I promise, Lady, you will have all the time in the world to study our magic, once we're done here."

We kept descending through the darkness, watching the moss-covered walls crawl by. It took perhaps ten minutes to reach the bottom, and as I dismissed the cloud, our legs have finally touched the rough stone beneath.

In the wall of the shaft, we faced there was a door, almost invisible in the stone, with the same keyhole through which a feeble crimson light adding to the pale green shine of my horn, seeped into the tunnel.

Galad took his key again, turning it in the keyhole, and we entered a huge hall, and--

"Ice and Nightmares."

The familiar expletive, let loose from my lips, described what I saw almost perfectly.

That was precisely it -- in the room as large as Canterlot main hall, there was a tempest. A blizzard of ice and the fury of the howling winds, chained and contained by a spell. Perfectly, eerily quiet -- not even a breeze escaped the spell, not a single cry of the wind.

The lines of the spell were an elaborate pattern of dark crimson, winding, twisting spirals of words animated with eldritch amber light. It reminded me of a fantastically intricate, life-scale version of one of those maze things you can find on the back of a cereal box, but hidden as it was beneath ice and wind, I couldn’t even hope to discern where it would start or end.

The spellwork created by the pattern of the words contained a thing inside -- a creature, a beast so vast and inequine my mind refused to resolve the parts of it into a single shape. It was Boreas himself, the father of the Northern Winds. Only three anemoi, three other winds in all of the world could equal him in power.

"We must wait now," the Prince said, sitting down in the corner. "Soon my brother shall summon the winds, to fly to the West and arrange his clouds and build his hurricanes for that grand war of his. He always does that after he gets into a fight with Father. It's much easier to pass when the winds aren't all there.

I followed him, still unable to take my eyes of Boreas, chained within a pattern of the spell, crashing against his chains in eternal, unquenchable fury.

"They say the griffon king has first seen the pattern for this spell in a jewel hung from Celestia's neck after her victory over Chaos. “ The Prince said, “Others yet -- that he saw the seed of order in the eyes of Discord. And some believe it is merely a copy, a shadow of a greater binding below Mount Coltvir, chaining horrors one cannot even imagine -- but don't repeat this rumour in Griffinstone, lady, my compatriots would certainly dislike the notion."

His words hung in the air, dissolved by the eerie silence of the hall, and we sat quietly. Waiting, watching the winds in their eternal vortex, smashing and breaking against the thin crimson lines of the spellwork. Minutes, perhaps hours passed in the timelessness, until the waning of the winds has overtaken the waxing, the whirlwind dissolving into, well, thin air.

"Ah, the winds grow still," The Prince finally noted, perking up. "My brother has flown to the West. We should go.

"Follow me," the Prince guided me somewhere way to the back, to the entrance of the labyrinth only he could see. "Going through is hard, but it's not impossible," the Prince said, his voice taking Gwyr's intonations. He was clearly repeating what his brother must've told him. "Take it very slowly and don't let yourself be distracted. Don't be alarmed by the winds and the cold -- they can't hurt you, not when you’re with me. And most importantly -- keep walking. Don't stop, whatever you do, and don't stray from the path, and stay close to me or it'll probably kill you."

He put his claw on the tile between two crimson words, flowing almost like Arabian calligraphy. But these were not the ninety-nine Names of the powerful and mighty, fortuous and beneficent, possessing of all talents and capable in every magic under the Sun, Sultans of the Saddle Arabia.

"King Grover’s name is the first one,” the Prince said, making the first step in the labyrinth. "His son’s, and then his, and somewhere there -- my father and my brother’s name. The Blood of Griffon kings protects the Idol."

I followed him, hidden under his wing, step in step, name after name of Griffon kings in an unbroken chain, each adding their magic to protect their descendant from the incalculable fury of the Northern Wind.

Royal blood created the spell that bound the wind that could be used to protect those who carried the royal blood. It was, I appreciated, a near-perfectly closed system.

Its only weakness standing right by my side.

I do not remember much of my way through the pattern of the spell. There was too much power, too much noise, too much magic and all I could do was concentrate on was making a step, and then another, and then another still, my eyes bound to the tracery of crimson on the floor, counting the steps and the turns.

In the centre of a pattern was a circle. It was the eye of the storm, quiet again, and absent of all wind. Nothing moved there, and the air was still and stale.

In the centre of the circle, there was a pedestal of marble, upon which the Idol of Boreas stood -- a cup-like spiral of gold, marked with black script. And in the centre of the cup - a crimson-red gem, gleaming with so much power that I could barely even look at it straight.

But it was not the power of the gem, nor the golden filigree that attracted my attention. It was the writing etched into the gold of the cup: I’d know that hoofwriting anywhere.

The angular, uneven lines, the ragged cursive, the symbols that looked as if they would like nothing more than to jump off the page and stab you in the eyes -- I’ve seen it before - scribed with darkness In the Black Book of the Darkened Cutie-Mark, hidden in the furthest, most forbidden corners of the Canterlot Library, written on the scrolls every practitioner of black magic, every witch and every warlock hoarded like highest treasures: This was not written by the claw of any Griffon king, nor was it the power of Equestrian Princess. This was the hoofwriting of Starswirl the Bearded, the old bloody codger himself.

There, in the eye of the storm, in the center of the labyrinth under the eldritch light of the gem, the Prince had drawn his blood, and with it he had inscribed his own name after the names of his brother and his father, and the power rose about him, making for a moment his feathers white as hoarfrost, and his eyes as blue as ice.

There he laid his claw on my chest, his talons reaching into my soul and the mighty gale of his power extinguished the feeble light of my consciousness

Author's Notes:

You sought no friends! Alone, you lived your life,
Without those who shared your point of view.
Without remorse, you calmly thrust your knife
Into each heart that shared its love with you.

Fancy Pants, Count Hoofington.
"Imitations of the Poet"
Dedicated to S.

CHAPTER XVII: BROKEN TIME

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"Come in," I called out.

The door opened, and the Count stepped into my room.

"Whatever it is you and your Prince did yesterday went well enough." He feigned nonchalance, but it came out more like resignation. "He’s with the doctors now, trying to figure out the source of his malaise -- though I expect they won't hold him for long."

I shrugged, finishing the equation I was working on. That was hardly news.

"I take it that last night's endeavor was a success?" he moved closer, looking over the blackboard I set up in my room. There, in chalk on the blackboard, splayed like a subject mid-vivisection, the Idol of Boreas was drawn for all to see.

"Oh yes.” I ignored the bitter undertones in his voice. “I understand the power behind the spell now. It’s all here. Look:” I scooched to the side, letting him closer to the blackboard. "Red gold, and see those indentations --" I pointed at the tiny sigils along the edges of the wing that rose from the golden cup of the Idol, "this is Coltec magic. It binds Boreas to the cup. Old magic, forged in Xicocoltitlan at the height of Ahuizotl’s reign, no doubt fuelled by the blood of his subjects.

"The gem in the middle, that's some sort of natural crystal." I frowned, "I have no idea what it is, other than it's old and powerful. That is the real power behind the spell, that’s why the griffons will follow their Prince and their King through darkest nightmares or eternal winter. It makes all those who are connected to it the best they can be -- proud, brave, loyal. Strong. But that's not the genius thing. The genius thing is this:"

We regarded the ancient, ugly cursive that I copied from the inner spiral of the idol.

"Is that… his?"

"Yes, that’s the work of the Mage. The old son of a dam made this thing." The lordling surprised me again -- not many in Equestria would recognise Starswirl's work at a glance. "I'm surprised you noticed."

"I'm knowledgeable enough to know it when I see it," he admitted. "But not quite to understand it. What does it do?"

"It's like," I grasped for a word, "a magical connecting device. Like a transmission in a clockwork. It connects the magic of the Idol that captures Boreas and the magics of the gem, to the Royal Blood of Griffonstone in the rest of the spell. The Royal Blood connects it to the King and the Prince -- and his brothers too if they claim its power. And through them -- all of griffonkind: 'Through Blood and through Law, all that beneath shall serve'.”

He chose one of my chairs and poured himself a glass of wine. "You will have to explain it better, Miss Shimmer, if you expect me to understand," he said, after taking a sip. "My magic lessons were very long ago."

"It's not something they would teach you in Canterlot anyways -- this is Old magic, much more fickle than modern wizardry. You see, normally, pony's magic will protect her against most spells -- like transmutation or mind-control, or even trying to pick up somepony with your horn. Unless you're that much more powerful than the target, magic interferes with magic and the spells just fall apart. To affect a living, breathing little pony -- or even a griffon -- when she tries to resist you, you need a weakness, a chink in that armour."

"Such as?"

"Well," I thought of good examples, "certain alchemical solutions can lower that resistance. Oaths given and even more so -- oaths broken, things of import betrayed make a crack in that magic. To swear by something important, to swear the Old way and then renege on that oath -- it leaves one defenseless and powerless, gives the lien-holder the power over the thing you forswore -- and over you.

“And then there are natural flows of power, like water flowing down from a hill. The Polyneighseans call that “mana” -- having mana over someone, having the power or ownership over the subject: victor to vanquished, mother to child, master to apprentice, lord to vassal creates the connection that bypasses the natural defenses entirely, lets your magic reach them no matter where they are or what protection they may use.

“Even owning a bit of the pony in question helps -- a bit of blood, hair, semen, bit of their magic. Else -- something important to the subject. Something that is to him like unto his own heart." I allowed myself a little smile before continuing. “That’s the kind of connection the Starswirl’s spell uses. It transfers the magic from the gem to the Idol, Idol to the royal blood, royal blood to the king, the king to all his subjects. And thus, the Idol, the most protected, the most potent, the most secret thing in all of Griffonstone is also the weakest point, the chink in the armour of their souls, and all I would need to break them."

The Count took to the wine for a while, saying nothing. Neither did I, winded from the lecture.

“So how did you do it to me?” he finally asked, prodding at the scar on his chest absentmindedly. “What was my weakness?”

I raised the bottle out into plain sight, a bit of magic making the alchemical solution swirl through the liquid in long, black tendrils. “More wine, milord?” I asked, my voice sharp and smug.

His head jerked as if slapped, and his eyes widened in expectation of the anger and feeling of betrayal that never came. He laughed instead, uneasy, forced laugh. “You learn well.”

I smiled and poured.

"Good wine, good sniff, a young warm body -- your love for your little indulgences has blinded you. You weren’t paying attention, you let me enter your room and your bed, poison your wine and take your hair, and when I made my move -- you weren’t ready to resist me. That was the chink in the armour of your soul, and all I needed to make you mine.

"Oh don't pout, my little lord.” I laughed seeing his reaction, “Didn't you try to steal my heart? I'm just more direct about it than you."

I reached out with my magic, feeling the threads of the spellwork connecting me to the little leaden box hidden in my room, to his heart within and then to him. A gentle tug sent a fluttering echo deep into the Count's chest smoothing over his little humiliation and his fear of me. And I watched, rapt, at him grasp for that feeling -- for the pain, for the fear, for the anger that never came.

And then he gave up and finished the glass. I was good wine, after all.

"Aren't you a part of the same spell now?" He asked, still not looking up from his empty glass, as if wishing to coax more wine out of it by sheer will. "That was the purpose of your little excursion, wasn't it?"

"Not really. Look:"

I opened the box with my new accessory -- a silver chain, and on the chain -- a gemstone, the baby-blue sapphire I ripped out of the Count's snuffbox.

"I made some preparations before I went into the vault, so that I could cut the mark off me, like scraping a tattoo off. Not too hard, if you know what you're doing, and prepare beforehand. Though instead of skin, I had to carve up my own soul." I tapped against the crystal, pawing against the translucent walls that contained a bit of me inside along with the power of Boreas. "It's a big chink in my magical defences, but provided everything else goes well, it'll grow back soon enough.

"As long as I wear it..." I put it round my neck, feeling the chill enter my body where the blue stone touched my fur.

I knew it was a trick. I knew how it worked-- just the spell, the trickle of magic energy from the crystal in the golden cup underneath Gormenghast infusing my mind with feelings not my own.

At that moment it doesn't matter: I feel it.

The moment the gem touches my coat, I become more. More than just complete -- more than I've ever been.

The calm confidence, surety of purpose and knowledge of my worth, unshakeable courage, all pour from the gem into me like clear wine pouring into a dirty cup. It transcends logic and knowledge, transcends any doubts or reservations.

My low birth and mixed parentage, Count's little barbs and the snickering of the stupid nobleponies fade away. Failures past and uncertainties future: all of it is powerless against me now. Even the void in her eyes...

I rip off the pendant, stumbling desperately for the Count's snuffbox; the powder burns my sinuses, and everything became clearer again, and I could finally make myself breathe.

In and out.

I was back to merely myself. And for now, that would have had to be enough.

Under the Count's curious gaze, I put the gemstone back into the top of the snuffbox, bending the silver filigree to hold it in the lid, and put it carefully on the table. This power -- perhaps it was benign, but in its own way it was as addictive as the magics of the Black Gem.

"As long as I wear it," I repeated, and my voice almost didn't break, "I am one with Griffonstone, marked by the claw of the Prince. When I don't need it I can take it off, and just be myself."

I put the box away, and gave a last look to the equations on the board, "And I think I know now how to break the spell entirely -- as long as all the winds are absent, and no one interferes. But there are other things I'd need, just as the bloody goat had said: A griffon claw, king's feather, royal blood... and we still have no solution against that very bloody goat.

Sighing, I turned the blackboard around. I would still need to sort out the details, but until I had the next step it was nothing but empty theory. But before that… “This will be the first step.” I gave the Count a parchment with a sketch of the Idol, along with my notes. “Will you be able to get it?” Doesn’t have to be perfect, but it has to be close enough.”

"Sunset,” he tried again, “it's still not too late..."

"It is, my little lord. It has been too late since the moment the first gale crossed Equestria’s borders.” I grew tired of his pleading, his whining. “Go.”

Obediently, he got, almost bumping into the princeling who was waiting outside, trying to summon his nerve to knock on my door.

"Your Highness," the Count said, his level tone and shallow bow full of barely-veiled contempt. Even now he was still playing his role to perfection.

"Milord." The ice in the prince's voice could freeze the Count's entire wine stock if it were in the room, and he kept looking at the Count all the way until he disappeared down the bend of the corridor, as if considering whether to stab the pony with his claws.

“Why was he here?” He finally fluttered into my room, “Did he hurt you?!”

I donned the gem quickly back, steeling myself against its influence. The second time it went easier than the first.

"I’m fine," I said, perhaps a little too harsh, but I forced my voice to relax. "Just empty threats. He just doesn't know how empty yet."

The princeling fluttered up in the air, his wings fluttering joyously. "Oh, I can't wait to see his face when we tell him!"

"We can't!" I pulled him deeper into the room, locking the door behind him "we have to keep it secret. Promise me!"

"I..." He landed on the rug, his wings and crest-feathers drooping." But why? "

"The Count, he has told me, in between his threats and boasting," I weaved a spell about him, masking the power that almost reeked off the little griffon since the yesterday's outing, quickly but without haste. "There will be a war coming. He was telling me how he will become the richest pony in Equestria growing fat of the war he tries to make your brother start."

"Oh. But, but that's more's the reason, right to announce it, surely? Each day that you stay in that monster's power, oh it burns me like hot iron."

"No," I tied a ribbon of red string around the claw and finished the spell with a quick knot. "The situation between the ponies and griffons is very delicate.” Keeping my carefully pre-arranged excuses, while working on a spell was hard, but I was getting pretty good at it. “While he thinks I’m in his grasp, I have a chance to stop the war, but if I left now -- that’s not something I could bear on my consciousness."

"Neither can I!" the princeling assured me hotly, "I could not bear such a thought."

"So we must keep our arrangement a secret for a little longer. This thing will pass, one way or the other very soon, and then we can announce what you did for all to see, and I'll tell everypony that I am now one of Griffonstone."

"And you'll stay here," he fluttered up again, "Safe!"

"Yes." I agreed, "But until then you must keep quiet. Promise me you won't tell anyone”

"I promise," the princeling puffed his chest out. "It'll be our secret."

“And don’t bother the string. It has a spell on it, to hide your power for a while. As long as you don’t summon it.”

“I won’t. But how long do we have to wait?” he pouted. “We’re so close to getting you out,”

“Patience, my lord, patience,” I patted him on the claw before I released it. “Just a little longer.”

"I understand." The princeling nodded. "I'll try to be patient, I really will."

"Good." I checked again my spellwork on his wrists. He had not bothered it -- a good little eaglet, and the hasty spell seemed to hold. “Good.”

I looked at the door and gave just enough that he should notice: a tremble of the hoof, a slightly exaggerated sigh, a second's hesitation.

"Politics?"

"Politics." I nodded. He nodded back -- a second's equine connection, a weak smile shared, "I have to..."

"I understand." the princeling sighed, releasing my hoof. "I'll wait."

***

"Your plan worked, at least."

Prince Gwyr sounded tired, stooped behind his desk. "My brother thinks he's ill. It made him irritated, but at least I was able to persuade him to postpone his plans until he feels better.

"But I cannot continue this forever. I will either have to stop and let my brother get better or..." He dared not end the sentence. “Whatever your plan is, I hope it comes through soon.”

“We are working as fast as we can,” I tried to keep things vague, “a few days perhaps. I hope.”

I could already hear it, just as the creature had once said -- the winds scattering beneath the Prince's wings.

"What can I do?" he looked at me almost pleadingly, "I want to help if I ca--"

The door bashed open, revealing Gideon behind it. "You!" His wing pointed at me. "Little pony. Get out! I wish to speak to my brother!"

"Your Highness must rest!" The medic-griffon finally caught up to him, panting in between his pleas, "you're sick!"

"Useless! Every one of them!" he roared, bashing the door closed in the poor tercel’s face. "Gwyr, you said you can help. What is taking so damn long? I cannot be ill now!"

"Brother--"

"Even the winds! The winds, Gwyr, even the Boreas is failing me! Back yesterday, I felt my power waning when I was working."

"It could just be Father.” Gwyr hid his distaste quite well, but I was getting better at understanding the little twitches of his wings. “He is the King, after all, the winds are his to command."

"Bah!" I had to duck under Gideon’s disdainfully inflected wing, "He doesn't use the power any more. All he does is sit with his pointless papers or chatters with the little ponies!"

"Perhaps I could be of help?" Gideon turned to me, surprised to see me still in the room. "It may not be a medical problem your Highness is experiencing -- it may be something done to you."

"Done? To me? How!?"

"Magic,” I suggested, “A malicious spell of some sort, or some natural thaumaturgical occurrence. I would need to examine Your Highness closer to say.”

“I know you, little pony. You’re the one that spoke against me in the convocation, the one with the lies and slanders. The one that beat Lord Graven. You don’t much like me, do you?”

“I don’t,” I agreed. “Doesn’t mean I want you dead, Your Highness. Not like this.”

Gideon considered it for a second, his claws drumming a staccato rhythm on the armrest.

"Brother, I don't think this is wise," Gwyr advised, unsure where I was going with this. "I'm sure rest and--"

"Do it, pony." He decided, reclining in his seat and waving a wing against his brother’s protestation. "Relax, Gwyr, it's a little pony. What harm could she do?"

“She did quite well against Lord Graven.”

“Bah. Fear and luck! Let her do her best,” he gestured again with his wing.

Playing doctor, like I was a filly again -- except the stakes were higher now. Under Gwyr’s anxious gaze, I got to work, doing every doctor-y thing that came to my mind: I tried lifting his eyelids and shining light into his eye, watching the vertically-slitted pupil respond, I took his pulse, and sent a few simple diagnostic spells into his chest. He twitched, quick to raise his claw against my magic, but he forced himself still, and let it work.

“What are the symptoms, Your Highness?”

“Nausea.” he said, irritated to repeat things he no doubts told his medics already, “Fatigue. Vertigo. Weakness.” the claws ripped through the upholstery. “A.. petit mal of sorts, a twitching of my wings and claws yesterday.” The Prince hated the idea of being weak, and especially admitting it."And when I was flying in the morning," he was pulling the words out of himself like one pulls a barbed arrow out of the wound, "my wing seized, and I fell." The humiliation of the last word was almost unbearable to the proud eagle.

I tsk'd a few times, just like doctor Hollenbach used to do when she was unhappy with my dental exam. "It may be a curse.” I said as I walked around him, “If it is, it'd require some connection to Your Highness. Has anygriffon taken your highness' blood, or feather or any other bit of viscera? Any lovers scorned?"

"No," he lied curtly. His wings shifted while I checked his feathers, as if he was preparing to fly.

Muscles rolled like a wave under his skin, powerful, synchronous. Beautiful, in their own way -- it made me wish I had a pair of my own. The feathers looked well-preened, well oiled, but there were a few ragged ones, shifting in their places as he moved -- they stood out on his immaculately-kept wings. I pulled on a few, and they fell off easily, from barely the slightest touch.

"Is this your moulting season?"

"No!" this flex, fluffing the wings wider, losing a couple more feathers, was anger, thick with heavy, leaden fear. The kind that gnaws on the very roots of your soul, leaving you sleepless in the night, that tugs, and tugs, and tugs on your mind driving you to do anything to quench it.

That was as far as I dared to push. I released the Prince’s wing and came back round to face him.

"There is definitely a spell on you or about you, my lord," I finally concluded, "and not a good one at that.“

“Well undo it then!”

“I.. it’s not that simple.”

"I don't care!" arrogant, commanding -- I felt a throb where the snuffbox was hidden, hot with desire to rise to the challenge, to prove myself, "Do it!"

"I'll do my best!" I offered hastily, taking the classic spellcasting position. Though I was not quite sure what sort of poison the younger Prince used, and I was not an earth pony or even a doctor, I did know something of poisons and chemistry and I was willing to see if my magic could do something against his alchemy.

My horn lit up with sparks, making the room bright with green, and then I weaved my magic into the Prince. My spells reached into his flesh, seeped into his blood.

It was a great temptation -- a simple spell, an artery clamped, heart squeezed, airway closed and he'd be dead and then... again, there was no then -- only death and failure. I was learning to think it through.

"That's it." I finished my spell and stood back. For one mad second, I wished I had a lolly to give to the Prince for being a good little patient. "It may not cure--" I started, but all I got was a blast of wind in my face as the Prince tried to lift off. He made it too, at the price of a few more trailing feathers, and with a victorious screech, he dove out the window.

"I don't think he heard you," the other Prince noted dryly.

"That wasn't featherbane or nightshade," I noted when we could no longer hear the wings of the Prince. "What did you use?"

"That would be all too easy to detect. Even though some of the physicians and doctors can be persuaded to look away for a while, I still had to devise something a little bit more subtle."

Listening, to make sure his brother was truly out of reach, he opened a huge folio, revealing a small paper filled with claw-written formulae and synthesis notes. He let me study it for a few seconds, waiting for me to appreciate the idea, as I ran it through, putting it together in my head until it finally dawned on me.

"Zinc salts?" I stifled a giggle. "You moulted your brother like a common chicken?'

"I would not put it like that." He looked embarrassed and pleased at the same time. "And it was slightly more complex than that. The trick was to--'

"Get it delivered through ingestion, without affecting the taste or risking an overdose. Genius!"

'Thank you." He almost bowed, flattered, before he pulled himself together, and rearranged his wings into a proper expression of concern. "It would bring him no lasting harm. Just weakness, nausea, some fever and muscle spasms. And the moulting of course -- without his feathers he won't be flying West for the next few weeks... Though I must admit, I have not anticipated that it would affect his power as well."

His Power… unlike the Prince, I knew what affected it, and the memory of it -- that moment yesterday’s night, the wing, the claws of the prince, and the ice-cold power reaching into my soul… I wanted to touch the gem in the lid of the snuffbox, to feel again the heady rush of my soul reunited with itself, a touch of something greater than I, but I forced myself into a simple shrug instead.

Luckily the Prince did not notice my awkward shuffle, already switching to the next topic. "But what have you done? It didn't cure him, did it?"

"Just a little charm of my own invention," I boasted. "A mild stimulant and a blood-purging-spell, not unlike the effect of a dialysis machine. It'll provide a temporary reprieve, and, more importantly, decrease the load you put on his kidneys so that there won't be any long-term effects."

And it also served my other purposes, but the Prince had no need to know that.

"Oh." Wings in Gratitude he nodded. "That makes sense. And if he thinks the problem is the curse, it is less likely he suspects the real reason."

"Quite so." Count's words on my tongue felt natural and smooth, just like the lies they carried.

Author's Notes:

Three things never threaten or you will not live for long: 
A dragon's hoard, a griffon's pride and mare's sense of wrong

Fancy Pants, Count Hoofington
Certain Maxims of Hisan

CHAPTER XVIII: BIND

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As I've told Gideon, the results of my little spell were purely temporary. Once the stimulant effect wore off and another dose of poison had been quaffed with his wine, I was called - requested, with all the possible politeness, -- to attend again, this time together with the whole host of court wizards and royal physicians of Griffonstone gathered around the Prince in the hospital wing of Gormenghast.

"The bloodletting seemed to provide a reprieve," a greying-old griffon suggested. "We could try leeches again."

"You always suggest leeches," Gil snorted from his right. He was one of Gwyr's -- in fact he still owed me ten bits from the card game that we shared all that time ago. "If this is a magical problem we need to think magical solutions. And this is clearly a sign of a magical problem.” He pointed at a peak on a thaumospectrography printout. “Isn't that right, Lady?"

I nodded sagely. It was. I placed it there while I played the doctor with the two princes, so I would know. “What about dialysis? There was this new machine recently that could decrease the thaumic content…”

"Unicorn would suspect it is magic," the griffon doctor wheezed. "But the symptoms are--"

The Prince took this discussion with an expression of almost scaevolic stoicism, as we poked, prodded and argued about his illness.

"Wait," I extinguished my magic, and took a breath, gathering my courage for what I really came here for -- the next step. The next betrayal in my chain of lies. "Um, I'm sorry, if this is a stupid question." I put my fan to Timidity, "but...who's the third?"

"The third who, Lady?" Gwyr came alive, standing up from the corner where he slumped in wait.

"The third person with the Power. There are three connections to the winds the Prince summons. One to Your Highness, one, I assume, to His Majesty, and the third one. I thought only the King and the heir apparent may wield the power?"

"Yes! The King and the Heir hold the power -- no one else. You are mistaken."

"I’m not.” I shrugged when he moved his wing to polite Disbelief and grabbed a vial of powdered silver off the nearest shelf. “If your Highness would summon his power, I could demonstrate."

A wing inflected -- all it took for the nigh-invisible shadow of power to coalesce before him, like a djinn released from a magic lamp of Saddle Arabian story, except with ice and wind instead of smokeless flames.

"Now what?"

I threw the silver powder on the floor in a broad circle around him and his Power. "If Your Highness would now release it, all shall be revealed."

Another wave of the wing and the shadow dissipated -- in three distinct directions, seen in the scatter of the dust on the floor.

"One for his Majesty. One back to the Idol. Who does the last one belong to?"

They stared for a long moment. "And none of you have noticed it?" Gideon finally spoke, his tone low, and his crest drooped. "None of you?!"

"But Your Highness, this was unprecedented, impossible even. How were we supposed to--"

"Could it be the cause of the problem, little pony? Is that why I am weakened?"

"I don’t know. If it is then why would His Majesty not be affected?" I argued. "He too is connected to the same Power."

"A chemical genesis does seem more likely..." a griffon piped up. "A poisoning, perhaps?"

"Perhaps his connection to the Idol is more mature," Gwyr countered quickly, "perhaps they targeted the heir specifically. Perhaps it is the condition of the Idol. We'll need more study. The Lady did mention a spell yesterday. Could such a connection produce this effect?" he looked at me, shivering the wing his brother could not see into a half-Demand.

"Yes, I suppose," I conceded. "That sort of connection can go both ways. But it's not magic many would know. It would require access to the Idol, to the person of the Prince... if there is a conspiracy it must be very deep.” I took a deep breath, "If I am to investigate, I'll need access as well," I finally said, with an abandoned resolve of a mare jumping into the water without testing how deep it is. "To the library, medical equipment. To Your Highness’s person."

"It shall be granted. Gwyr?"

"I'll see to it."

"And to the Idol." I added. "If it is at the center of that spell, I'll need to examine it in person."

“It shall be granted.”

"Impossible!" the griffon wizard almost choked. "None may pass, not even the griffons!"

"It shall be granted," the Prince repeated, and his tone brooked no argument, as his wings moved to Resolve. “And you!” he turned to the doctors and the wizards. "In one day, the unicorn had healed my symptoms and found the cause of my ailment, while all of you were useless.”

“But Your Highness,” the griffons protested, “There was no way we could’ve known! We can’t be held responsi--”

"Get out," the Prince said, the cold rising across the room until I could see my own breath. "Out of my sight. I don't want to see any one of you again."

"But Your Highness, please, you’re not at your full capacity, and you're not thinking clearly!"

Gideon’s eyes narrowed, and his wings unfurled into Anger, silencing the doctor. "You're done.” he repeated slowly, his voice as cold as his power “The unicorn will heal me, the rest of you -- get out."

He watched Gwyr usher them out, whispering his assurances and apologies, and his claw flexed in barely contained anger, slicing into the armrest of the chair. Then he turned to me.

"Do you trust this pony, brother?" he asked, soon as the last of griffon doctors was ushered out, and the door was closed.

Gwyr threw a look at me, but, eventually, he nodded.

"Good. Good." the Prince shifted in his seat, "I don't believe them." He said, lowering his voice. "I do not trust them. The doctors, and the wizards, and everyone else. If it is a spell, if someone meddled with the power of the Idol, there is a conspiracy. A plot -- against me!" His claw scratched into the armpit of the chair. "You're the only griffon I can trust, brother."

A spasm of shame contorted Gwyr's wings and he lowered his eyes.

"My brother trusts you.” the Prince turned to me, “and you exposed the conspiracy to me in the first place, little pony. I shall trust you too."

"You don't think it's Galad, do you?" Gwyr asked, his wing and tone implying sarcasm.

Gideon furrowed his brow caught by surprise by his brother’s question. The thought had not occurred to him. "No.", he dismissed it with a wave of his wing. "Not Gally. I'd sooner believe its little ponies than him standing against me. No, brother I think..." He shifted uncomfortably, even going as far as to lower his voice. "I think it could be Father. He's the only one who has access to the Idol, he's the only one who would try to stop me. And he stands unaffected by whatever is done to me as well."

"Gideon, that's absurd."

"Is it? Is it really, brother? I intend to challenge him, and if he were half the eagle he used to be he'd challenge me back. Instead he summons those ponies, he makes parties and he talks, and he talks and he talks incessantly. He has every reason to fear me. And the way he knew yesterday to accost me just as I was weakened..."

“He couldn’t have known!”

“He has access to the Idol, Gwyr, he knows it. Better than I,” the admission took some effort from the Prince. “He could’ve arranged it--”

"I'll ask around," Gwyr said curtly, "but I can tell you now - you're being paranoid. And while this development is troubling, I am sure Father has nothing to do with this."

"If you would follow me, Lady. "He opened his wings, in one swift motion, the whoosh throwing my mane off my face. "I could use your magical expertise."

"Wait.” The Prince held me up. "There were some things I wanted to ask of the unicorn, brother."

"Oh, ok." The Gwyr began to settle back down, but Gideon waved him away. "Go. You promised to talk to Father."

Gwyr hesitated, looking at his brother, unsure, then at me. I nodded, trying to be as subtle as I could. “I’ll see you later Lady.” He nodded, and turned away.

I remained alone with the Prince.

"Earlier, I had lied," he finally said, after the door was closed. "There is a creature that had access to my blood."

"A creature?" I asked carefully. I could not let my connection to the arimaspi slip. "Not a griffon?"

"No. Not a little pony either. You know of it, you have even seen it. It's the arimaspi, that creature that used to give my Father counsel."

I nodded.

"He gave me counsel too. And he had a gift of prophecy, the old Coltec haruspicy -- and for that he required of me my blood as the fuel for his magic.”

"Your Highness!" I tried to sound shocked and haughty, almost like Dame Strawberry would. "You shouldn't have. You can't--"

"Feed blood to the arimaspi, yes, little pony I was aware. But the creature is locked, and I needed to be sure about... well, you know. The war." At least he had good enough manners to hesitate about talking about war on my country.

He cleared his throat.

"He might be doing something with it, as you said. And I wish for you to investigate it."

"Me?" I pretended to be surprised. "Why me? Wouldn't Your Highness wish to ask the culprit yourself?"

"I know little of magic. It's a thing of old tercels and little ponies, not a thing meant for eagles."

"Why not ask Gwyr, then? E-er, His-Highness-your-middle-brother. He's not a little pony, but he's knowledgeable enough about wizardry, I think."

"My brother thinks highly of me." Guilt? From the arrogant Prince? I was speechless. I sooner expected Phlegethon to freeze and Styx to dry up, "I don't want him to..." his wing shivered in vague gesture and he never finished the sentence.

"I.. I'll need to investigate. Ask questions. I'll need access. Authority."

"Yes," his wing swept Assent, regal even as he dropped a few more feathers on the floor, and unlocked a bracelet of silver off his forearm, a claw-mark and inscription upon it. It bore the sign of his power too, as unmistakable as the claw-mark if you knew how to look.

"By my order and will,” it said in curt Griffinstonian script.

"Do you know what this is?"

"Yes, your Highness," The form was a little different from the one I had, but the function was the same. "It's a paiza. To mark one who bears it as your agent. I have one just like it in my room." The one from my Princess - similar, but vastly different in what power they represented. My Princess's paiza was meant for small expenditures, getting train tickets and books from Canterlot archives. Abroad it would do even less - to perhaps courtesy and assistance owed to an envoy and a letter of credit. Anything more and my Princess would know - and she would not approve.

This one, with all of Gideon’s weight behind as the Prince and heir apparent, could open any door, get griffons to do anything for me...as long as it was not countermanded by the Prince himself -- or his father, I supposed.

"I shall put guards around the creature, some of my own, just in case. And you -- you'll go and investigate. Do your little pony magic and figure it out."

"I'll talk to the creature," I said, hiding away the paiza, "investigate it, and if I find something out, I'll tell you."

“Good. Good.” He stood up abruptly, stretching after a long period of immobility. "Are we done here, Lady or are there any more tests or spells you can run?"

"No, Your Highness," I sighed, making a show of gathering, the mess of printouts and notes all the griffon doctors left behind, "I think I have enough for now. "

As the Prince had left, I tarried behind, left alone in the hospital. Well, not quite alone. The Prince was not the only patient there, and the other one, in a room not too far from here, and somewhat less important, and I wanted to visit him as well.

“Hello, my lord,” I moved the curtain to give us some privacy. “Nice to see you again.”

Lord Graven -- more bandages and casts than feathers at this moment, glanced at me, shifting as if he’d try to run or fly if he could.

“How are you today?” I asked politely. ‘Recovering, I hope.” I picked up the medical chart off his bed. “My, a bruised trachea. That’s unfortunate.” He glared at me from below the bandages covering his forehead. “Any troubles breathing?” I grabbed one of the pillows off the nearby bed and raised it slowly over his head. "Breath is the most valuable thing in the world," I said, as it was once said to me. "none sings hymns to it, praising the good air breathed by Prince and dog alike, but oh to be without it..."

"No," he whispered, urgent and hoarse. "Please..."

The pillow came down, propping up his head. "I'll come back for you," I promised, fluffing it up for his comfort. "Soon. After making my wish tomorrow, and then this will all be over. Promise.”

"What?" He looked at me, stuck between relief and even greater fear. "What do you want of me?"

"You'll find out." I smirked, "tomorrow I'll tell it to the Prince, and I'm sure someone will relay it to you. Eventually. Meanwhile,” I stepped back, happy with my pillow-work, “I suggest you learn to breathe properly, milord. I was told it helps with the pain."

His eyes still burned the back of my head as I left the room, leaving the poor Graven to stew in fear and uncertainty.

***

This time, when I came to see the creature, I was not a prisoner, nor did I need to sneak through the secret tunnels and servant passages. I came branding the Prince’s paiza and surrounded by Gideon’s griffons.

The creature sat in the corner, his lean, cadaverous figure huddled away from the torchlights, and his thin, ugly fingers fiddling with a sharp piece of stone, carving bloody scrapes into his chains.

“Hello there, little pony,” he raised his head when I came into the room, his eyes looking me from underneath long, matted hair, his lips, spread in a thin, ugly grin, showing his fang-like canines. ”You’ve moved up in the world, yes, yes you have.”

I shivered. The halls of the prison seemed to have become even colder this time around, and running around with the princes, I really worked up an appetite that now flared up in my belly with dull, gnawing pain.

“I came to ask you some questions.” I said, “At His Highness’ commands.”

"I won't talk to the birds, pony. Make them go away." he turned back to his chains, resuming his muttering and his carving.

I did not relish what would come next. Not at all.

A cold wave rose from within, but I beat it down. What we want or don't want doesn't matter... and they wouldn't save me anyways -- they would only make things worse.

I turned to the eagles behind me, "You heard him. Go."

The griffons looked at each other, unsure. "Lady," one of them started, "His Highness had ordered---"

"Out." I remembered how the Count chased out that dog and tried to assume the same notes of entitled confidence. "Gideon -- your Prince -- had ordered you to do what I say, and I say you two are waiting behind those doors."

"But His Majesty..."

"Or should I tell Gideon that I could not do his bidding?" No need for volume or bluster -- I understood that now. I knew the tone that would carry the threat on its own - and do so much, much better. "Should I tell him that his paiza, his will was not enough?"

They shuffled uncomfortably, looking at each other. "Five minutes," the bigger one decided. "We'll be right outside the door. If anything happens..."

"Nothing will happen. Go."

"Will you talk now?" I turned back to the creature when the last of griffons closed the door behind them.

"Yes, little pony, yes, we shall talk. Do you have that which I need?” The flutter of my magic beating against my chest reminded me of our real positions. Even though he was behind bars and I carried the royal paiza of Griffonstone and all the power of the Prince’s will behind me, still he had the power over me. But unlike the last time, he did not have all the power.

"I have a way to get it.” I said, “But we will need to renegotiate our deal."

"Will we little pony?" his hands crooked into claws, and the deadly chill of magic leaving my body spread from my chest. "Why is it that we would need that?"

"You know what I've done. Your dogs must've told you."

"Yes, yes, I heard. Telling the arrogant one stories of magics and curses you were, clever, yes, very clever. You have him wrapped around your little pony hoof, with leads and silvers, just as I did. It is true what they say, yes, you’re a very good student, yes, she has chosen wisely."

That “she” spat like a curse… It reminded me of the creature’s master. Hatred and fear and envy.

"One word from me,” I said coldly, “and the Prince would rip your throat out. ”

"Yes, yes he would, the angry arrogant Prince, yes,” the creature scoffed, unthreatened, “But then you would be dead, yes you would, and your pretty little nobling too, and the war would be back on again, yes, yes it would. There will be no words from you little pony, no ripping of the throats, I think. Your lead rings hollow, and you brought no silver. You’ll have to try harder next time if you want to lie to me."

Ice and Nightmares. The creature had called my bluff. It was a weak one, I knew already even before I came here, but it was worth a try.

"And you've been a bad pony. Yes. Going behind my back--" he raised his hand, the sparks going along the keratin of his nails. "Speaking to the eagles." the pain blossomed out of my gut, as the magic ripped out of me through my horn. "Trying to prevent the war."

"Wait!"

I did not need to try to make it convincing. Fear was worse than pain itself-- that cold dread of someone standing over you, an unhinged psychopath who can singe your skin of one inch at a time and you can't do anything about it... I breathed and pushed it away. I was stronger than this -- and I had a plan B this time.

"I've left notes. If I die, you die”

The creature stayed his hand.

“And you still need me. I'm close. Very close. I almost got it."

"And what is it that you have, little pony?"

"I have the feather. The King's feather, and I've been to Geskletonheir. I've seen the Idol, and I can get it for you."

“The King's feather?" The arimaspi licked his thin lips again. "Show me, pony, yes, so that I may see if you lie."

I reached into my bag and produced a feather - red-rouge and short.

"This is not a King's feather, pony." he raised his hand again, and the pain that almost disappeared uncoiled again within my chest. “It’s not even the right colour!”

"No. Not yet."

The creature laughed, or maybe coughed, each strangled "khe" like something broke deep within its chest.

His raised paw went down, and the tension in my chest, the deathly chill abated slowly.

"And the claw?"

"I know how to get it too. I just need time."

"So you do bring me some silver, yes, and what a sweet silver you bring little pony. Perhaps you will not be punished, yes, perhaps not yet."

"Good,” I admitted, feeling the traitorous knot finally untangle in my belly, “good. I’ve the feather and the claw, but I still need the blood. Where did you hide it?"

"It's with me, little pony, yes, yes it is."

"Here?"

“They have bound me yes, they have bound me with walls and with chains and with the burning silvers, but they can't take my knowledge, my blood from my veins, my skin and my coat and my horns, not without killing me they can't. And they won't kill me quite yet, no, no they won't.”

He dragged his nail across his wrist, drawing blood, and concentrated. A large red drop budded from the cut, a ruby-red of pure crimson. "Take it, little pony" he snarled. "Quick."

I put a vial underneath to collect it. There wasn't much -- few ounces perhaps. But it would be enough.

Author's Notes:

We are the ancient folk, we!
   Too little to love or to hate.
Leave us alone and you’ll see
   How we can drag down the State!
We are the worm in the wood!
   We are the rot at the root!
We are the taint in the blood!
   We are the thorn in the foot!

A Song of Arimaspoi
Fancy Pants, Count Hoofington
"Land and Sea Tales"

CHAPTER XIX: ATTAQUE AU FER

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“Why is my unicorn not allowed into the Geskleithron, Father? Those ancient relics of an eagle have denied me again!” Gideon’s voice boomed across the empty throne room, muffled somewhat by the door through which I was listening.

“No one is allowed there except for blood, Gideon. You know that!”

This was not the first time they argued about that. I saw to that -- coaxing the prince, playing the doctor and the investigator, I cast my spells on him, as I promised Gwyr, and I put placebo herbs in his wine, making sure he drank it along with his poison - not that he needed any encouragement to drink. I watched him get worse and worse, the poison making its way through his system, watching him lose his feathers, his claw lose its sure aim in tremors and his muscles seize and shake, and I saw how it made him very, very angry.

And now it was playing out.

I pressed my ear tighter into the cold metal of the door, so as not to miss out even a single word or inflexion of the drama behind them.

"Nothing has been done! Nothing is being done right now!"

“The investigation is--” the King’s voice dripped with exhaustion of another repetition.

"Your investigation. Not mine! I want my own eagles -- my own creatures -- to check it as well.”

"Do you doubt me?" It was not so much ire as incredulity in King's voice. "Me?! I'm still the King, boy!" When there was no answer, his voice lost all amusement. “Well, that will have to suffice. The royal wizards are working, and no unicorn is stepping into Gesklethorn as long as I live!”

“You cannot hold me back, Father. Not forever! The truth will out.”

"My, my," a warm breath tickled my other ear, and I almost shrieked with surprise. "What large ears you have, my little lady."

I twisted on the spot, ready to... do something, I don't think I knew what, but Bluette's green eyes and her smell, the sweet summer peaches stopped me in my tracks.

"Hi..." I said, reaching for my fan to make a proper greeting. ‘Hi’? What was I thinking!? I felt the hot blush colour my cheeks, and all the carefully prepared lies and excuses got lost somewhere on the way between my brain and tongue.

"Now, now, none of that child." she moved towards me, intercepting the fan with her hoof. "We're all little ponies here. Though you've been keeping a very different company lately haven't you? Hanging out with the Princes and Counts, and forgot all about little old me."

"I wanted to come, see you again," I said, my throat suddenly dry, "but I don't have anything to give."

And then she was next to me, eye to eye, breath to breath, close enough for a kiss.

"You smell different, my little lady.” Her nostrils flared, drawing the air around me. “Like Griffonstone winter.”

“I..”

"Here," she plucked a flower from her mane. It was a mountain bluet, its folded petals like legs of an insect, and it smelled more of her than like a flower. "Come visit me again, child. And don’t worry about bringing gifts. You’ll do that for me, won’t you?"

"Y-yes." I could go to her! To go to her house, to stay in her company with no gift -- it seemed like a travesty, but she said I could, so...

"Not now, my little lady," she put her wing against my chest, stopping me, and I realised that besides myself I made a step forward, ready to follow her. "Your Prince is running away -- to find you, I believe."

With a touch of her lips to my cheek, with the smell of summer peaches, she disappeared, moving on, and leaving me dumb and frozen in the corridor, still clutching the flower in my hoof and smiling like an idiot.

“Ice and Nightmares!”

Bluette was gone, and as we talked I did not notice that the throne room has gone quiet.

The Prince was on the move and if Bluette was right that was the next moment I was waiting for, and I could not miss it.

I ran.

I have learned the layout of the Gormenghast in these past days, scouring it at night in wind and in flesh.

I knew the twisty, rambling turns, where to switch from griffon passages to dog ways, find the winding ladders hidden in the walls and turns in the countless corridors that would lead me to my room ahead of the Prince.

Then it was just a matter of being ready -- appearances, the form of the situation was essential for my plan. A dress, hastily donned, a feather hidden in the sash, a quick comb-over for the mane and the coat, and just as there was a knock on the door, I had jumped on my bed and snapped a book to a random page.

Breathe

"Come in!"

A blast of wind threw open the door, making the hinges groan under strain, revealing Gideon behind

His lower jaw was tense, and his wings did not lower all the way down, feathers still dishevelled... the argument with his father has just finished, and even though I missed the ending of it, it was not hard to guess that the King had won -- but this time only by ordering his son to shut up.

"Come."

"Your Highness?"

"I shall take you to the idol, little pony. Follow me."

His tone did not invite any more questions, and his speed left me running after with no breath to spare anyway.

He sped by the halls at a canter, making dogs and eagles alike scramble out of his way, as he guided me down and away from the opulent halls and decorated rooms. Together we went lower and lower, descending into the bowels of the castle, where the mahogany and stained glass gave way to the rough stone of some-time battlements and darkness of the dungeons.

And then, just as abruptly as we went, we arrived.

"Lady."

In a hall, large, crude and dark, reminding me of a cave, before the giant trapdoor - no, not a trapdoor, a gate of silver and iron, put right into the floor, -- prince Gwyr already waited for us, accompanied by four griffons standing guard so immovably I almost mistook them for statues before they greeted me with shallow bows.

"Lady," he greeted me as well.

"I see you've made the arrangements, brother."

"I always do." Gwyr shifted his wings uncomfortably. "But I'm not sure--"

"But,” I raised my hoof to attract their attention like a good little schoolfilly. “I thought His Majesty forbade me from entering the vault. Should we--"

"Noone forbids me!" The anger in his words made me shiver. "Who are you loyal to, griffons?"

Both of them bowed in way of an answer.

"Open it."

“Brother, are you--”

“Open it! I need to know what’s going on with me.”

The griffons at the sides pulled the door open, and I looked inside, feeling the chill breath of the cold hall beneath on my muzzle.

"How do I get down?"

"My eagles shall carry you." Gideon's wing shifted -- he saw no reason to hide his contempt for a creature bound so by mere gravity.

I had no trouble playing along -- peering down the tunnel I could easily summon every doubt about going down there clutched like a baby sheep in the claws of the griffons, and the shiver of the trepidation was not entirely fake as I did.

"Is there any other path?"

"No, Lady," Gwyr lied, his feather twitching. "This is the only way in."

"Are you afraid, little pony?" there was a smirk in his brother’s voice, in his wings.

"No! I'm afraid of nothing. Let's do this."

The griffon grabbed me, carrying me down like a rukh-bird carries an elephant to feed its babies, trying very carefully not to pierce my sides with their claws, and soon, we were down the corridor, in the familiar room of Boreas.

I breathed and chased it away. "Wow." I did not have to fake it -- the sight of it, once again robbed me of my breath, as the longing for the gem in my room became almost unbearable.”This is amazing!"

"Not many ponies have seen it, Lady Shimmer." the Prince said proudly, landing by my side. "The pride and power of Griffonstone." Gwyr gestured from behind him, warning me not to raise my point about it being made by the ponies. "So what is wrong with it? Is someone using it against me?"

I stepped closer, peering through the winds, almost touching the thin red line of the spell

"Don't step in, Lady," Gwyr stopped me hastily with his wing. "Only those of royal blood may pass, the spell will destroy anyone else."

"Can you remove the winds?" I asked. "I need to see the centre of it. There the power lies."

The Prince raised his wing and drew the power. This time I could see the hurricane uncoil, drawing through the twists and turns of the maze, to wrap around the Prince like a heavy shroud. It must've been magic that allowed him to breathe within that cold -- even being near him burned my lungs on every inhale.

"Well?" the Prince was as short of patience as ever. "What can you say?"

"Please, Your Highness, I need more time. I have to examine the spell, the idol, and you, and it will only take longer if there are any distractions."

I stepped as close to the border of the pattern and began the magic, lighting up the cave with the green glow of my spellwork.

It was pure showmanship of course. The griffons would not need light to see the magic, and it wasn't like there was anything to show them as being “there” anyway: that sort of connection does not need to check in at B to travel from A to C. And as they watched, distracted by the energies swirling in the air, I slipped a feather out of my saddlebag. Not Gideon''s feather, but a small rouge bit of chest-down.

Finally, exhausted -- and not entirely pretend -- I released the magic. "Well," I turned back towards the Princes. "The connection definitely is there. But..."

"What?" the Prince hastened my hesitation with an angry wing-swipe.

"But... I cannot see any invasion into the spell. All is working as it should -- at least as far as I understand it. Nothing is broken or subverted."

"What are you saying Lady?" Gwyr asked slowly. "Are you saying that..."

"Whoever came here, either carried the royal blood in him." I shrugged. "Or knew about this spell quite a bit more than I do. Sorry, there's only so much I can say after one examination."

I stepped back, and with a wave of prince’s wings, the curtain of the winds grew closed, and just as it did, I released the feather from my grip, letting the wind grab it and pull it into the endless hurricane.

It was truly out of my hooves now -- as if that changed anything.

Author's Notes:

Hard her service, poor her payment,  
She will never know her agent 
Celestia, the Lady of our kind 
Every year of life we lend her 
Once her temple's shrine is enter'd 
The door is shut, no path behind.

Fancy Pants, Count Hoofington
Land and Sea Tales
(unpublished, draft presumed lost)

CHAPTER XX: RED CARD

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I went to Bluette’s that morning before I would attend the Prince’s dinner with the Count. That was the balance that I needed, sharing my time between him and her. To find solace in a menage-a-trois, a diversion from being bored by him in conversation with her, moving from being played with to the one who pulled the strings and back.

I'd have to be careful, of course -- I did not want the little prince to know, and even the nobleponies would have raised a scandal should they have found out. They’d have called it an abomination, a perversion. But for me -- nothing I did in Griffonstone felt so innocent as this little crime.

***

"Wait.” Rarity raised a hand. “You were still with that count of yours? Why would he..." she blushed a deep red. "Err… be with you after what you did to him? Did you make him?"

"What? No!” Sunset recoiled at the idea, “That'd be majorly messed up. He slept with me because he loved me, and I let him because I liked it well enough. I mean he was quite good at it."

"Why'd you say that he loved you? You lied to the poor fella!"

"I--I think you hurt him. With that awful thing you did, and you er.. kept ordering him around, and you keep calling him names in your story. That's not nice."

"And you totally betrayed him." Rainbow Dash added. "He trusted you and you used it!"

"You stole his heart, darling," Rarity noted. "Quite more literally than it is usually done, I must add."

"I don’t understand it either. Why would he love you?" Twilight asked. "It makes no logical sense!"

"You don't get it, you stupid little girls.” Sunset laughed, bitter and angry. “That’s why he loved me, why I took him into my rooms. That's what love is. Burns was smarter than Feud -- sex is nothing compared to the rush of command, to the sublime sweetness of servitude. Love is nothing compared to it -- nothing but another field of battle for dominance.

"When I took his heart, when I bound him with my magic, I made him free. Free of responsibility for what he knew had to be done and yet was afraid to do, absolved of any crime. For this power I had over him, for stealing away from him the poison fruit of free will -- for this he loved me, desperate and true."

"But you didn't love him back, did you?" Rarity didn’t so much ask as state it.

"No." Sunset sighed. "I remember one night after I came back from my little tour with the Prince, as we lay, sweaty and tired in the darkness, I looked at him.

“I looked at him and I saw nothing of the stallion I liked so but an evening ago. He was as dashing as ever - blue mane with bits of silver, a matching moustache and a perfectly white silver coat. Wide shoulders of a linebacker, the radiant, piercing eyes with a perpetual sly little twinkle of a rogue… Yet I felt nothing.

"You can only truly love -- or even like -- an equal. You cannot love a slave, someone who is yours to command, someone you could set aside with a wave of a hoof and the simplest spell. Once conquered, he was like a thing to me now, no more interesting than a lamp post or a toy. But as toys go -- he was very good. And so I let him stay."

***

But I could not love him, and perhaps that was why I went to Bluette that morning, and on my way to her cloud home, I stopped on one of the Gormenghast’s marble arches and watched the Prince train in the courtyard. In his red cape of a matador, he stood his ground against some bull, his cape swishing on the wind, his wings behind his back.

He shouted something, his wings angled in an angry flare and waved for the bull to make another pass.

The bull shrugged, his giant shoulders rising and falling, a huge wave of muscle rolling across his back. He lowered his head, pointing his horn at the Prince, and charged.

Gideon tried to dodge -- almost the same coiling-uncoiling movement he used in the corrida, but it did not come off as smooth as it used to. He misstepped, his legs confused and just a second too slow, and the bull checked him. Not with a horn, with a side, sliding along like sandpaper, turning Prince's pirouette into a clumsy spin, and passing on.

The bull turned on the spot and rumbled something. An innocent tease, a familiar mockery, I presumed, even having heard nothing but the tone. But it was enough.

The Pince howled and jumped -- not an elegant move of a matador, not an eagle's dive towards the prey -- he pounced like a lion, landing on the bull's face claws first, raking and cutting. The bull bellowed in pain, rearing and bucking like a rodeo pony, but Gideon held fast clawing further and further along the bull's spine, and his beak has found the soft spot in the bull's back, ripping chunk of flesh with a savage screech, before he dove again, blood splashing in every direction.

I moved on, even as the referees and teachers ran to separate them. It looked like the Prince was getting his fill of meat and blood this morning. For me, subtler pleasures awaited.

***

A winter afternoon in Bluette's cloud-house was a fragile, lazy thing made of little pleasures and gentle touches.

That day she fed me grapes before she would make love to me. She plucked them one by one from the bunch. and brought to my lips, as I let the feeling of the soft, moist flesh on my lips, mingle with the feeling of the silk of her wing on my skin, the warmth of her body next to mine, and the scent of her perfume, the permanent sweet summer peaches.

"...there are five gems like that, the White Queen said, and sixth to be brought by the spark..."

She was telling me a story -- an old story, and a true story, as all good stories are. And she was a great storyteller, but I wasn't listening, too preoccupied with my thoughts.

The plan was clicking together, and the pieces were falling into place. The biggest hurdles were ahead, but I already felt it, the delicate balance of lead and silver, knew where to push and what to say. All of Griffonstone was wrapped around my hoof like a cat's cradle.

All I needed was to pull the right string -- drop a few words, release the binding that held Galad’s power hidden...

But then the same old rub was still there: I had no then. All was ready but the means to escape from the power the bloody goat sitting in the Gormenghast dungeons had over me, over my magic.

"..and since that day, the Great Queen sleeps in her cave, beneath mount Ratnagari, where no magic works, hugging in her sleep the precious gift of her love. And since that day her faithful search for the gems that will lead the way to her lair..."

She fed me a grape.

"You're not listening, child," she chided. "Something's bothering you."

“It’s nothing.” I tried to avoid the topic. “Just stupid politics.“

"You trust me, child, don't you?" she said, her voice growing softer and richer, full of strange overtones. "You can tell me."

I... I did. Doubts evaporated from my mind, and I told her everything -- about the arimaspi, and the Count, and the Prince and the Idol.

"...I almost have everything!" I whinnied. It felt strangely cathartic to whine to someone understanding, like a little filly complaining to her mother. "If not for that old goat sitting in the dungeons. If he didn't have my magic!"

"Oh, is the big bad arimaspi bullying my little lady?" she teased.

I flicked my ear in irritation. Her teasing tone was not appreciated -- unlike the gentle kisses, she placed on my ear to soothe my wounded pride.

She chuckled. "Why don’t you tell me exactly what happened my little lady? Perhaps I can help you."

"He took my magic," I explained. "I cast a spell at him...well, more like raw magic really -- I was too dizzy to put a proper spell together. And he used something, tattoos and scarring under his coat." I drew the ugly Coltec hieroglyphics in the air, "and he swallowed it. As long as he has it, he can use the connection against me, like calling to like, my magic connecting to my magic. He can draw on my power for his own spells, or just hurt me by pulling the magic out of me." I sighed. "and the worst part is -- I can't defend against his spells now. Like calls to like, and my own magic bypasses my defences.”

She considered my words carefully. "You say you're close to your goals, child. That you could snatch the Idol from those griffons" She looked at me, her emerald-green eyes burning with subtle light "How close are you?"

"I have almost everything now! I know the things I need and how to get them, I know the way to the heart of Griffonstone. I can just reach out and take it," my hooves grasped at thin air, and I settled back, closer to her warm body. "All I need is a way to hold it."

"You did well to confide in me. I can help you, my little lady. There is a way to protect you from the arimaspi’s little spell. But you have to trust me, and do exactly as I say..." Her kisses trailed, behind my ear and down my neck “We may need a few things and a little magic, but the first stage of this process is surprisingly physical...”

***

I woke up cold and alone, Bluette nowhere to be found. There were voices coming from a room nearby -- she must’ve left to talk to someone, though it was too far and muted to hear them properly. I deliberated for a second, listening to the murmur of distant voices.

I could go join her. Or at least listen in on who it was and what they were talking about, but Bluette did tell me not to get out of bed and not to eat until she came back. And the blanket was way too warm and cosy to abandon. Then again, I was a magician, and I could very well go have a look without leaving the bed. Wriggling deeper into the down-and-cloud little nest Bluette had made for me, I summoned my magic and whispered the secret name. The familiar spell echoed with a sudden dull throbbing right beneath my eyes just as I left my body, and looking at myself from outside I saw a trickle of blood under my nose.

Stange. I must be more tired than I realized.

Well, the hardest part was already done either way, so I might as well have a look. Silent and invisible, I wafted through the hall as a little breeze, seeking her familiar low, velvety voice.

She was downstairs, talking to some griffons I've never seen before. There were three of them, nigh-identical: black-feathered, grey-crested with eyes as green as hers (a thought that for some reason did not sit quite right with me).

"Is that why you summoned us?" the griffon asked impatiently, "You're putting us at a lot of risk meeting like this."

There seemed to be an eerie similarity between all four of them -- the pegasus and the griffons; the same smoothness of motion, the similar inequine grace.

"Yes," Bluette said, her voice full of exaggerated patience usually reserved for children and morons. "I just need the tools. A piece of Her throne to take away the magic, Hindu bracelets and Vibhoofty-ashes to keep it from coming back..."

"Those are hard to get. The Hind bracelets are hard enough to procure, and pieces of her throne are precious! I can't just give them out willy-nilly. We did not even know who you were until today -- how can we trust you without knowing your real face?"

"I gave you my word to the third layer of truth, you insolent bug!"

"That's not enough! We need orders and proofs..."

"Isn't that precious," She stepped forward, her motions becoming liquid, as if her form was not constrained by mere flesh, and stretched in a languid, luxurious motion, making her coat waver with a subtle green haze. "You wish for seals and proofs. Why I could just-- " her words came out with a sound, a click or a hiss, not like something anything warm-blooded should be able to produce. "-- gobble you up."

The other two griffons fell on their bellies, trembling in fear.

"Is that now enough, or do you still want to know who I am?" she asked softly, and the leader-griffon recoiled away --or at least he tried to, but his own limbs refused to listen, and his eyes grew glazed over. "The great search demands unity," her feather slipped under his chin in a caress that made my whole body long for it to be me receiving it. "The great search requires obedience and I may just find you lacking. Should I?"

"N-no."

“Good,” Bluette relaxed her pose and released the griffon who almost flopped on the floor in relief. “Good. You will now do what I say, won't you?"

"Yes!" he nodded eagerly. “We will! We will!”

"With the gem, we will find her. Wake her up. Soon she will come back to her daughters. "

“She will come to us…” the three of them echoed back to her in unison, “We will find her.”

"Go."

He bowed so stiffly I was half afraid he would break something, and the three of them stepped back, falling off the cloud and taking flight and then they were gone.

I slipped back to my body ahead of Bluette. The talk left a heavy feeling in me that I could not quite shake. There was something at play that I did not understand, and for some reason, though I trusted Bluette I did not want her to know that I witnessed it.

She followed soon enough, joining me on the bed with a bowl of honeyed fruit that made my stomach growl with hunger. "Don't worry about it, my little lady," she patted me on the head with her wing, when she saw me awake in bed. "Just getting the items we will need for your little work." I nuzzled into her neck, getting a most wonderful little giggle and another tickly wing-pat from her. “Now, now, child, settle down and let’s see about preparing you for that dinner…”

***

The Prince seemed to have calmed down by dinnertime. He still looked feverish, clutching to his wine, and glaring daggers at anygriffons who could possibly bring up the morning incident, but at least he was civil, even adding an occasional word to the small talk of the table.

“You should try this:”

Prince Gwyr -- ever a good host, -- poured for me and for his brother, as I watched. All the signs were there, just as the Count had taught me: the blush in the cheeks, the shiver in his wing, the twitch of his eyes. His alchemy was excellent, but his delivery gave him away.

His brother did not benefit from the instructions I had. He drank, and so had I, feeling the metallic taste in the wine. I imagined it -- I knew I imagined it, with all the masking agents and false trails the younger Prince put in that poison of his, -- and yet I could feel it's bitter tang on my tongue, sure as day.

Smiling, I drank deep, thinking of copper deficiency, alterations of blood lipoprotein levels, increased levels of LDL and decreased levels of HDL. The kidney failure, shocks reverberating through the body in muscle spasms and nausea, the brain-blood barrier unable to filter the creeping toxins, the poisonous metal infusing my brain, killing memory, magic, intellect...

It was silly of course -- the dose was not sufficient to hurt a pony. Even a unicorn, even before the spells I put on my bones and the alchemy in my blood, I would not have been hurt by this much of it. And the wine was quite good in spite -- or perhaps because -- of the poison.

"The fish is excellent," I offered. Perhaps I was just my hunger talking, but the chef had outdone himself that day. “Goes very well with the wine.”

"Thank you, lady." Prince Gwyr moved his wing to Gratitude and passed me another plate. "You should try the mouse-blood pudding."

It seemed -- it was -- surreal how quickly I was getting used to it. Future enemies, on the cusp of war, sitting at one table, drinking poison and exchanging pleasantries and lies. And never a reason to leave, always a new dish introduced, and the friendly Prince will pour a fresh glass of poison and there’s always a chance to give another nudge, to step closer to the brink of the abyss...

And speaking of the next step.

“How goes the investigation?” I leaned towards Gideon. "Which one do you think may be involved?"

"I do not know," the Prince growled in response, also sotto voce.

"I suppose any one of them could've done it." I nodded in agreement. "Even if you were not their Prince, you have a lot to be envious of."

His eyes grew darker, as he looked at the other griffons, chatting idly over their own food, and said nothing.

“What will you do once you find him?” I asked, when I had a moment free from Gwyr, occupied temporarily by the Count.

He finished his glass. "That is an excellent question, little pony," the Prince said loudly, looking at his father. "I wonder what the punishment for High Treason is in Griffonstone these days. "

"The punishment for High Treason is death," Gwyr said, his face pale and voice hoarse. “That is the law."

"They say the law of the Griffons is immutable as their word, and just as strictly followed," the Count noted carefully, "but I cannot believe that in this day and age..."

"The ponies would never..." I said, fake-shocked.

"Grant me this, Father," the Prince demanded, rising in his chair. "He who did this to me, he who tried to take the power of the Idol. He must be punished."

“And he will.” the King said calmly, his wings moving to Displeasure, “as I see fit.” but the Prince was undeterred.

"I want their blood! Or are we not eagles? Are we little ponies now?"

“Enough!” King’s wing shot out in anger, and the blast of cold wind raced through the hall. “You forget your place, boy.”

For a moment Gideon said nothing, and nothing was said, silence hanging like a heavy fog above the table. The griffons looked at each other in unease, watching two of their lieges fight. Whispers rolled, and wings moved, discussing, measuring, weighing, trying to find which of the two was lacking.

"Hear me!" with his anger and his power the Prince spread his ragged wings, raising off his chair on a blast of cold wind, and all eyes turned to him. "Hear me, eagles. On the Claw and the Wing, on the Ice and the Storm, on my power and the Idol of Boreas, I promise death to him who did that to me!"

"Foolish child!" the King swore and the air grew cold, but the words were said, and they were witnessed, and all the King's power could never unsay them. "What have you done!?"

"Something you don't have the guts to do!"

Griffons shifted by his sides, claws suddenly free of utensils, wings ever so slightly raised, leaning towards their Prince.

The King rose, opening the wings and his power, the great and powerful wind, to tear the very mountain of Gormenghast apart and shatter the rocks of the castle came before the Lord of Griffonstone. He raised his claw…

Gideon lowered his head stubbornly and began to rise as well, his claws unsheathed and wings unfurling, his own power waxing like a tide. A line of power was drawn across the table, separating the flock of Griffonstone into two armies, as clear as if they each wore their own colours.

NO!

Galad jumped on the table and spread his wings. My spell upon his wrist snapped like a piece of string and a blast of air threw both the King and the Prince apart, Gideon smashing into a wall with a thunderous crash.

"I'm sorry!" Galad's wing drooped, as he reeled from what he's done, his voice small in the shocked silence of the court. "I'm sorry! I just didn't want you to fight..."

The Court descended into chaos.

Author's Notes:

For I have dreamed of a youngling kid, still weaning from his dam 
For I have dreamed of a midnight sky, and a midnight call to blood. 
And red-mouthed shadows racing by, that pull me to the rood. 
’Tis an hour yet and an hour yet to the rising of the moon, 
But I can see the black roof-tree as plain as it were noon.

Sunset Shimmer
Found on the margins of a work on Old Magic
Currently in Royal Canterlot Library
Access Restricted (Authorised Personell Only)

CHAPTER XXI: REPRISE

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I finished my glass, watching the griffons shout and argue. This went far, far better than I had any right to expect. I aimed to disarm the spell I put on Galad, to have to imply and lie and weasel about, but this -- this was by far a better outcome.

The King has taken the little princeling away, for the time being, and the court was abuzz, wings flared, voices raised, griffons arguing themselves hoarse over what has transpired and what was bound to happen.

Gideon did not participate. He stood up, slowly, as if testing out his body -- he was not used to being thrown like a child, and the experience shook him and made it to his throne and his glass, clutching it with both claws. There he sat motionless, almost eerily calm. But it was a front -- I saw the fear inside him, the mind-rending trapped terror that rolled through his mind like a river ready to burst from under the thin cover of ice, a leaden, drowning panic that cramped his muscles and clawed at his skin from within.

Shivering, he quaffed his glass, drinking the fortified wine like bitter medicine, in long, rolling gulps.

He was all tension, from motionless face to the lightest tremor of his wings, like a string stretched to the breaking point. The slightest push would make him snap.

And I was only happy to deliver.

"I am worried about your brother," I whispered to Gwyr, "if he breaks the oath he gave so rashly, the connection between him and the Idol may break as well. "

"He will lose the power over the winds?" It wasn't the fear in Gwyr's voice, but it was as close to panic as he could ever get. "But he’s the King-to-be, and the King has the power over the winds. That's how it must be!"

"He may. The old magic is fickle like that, and once forsworn, the connection may never be established again. And it's not just the winds -- as far as I’ve been able to ascertain, everygriffon is connected to the Idol. If he loses this connection, he won't even be a griffon any more, except in gross biology."

"He would no longer be able to be King," Gwyr shivered. "He'd probably have to leave Griffonstone altogether."

"What are you whispering about," the Prince, though dishevelled by the revelation, tried to keep his face up. "Not plotting against me too, I hope?" His wing moved to Jest, but there was no power in the gesture.

"The Lady here says," Gwyr shifted, wings in Discomfort, but he couldn't lie to his brother's face when put on the spot. "That when you break your oath, your connection to the Idol may shatter as well."

"Break?" Gideon repeated, clicking his beak. He turned to me, and I nodded, confirming Gwyr's words. What I said was true -- the Prince's words were said and witnessed, and couldn't just be unsaid. "If I--" he started.

There was a flutter of wings, a scatter of whispers, all attention turned to the doors a second before he came in. Cast on his wing where I stepped on it, limp in his front-left leg where my hits twisted it out of the socket, covered with bandages, Lord Graven entered the room.

Right on cue. My little talk with him was not in vain

Even as Gideon turned to greet him, his glance touching upon the bandages and casts, the limp and the scars and slipping away. He grabbed his drink again, already refilled, and dropped back to his throne.

“We’ll need to talk later,” Gwyr whispered to me, “in my rooms.” He touched my shoulder with his wings and scrambled after his brother.

"Your Highness!" Graven bowed before the Prince. "I came as soon as I heard of your--"

"Of what?" Galad threw a sharp glance at his once friend.

"Of your brother's actions." Graven corrected himself. "If there's anything I can do--"

"Anything, " The Prince looked pointedly at the bandages and casts, and almost spat the word "you can do for me?"

"Gideon, I am here for you. I am still your most loyal--"

"Will you fight my brother for me, then?" Gideon gestured to the dog for more wine. "Will you argue with my Father for me? Will you cure my illness?”

"If I can..." he repeated awkwardly. "If you so command." He shuffled towards the throne, stretching his wing towards the Prince.

“Hello there,” I smiled pure poison, stepping up to Prince's side."You've recovered, I see," He froze on the spot, his throat spasming shut with terror. "And I believe you owe me a wish."

His fear, the way he stood before me like a leaf before a tree, like a mouse before a cobra, it was like nectar and ambrosia to me.

"I wish," I said, slowly, drawing the moment out. "I wish you to leave. The castle and Griffonstone. Forever."

He paled, paleness evident even under his brown feathers.

"Gideon!" he managed to squeeze out, but he choked, when the Prince looked at him, the power of Boreas stirring behind the throne. It spread through the room, soft, but tangible like a silken noose. "Your Highness,” he corrected himself hastily, “you would not.. I can't... please..."

"The griffon's word--" the Prince’s voice rang hollow, deathlike, "--is as firm as the mountain."

"But."

"LEAVE!" the Prince’s roar rolled through the hall, and the glass before me cracked when the wine inside froze solid. Griffons fell back, scared, their wings in Fear, their eyes wide, and Lord Graven staggered, nearly falling on his haunches.

He looked to the sides, like a hunted beast and found no support, everygriffon not so much as willing to acknowledge his existence.

Power matters. And weakness is not appreciated in Griffonstone. Lord Graven bowed and turned before he would be led out.

The Prince drank deep from his cup, his coterie shifting about in uneasy silence, murmurs and glances abound.

"I did not know," Gwyr whispered to me, "that little ponies could be cruel."

"It's an acquired skill, Your Highness,” I whispered back, “and I did nothing to him he would not have done unto me. I was just better at it than him."

"I suppose so." He poured another drink for his brother. "You did the right thing though. He was a terrible influence on my brother, and quite horrible to little Gally. But I do pity him -- it is a terrible fate to be banished. No one will even acknowledge him, no one to speak or see him. His wings lowered into Sympathy. "He's all alone now, no longer part of Griffonstone."

The King entered, back alone. The griffons, save for both Princes, bowed, saying their obeisances as he took his throne.

"Galad," he said. "Has been confined to his rooms."

"Was it him?" Gideon jumped off his seat and in front of the king with a long wing-assisted leap. "Did he take my power?!"

"He has it," the King confirmed. "I saw it. "

"I demand his..." Gideon started, out of turn. "I demand a trial!"

"Enough, boy," the King said. "There will be no trial until I find out what has happened."

"The trial is mine, Father.” This time the Prince refused to back down on command. “It is the law."

"I am the law!"

"This is my offence, you have no right--!"

"I have given you life, boy," the King rose, and his power rose with him as he hung over the Prince, "I have given you life, and I can take it from you! That gives me the right!`` The savage, terrible power in his voice made the griffons step back.

"Can you now?" the prince hissed, and drew the power as well, rising over his father in a challenge.

With both of them pulling on their power, the air grew still. Not just still -- every molecule of air stood in tension, stretched along the lines of power between the two of them when they pulled on their power like a tug-of-war almost ready to snap.

Somewhere in the corner of my eye, I could see someone faint from the tension.

King looked to the side towards the motion, barely a twitch. He stepped back, then halted, catching himself, flaring his wings, but the momentum was irrevocably lost.

He looked around the room, seeking escape, a hounded look in his eyes, and saw nothing.

"Gil.."

The griffon held his wings and shrugged.

"Garth, Gerard,--"

Necks stiff, wings held high, so young and so proud, the griffons tolerated no weakness. Only Gwyr had stepped back into the shadow cast by his brother.

"I see that is what loyalty is in Griffonstone these days -- all together, fools and children acting as one. Fine, then.” He ripped the leaden circlet off his head and threw it down to Gideon’s claws. The Prince leapt back as if afraid the lead would burn him. “You can have your court, boy, and we shall see if you have the heart to match your beak."

He turned, flashing his wings, and left. The Prince reached for the crown, but even he had thought better of it, and his claw has never touched the lead.

“Well,” I cleared my throat struggling to chase away the startled silence. “That happe--”

The angry glance from the Prince made me lose whatever I had to say.

"I'll go." I offered. "see how Galad is doing. And if he's... if he's involved."

The echo of the hall was my only answer as I ambled awkwardly out, the Prince and the griffons still looking at the small circle of lead lying on the stones of the throne room, where none dared touch it.

***

Before I entered Galad’s room I paused and I dug out the gem, sparkling in the sparse sunlight, cold to the touch with the glint of power it contained. The second time went easier than the first, but the heady rush of feeling whole, the surge of fierce pride and self-assurance that came with it… I had to take a minute before opening the door to the Prince’s room.

Sapphire Shores poster next to the desk covered in scrolls and ink-stains, an unmade, matted bed, a drum kit half-assembled the corner: but for all the silver and jewellery this could've been a room of any teen pony back home.

Galad was laying on the bed, wings splayed and claws idle. He perked up when he heard me knock, rising on the bed, and tried to put his wings to Greeting, but the chains -- heavy, grey steel binding his wings -- prevented him from making the expression properly.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey."

For my pegasi friends, being grounded was always the worst punishment. I suspected it was much similar to a griffon, even as thoroughly un-griffish as Galad.

“How are you holding up?” I shifted in apparent unease.

“Trapped behind bars, in dampness I dwell.
A young-hearted eagle brought up in a cell,
My dejected companion, under the frame,
Continues to peck at the red, bloody game,”

His wing showed Sarcasm, but despite his bravado, I could hear the tremor of his voice betray his fear. “I’m afraid I’m grounded at the moment.” He shivered his wings, making the chain clink.”Dad’s orders.” He sighed. “He’s very cross with me. He even left Hugi to look after me." The gesture of discomfort and mistrust at the raven sitting on the windowsill looked awkward constrained by the chains. "To look that I don't fly away or start a mutiny or something."

His father's raven cawed, demanding his crumbs.

"They think someone else is to blame. That someone made you do it."

"Of course they do." Galad rolled his eyes. "I'm 'just a kid', I couldn't possibly make my own decisions." He pouted.

"Well, they will ask if you had any co-conspirators, if someone else made you do it or helped you..."

"I promised! And I will swear again." The presence behind him - wind and ice and the fury of eternal winter - stirred, when he summoned his power. "By the Claw and Wind and the Idol, I swear, I won't tell anyone. Not until you're safe.

“Besides, it's probably just some dumb political thing. I pose no threat to my brother or the kingdom. Gideon will come to his senses soon, I'm sure, so don't worry, my Lady.

“Though I do have a favour to ask:” He stood up, his wings making the chain rattle again, and looked to each side nervously, making sure that no one was listening. In one rough motion, he jerked the key off his neck. "Take this." his claw pressed the cold metal into my chest. "Gwyr mustn't be involved. Gid would be really angry with him if he knew he gave me the key. And they will never suspect that little pony has it.”

I nodded. "Don't worry, Galad. I'll hide it for you. Just... hold out, ok?"

"Don't worry my Lady. " he fluffed his chest, "I can take a bit of prison time, and then this whole thing will blow over. Important thing is that you're safe now, from that monster. You're a griffon, one of us."

I laughed, fake-merry and short, and let him have a touch of the wing.

"Here, have this." I passed him a rose, plucked out of my mane. "And thank you, my Prince."

Had he had tail feathers, he would have fanned them out in a dazzling display. As things were, he had to be content with puffing out his chest and throwing back his head -- a child trying to look like an adult.

I closed the door behind me and looked at my catch -- the key to the greatest treasure of Griffinstone; purchased for nothing more than a rose and empty words. That, and a tiny piece of my soul, but if that was the price for the peace for my country and my Princess, it was one I paid gladly.

***

The inner planning of Gormenghast was a strange thing, all rambling and confused; rooms piling on top of rooms, levels atop other levels, an organic, unplanned architecture that built continuously on itself. And that meant, that if you knew where to go -- a no mean feat, -- if you knew which servant’s passages to take, and which walls contained the mole-tunnels of the secret passages it would take you minutes to cross from the younger Prince’s rooms to the guest wing of the house where the noblegriffons lived while they enjoyed the King’s hospitality.

The door to Lord Graven’s room was ajar, and inside he sat, staring at the semi-packed suitcase full of haphazardly thrown clothes and jewels.

I looked to the sides. The corridor was empty. Nogriffon would aid Graven, or even come by to say their goodbyes. Not even the dogs to pack his things.

I closed the door behind me.

"Y-you..." he shivered, jumping back to the wall. "What do you want?"

"Hello, little bird," I said, closing the door. "Come over here."

He didn't want to. He wanted to scream or to fly away, but the fear, the paralyzing, freezing terror gripped his throat shut.

There was nothing left of his pride, his own or Prince-given. Barely anything left of him.
"Please," he whispered, in a hoarse, desperate supplication, as the fear made him take the step forward to me, once and again, like a rabbit hypnotised by the cobra. "Please..."

"Shh," I said placatingly, "It's okay. It's all over now. It's all going to be fine." I raised my fan, spikes glinting in the sunlight.

A single sob escaped his throat. He knew, he had always known since I beat him in that arena, that I would come for him. That one day this door would open, and I would come in and dash his life to pieces, and there would be nothing he could do.

Our eyes met, in that moment, as he was about to draw his breath to beg me again, I stabbed him with the other fan right between the ribs, reaching for his heart.

His back arched, violent, agonizing spasm, muscles twitching, twisting and shuddering out of order, his wing ripping out of the cast with a crack of freshly re-broken bones, his claws scratching against the floor, and then slowly he went limp. "Shh," I said again, lowering him gently to the ground, and I held the fan firm and held him impaled on it, while he tried to inhale the air, unable to even cry out his pain. "It's all over now," I held his gaze and waited, watching the life grow dim in his eyes. "It's all over."

"I'd say I'm sorry if I were," I laid him carefully on the floor. "But you were in the wrong place at the wrong time, and I really need to borrow something,"

I don't know why I said that -- he was already dead.

It just seemed the thing to say.

***

I closed the door, breathing in again the air clean of the smell of burning flesh. The last piece of the puzzle was safely stowed at the bottom of my saddlebags, and with everyone assuming that Lord Graven has left Gormenghast and Griffonstone, I had no need to worry about someone discovering his absence.

I almost bumped into a clowder of old griffons as I left the corridor. They scattered about, lowering their eyes, lowering their wings, pretending to not have been here.

I pretended to do the same, as we passed each other.

A familiar door hidden in the wall, a familiar ladder. Prince's chamber with all the books and chemical equipment. Gwyr sat alone, staring at the floor with unseeing eyes, deep in his thoughts. Only when the door slammed shut behind me did he raise his head, twitching his crest with surprise.

"Oh! It's you." he dropped back into the slouch again. "You came."

"I saw the griffons leaving your rooms. What was that about?" I took my seat as well.

"My father has thrown away his crown," Gwyr said, his talons drumming against the tabletop.

"I saw -- I was there. Very dramatic. So?"

"And some griffons wish for me to pick it up."

"Can they do that?" I knew the answer to that question, but it was still something I needed to ask. "Can you do that?"

"Strength is what rules Griffonstone, Lady," Gwyr sounded tired. A fight against oneself tends to that to a griffon -- or a pony. "With their support, if I walk the Pattern and take the power of the Idol, if I wear the leaden crown and hold the silver sceptre... the strongest griffon will win."

"And will you?" I watched him as he thought. Thought of what he wanted and what others expect of him and what he wanted to see himself as. The things he told himself and others, truth and lies. Have I too been this conflicted once? "It would be better for Griffonstone, it would be better for Equestria. All it would take is--"

"Treason." The word fell like a blade of a guillotine, cutting the conversation off. "Was that your Count's plan all along?" he asked bitterly. "For me to betray my brother?"

"No! We did not plan for this to happen! But it's not just about you or about us any more -- if we're too late, if we fail and your brother takes the crown--"

"You're wrong!" he reared, flaring his wings. "My brother is a noble soul, he is not capable of such evil!"

I stepped back, shaken, with my ears drooped, but in my mind, I could not help but notice how he said "evil" before he even knew what I would be talking about.

“He will come to his senses. He must!”

"Then he will still lose everything. He swore--"

"Get out!" He turned away, disgusted, even as his eyes lingered on the shelf with the chemicals. "Get out of my sight."

I got. There was nothing I needed to do here anyways -- the pieces were all in play, the die was cast and all I had left to do was wait for tomorrow and see the end of Griffonstone.

Author's Notes:

In palace garden, grows anchar dread
They planted  her on day of terror,
The flesh of roots and boughs, dead,
Grew filled with venom blood forever.

The poison oozes through her bark
And melts at noon in beams from heaven,
And thickens in the evening dark
As tar, transparent, thick and heavy.

A princess bright has breathed
This evil tar into her arrows,
And sent with them the poison-death,
To alien lands--the lands of neighbors.

Fancy Pants, Count Hoofington
Dedicated to S.
Notebook currently in private collection.

CHAPTER XXII: LUNGE, REMISE, REDOUBLEMENT

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I woke up, wiggling out of the Count's hug, and pushed him away. He turned, whimpering in his sleep, and I let him have his dreams a little longer, trotting to the window.

The sunrise was still crimson-red, the first blades of sunlight stabbing into the clear skies with a vengeance.

A sure sign from my Princess, a command and permission to do what had to be done -- and when had I ever needed more?

I would not fail again. I would not let my Princess down again, no matter the cost.

I breathed.

In and out.

Today was the day.

“Today is the day,” I said to the Count, as he stirred softly in his bed. “Red sun rises.”

“I knew his mother,” the Count said, sitting up. Grief made his voice low, almost a whisper. “I was here, in Griffinstone, when the boy was born.”

I fixed my mane one last time and checked my makeup: Form was essential, after all, and today had to go right.

“Bluette will accompany me to the event,” I informed him. “And help me make the final preparations. Be ready, my little lord.”

He closed his eyes and fumbled with his magic for my flask. I could see him make a face after a drink, but at least it seemed to make him more at peace with what was about to happen.

***

I checked myself again in the mirror once we were about to leave Bluette’s cloud home.

The heavy Hind bracelets pulled on my legs, and the ashen pattern on my forehead made my skin itch, but I ignored it like I ignored the chill in my bones and the feral hunger gnawing on my guts. I was tired, hungry and cold, and yet, at the same time fully sated.

“Shall we go, my little lady?”

She came up behind me, and put a heavy coat around my shoulders, protecting me against the cold winds. I couldn’t help but note that the heavy fur slowed me down, and the hood obscured my vision, and I couldn't help but note that Bluette took note of this fact as well.

It didn’t matter -- the coat was warm and smelled of her: summer peaches and honeysuckle. Besides, I trusted Bluette.

I nodded. All that I came here for was done. Now, all that was left was to see where the chips may fall and be there to pick them up.

Together, we walked through the blizzard, towards the immense, rambling outline of Gormenghast, where the Prince’s judgement awaited.

Others were already there, and more to come. Griffons in droves, scant few ponies. We met with the Count in the crowd and looked up towards the top of the tower. The highest tower of Gormenghast, just as the Count had said, hanging over a ravine, a fall dozen dragons high.

The King was there, and Gwyr, by his brother’s side, and Galad with his wings bound in heavy metal bands, and a griffon judge, so young his feathers still bore the fluffy childish down.

Gideon gestured with the wing, and just like that, the snow had stopped, every cloud holding their snow on his command. The cold power he summoned raked against my nerves like a file taken to my horn.

Winds dead, the crowd went still and silent, and every word from the rock above could be heard crystal-clear.

The drama, to which I already knew the ending, inevitable as an avalanche after the first stones have already rolled.

"Galad, Prince of the House of Grover, you stand accused of the attempt of fratricide--",The crowd buzzed, "attempt of regicide," the whispers intensified, "and High Treason. Prince Gideon, is your accuser."

Gideon nodded slowly, never taking his gaze away from his brother.

"Do you stand by your words?"

"I do." the Prince answered. King’s wings stiffened, but otherwise, he did not move.

"Present the evidence." the griffon commanded, wings stock-stff in Accusation.

"His name has been scratched into the floor of Gesklethorn," a griffon wizard stepped forth, "That had been witnessed."

“His feather has been found in the vault,” a griffon-guard testified. “That we have seen.”

So they found it. Taken off the princeling as we descended into Gesklethorn, casual compliment concealing a twist of the hoof, and released into the winds when I was there with Gideon, and now it played out -- the daming bit of evidence, my trump put on the table without me ever having to play it.

"He wielded the power against the King. He wielded the power against the Prince. That we have seen," the nobles -- All of them young, all of them of Gideon's clique standing behind him -- raised their wings.

"We... we can't be sure that..." the young medic started, but under Gideon's gaze his words stuck in his mouth. He cleared his throat and tried again "The Prince is ill, and his power is waning, this we know."

"How do you plead?"

"I... I did take the power," the princeling confessed, "But I didn't mean to hurt Gid! I never meant to hurt anyone!"

"To take the winds is treason - that is the law." the young griffon-judge announced. "To threaten the power of the Prince, is treason - that is the law. To use magic against another, is crime and cowardice - that is the law.

"The punishment for treason is death." the tips of his wings shivered. "That too is the law.

“Shall you give pardon to the accused, Your Majesty?" he asked, almost desperate.

"Take back your oath, boy!" the King commanded -- asked -- begged. "This has gone far enough!"

"I will not." I could not see his claws, from all the way down there, but I knew they were tightening, cutting grooves into the stone floor of the tower. “The traitor must die.”

"Brother!" Gwyr stood forward, shocked.

"Brother!" Galad begged.

"I swore on my power! I swore on the Idol, I cannot -- I will not take it back! The griffon's word is as immovable as the mountains. Without his word, Griffon is nothing."

"Tell us who made you do it, Gally, please," Gwyr begged. "Then we can punish them instead. Please!"

"Brother, I..." he looked down, his eyes finding mine from all the way up the tower, begging silently.

"Silence." I raised the fan to my lips.

He swallowed his sobs "I can't!" He forced himself straight and still. "There is nothing to tell," he repeated, struggling the words out, "I did it all by myself, and for my own reasons."

"Then you fall." Gideon snarled. "Or you die by my claws. Decide, Father."

"...Your Majesty?"

The King and the Prince stood motionless against each other. They knew, as I knew, as everygriffon knew that in that moment laws didn't matter, the evidence didn't matter, rules, traditions, titles, nothing mattered -- it is will against will, power versus power.

"Dad?" the little prince said, "Daddy, please."

The King moved his wings, lowering his head, and shifting his weight. The winds screamed and stopped, and not a breeze moved as he stood choosing between his son and his son.

The princeling wiped his tears off his face.

"Gideon," he said, “Father.” His voice was calm, and his wings moved suddenly light despite the chains. "It's ok. I release you."

Quick and graceful, before anyone had a chance to do something, he jumped on the parapet.

The Count closed his eyes by my side.

The princeling stepped. He stepped, he fell, and his wings didn't open.

And there was one less Prince in Griffonstone.

***

"Much later, the Count even wrote an epigram on his death," Sunset frowned, recalling.

"He fell, a slave of tinsel-honour,
A victim of the misplaced trust;
The little Poet's head, the noblest,
Bowed on his broken wings in dust...

"It was done in the young prince's style even, all iambics and odd-rhymes. Lengthy, but quite droll."

"You killed him," Twilight gasped. "How could you?! How can you mock that?"

"Did I?" Sunset asked, "It was not my hoof that pushed him off the ramparts. It was not my voice that sentenced him to death, not my oath that made him take a step--"

"Yeah, you did." Applejack cut off the flowery prose. "As sure as if you did them things, you caused this fella's death."

"So I did." She took a sip of her tea, setting the cup back on the saucer carefully. "And it was far from the worst thing I've done -- not even just that day.."

***

In the halls where I found him, Gwyr was pacing. He walked to and fro along the walls of the room, like a caged lion, his tail lashing nervously against his sides.

Outside the griffon nobility stood, unsure, scared. Waiting. The King was weak, and they needed the new one, but none was willing to breach the topic with Gwyr.

So it fell on me, the silent consensus of fear that made the crowd of griffons part before me, that let me into this door, to watch Gwyr pace, and listen to him talk.

"I.." he started, “I never thought it'd go so far -- not until the very last moment. I thought it a cruel joke, a prank gone too far, lunacy he might yet wake up from. It’s not like my brother, not at all! Could it possibly.."

"It was not the poison," I interrupted him forcefully. "I know my alchemy, and so do you. None of those compounds could've influenced his mind, not in those doses, not without destroying his kidneys and liver first. What we're seeing was in your brother all along."

“Why did Father...” He clicked his beak, and resumed his pacing. “I don’t know what to do!”

"The griffons wait outside." I said, "Gideon went too far. They wait for your counsel, for your command. They need a King -- their King. Someone has to pick up the crown, and sit on the throne. Your brother is dead so you’re the only griffon who can make that choice. "

"They shouldn't. I cannot...." his wing trembled. "Gideon should be the King, I never..."

He grew silent again.

"Your brother died because of you," I said, poisonous compassion reaching for that chink in his armour, striking right where I knew it would hurt the prince. "Because you hesitated. You can’t repeat the same mistake." ‘Scientific vivisection’ the Count had called it, pushing on one nerve, again and again, till it is raw. “For his sake, at least, as well as for Gideon’s.”

"Aye. I cannot." The Prince finally stopped pacing, his eyes still empty. "I just wish ...I wish that I could've said something, or prevented something from being said much earlier... Done something which might have let him grow differently, something which would have seen him not become that bitter thing so obsessed with his own power." He sighed. "What we do is for the best. For his own good."

We entered, with me hidden in the cavalcade of older griffons, Gwyr at the helm of our little coalition, pushing the doors of the throne room to the sides.

"Come in brother," Gideon welcomed the delegation of griffons.

He sat on his father's throne. He was not alone, but the other griffons sat aside, fearing to come closer, leavening wide empty space before the leaden throne.He was in one of his darker moods, the kind that came more often these days, silent and staring at his reflection in the glass of wine in his claw. One of Gwyr's bottles, already almost empty, stood by his side.

"Drink with me."

He threw the bottle, and it exploded against the wall just next to the dog's head, making nearby servants and griffons flinch. "More wine!" he demanded, his voice slurred with the drink. "I will drink with my brother!"

The dog scurried away, and the griffons stepped back one more step away from their drunken Prince.

"I'm not here to drink with you, Gideon," Gwyr said gently. "We need to talk. You are not well. Ga--"

"I'm not drunk!" the Prince protested unprompted. "I have the petabo-- metalob-- I have the endurance of ten griffons!"

"I am not here to drink,” Galad repeated. "Where's Father? You should really not sit on--"

"Dad's not here." His wing pointed at a dented leaden coronet, lying on the floor like a common trinket, no one daring to touch it. "He's still sulking."

It was still lying right where the King threw it in his last fit of pique. For all the subtlety you may want, all the illusions you may weave, ultimately power matters, and weakness is not appreciated in Griffonstone.

"I suppose I am the King now, ain't I?" he looked at other griffons. "Am I not your King?"

The whispers grew more intense, but no one dared contradict.

"Liars," he was feverish now, "traitors. Cowards!" The last word echoed through the room in a sudden shot. "That creature betrayed me. Galad conspired against me. Father was too cowardly to give me my justice! But I can trust you brother, though, can't I? Will you stand by my side when everyone else leaves me?"

“About that, Gideon,” Gwyr started. “After what you did to Galad--”

“I did what I had to!”

"Do you at least feel guilty about it?" Gwyr asked incredulously.

"Of course I do, but I gave my word, Gwyr! My word! On the Claw and Wing, Ice and Storm and--"

"I know, brother. We were all there."

"Well, what did you expect, then?! What was I supposed to do? Give up my power? My honour? My pride?! The griffon word is--"

"Galad was our brother, our kin! Do you truly think your foolish oath was worth his life?"

“It was his own fault--!”

“His own fault?!" Gwyr reared, incredulous. "Do you even hear yourself, brother?"

"He plotted against me!" Gideon roared, "He broke into the chamber, he took my strength, my Power, he did this--” he opened his wings, trailing falling feathers on the floor, “--to me!"

Griffons stepped back.

"He didn't do that..." Gwyr murmured.

"What?!"

"It was I, brother! I did it! I poisoned you!" Gwyr finally screamed stepping forward, his infected guilt bursting in a fountain of ill-timed truth, like a boil bursting with pus. “I’ve been poisoning you for a week now, to stop this madness you started!”

Gideon’s looked wide-eyed at the wine-glass in his claw. At the fresh wine-bottle just brought by the dog, still bearing Gwyr’s waxen seal. He looked at his brother and swung his claw.

Griffons -- eyes of gold, claws of steel. And blood, red blood spilling in spurts on the white marble floor from the slashed throat.

For a second I saw the white in the red blood, and I thought I would be ill.

But the moment passed and the Prince fell, and a pile of bodies hit Gideon, pulling him away. He did not struggle, staring instead at his brother and his own bloodied claw, as if unable to comprehend what he had just wrought.

I turned away and disappeared into the shadows. The final countdown had begun, and I had places to be.

Author's Notes:

There will be not a sad reflection,
There will be (I am betting on)
Much more gaily celebration
When I am dead, than - born.

Galad, Prince of Griffonstone
Purported to be his last work
Scroll found in Gormenghast

CHAPTER XXIII: PRISES DE FER

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Out the door and to the left, leaving behind the shouts of horror and sounds of the fight. I tried to force myself to walk slowly, maintaining a leisurely gait, but with every step I took, I sped up until I was at full gallop through the stone halls and old tunnels.

I was panting when I finally went down the ladder to the hall of the Silver Bells, cursing the staccato of my hooves against the hard stone. Down to the abandoned hall damp and empty, and further still.

Gideon’s key opened the secret door he showed me, and I started again at the abyss of the shaft.

I breathed. Proper, deep breaths.

In and out.

There would be no cloud to carry me down today, and no griffons either. I dropped my saddlebags, and unwound a long rope and took my time to tie it to a sconce. Hoof and mouth, in a proper fashion. And then, fixing my coat and adjusting the horseshoes, I began my long, arduous descent into the darkness.

Down, down and down, until my legs burned with effort and skin stung with the rope burns until finally, my rear hooves touched the stone.

Tightening my cape, I entered the eerie silent hall, the cave of Boreas.

There I sat down, breathing, counting minutes tickling ever so slowly by and trying not to think about how I would make my way up again. Everything was primed now, all was remaining was to wait, for Gideon's stupor to pass and his horror to be substituted by anger--

An explosion rocked the castle, echoing even down where I sat, to the very roots of Gormenghast.

And there we go.

The crimson tracery grew silent -- all the winds were summoned by the prince, possessed by his ire and paranoia. And while the pattern of the spell was bared, that gave me a chance to sneak in.

I reached into the pockets of the coat and produced a small vial, and shook it up, examining the few ounces of black and red inside.

Royal blood of Griffinstone -- the key to griffon kingdom. The royal blood that the Arimaspi gathered, the prince's -- now made the king -- feather I stole as I played doctor with him, and the claw of griffon, taken off Graven’s corpse. That plus the mark of Boreas beating against my chest -- that was all the ingredients I needed to breach the invincible protection of the ancient spell.

I dabbed a drop to each of my hooves, and swallowed the rest, feeling the cold power of Gideon's blood stir the mark of Boreas in the gem pressed against my skin. I breathed, deep, set my spirit, and put Graven's claw upon the first name in the pattern. The corpse-flesh of the dead limb gave subtly under my teeth, filling my mouth with taste of rot, as I cut into the winds, making the first step into the spell. And then another, and another.

One misstep, one turn or zig or zag I remembered wrong from when Galad had guided me through the pattern, and I would be dead, ripped apart by the magic that suffused the pattern of the spell, and neither griffon claw in front of me, nor the royal blood on my hooves, nor king's feather in my mane would protect me.

The path was long and tiring, filled with the howl of the wind and blinding flurry, sparks of magic and immense pressure of Boreas power I could feel with my entire body, but in the end there was not much to it.

No lightning struck me when I stepped into the centre of the spiral, where only the blood of Grover was allowed. No winds tore me apart when I took the idol into my hooves, ripping it off its pedestal, perhaps the first time in centuries. No ice froze me solid, no griffon claw cut me in half, no Power ripped my soul from my body.

But still, the whole of Gormenghast shuddered, dungeons to highest spires, and the chill from the golden cup in my hooves seemed to reach into my bones even though the Bluette's coat.

The pitch of griffon shouts had changed as I climbed back up, and snuck through the secret halls and abandoned corridors. They felt it too, that shuddering of the world when the heart of Griffonstone was taken, and now their screeching took a cadence of panic.

I could hear the sharp crackle of thunder and howl of the storms, as Gideon summoned fullness of his power, scouring through the castle, striking down any who would stand in his path or try to slow him down.

They were looking for the Idol. Uncoordinated, confused and panicking, they were all searching for their Idol -- they were all searching for me. And whoever they found with their Idol would not live long enough to be thrown off the towers of Gormenghast: she’d be ripped apart on the spot.

In short -- it was all just as I planned.

***

The shouts and the tremors fell behind and above, only felt by the faint trembles of the stone beneath my hooves and rare screech, as I crept back down, though the secret passages and servant’s ways, feeling my way through the pitch-black darkness, and trying not to slip on the damp stairs.

And then, before I entered prison, I paused. The Count has left me the package as we have planned, so now everything was about to come together.

This was the endgame. If I were lucky, a mistake would just mean I'd be dead. The Count too. If I weren't -- all I have done so far may have been undone.

Everything had to go right.

I dropped the cape and saddlebags, shivering in the cold air of the secret passage, and took the time to check my looks. My coat was matted, slick with sweat and dirty with dust. My mane was a mess, my tail -- grimy and dishevelled.

The next thing was the Idol.

I dug out the baby-blue gem, and dropped it into the cup, right beneath the red crystal in the centre.

It shone softly with an inner light, lit up by my soul and the drop of the magic of Boreas imprinted on it. It was but the shadow of the real thing, like a hoofprint compared to a hoof -- not something to stand up to serious examination.

I grabbed one of the bags and breathed.

Not the way she had taught me, not the proper deep breathing to steady the mind and prepare the body, but the ragged, running-for-my life, wild animal breaths as if I never stopped on my way to the creature, and then I pushed the door open, and ran, full-gallop into the corridor.

"Hey!"

I froze, cursing myself. I should've checked behind the door, I should not have been so confident everygriffon would be upstairs, searching for the idol.

I turned slowly back, to face the two guards who moved over to intercept me with the easy calm of big cats that have been fed recently.

"What are you doing here, little pony?"

I did not have time for this.

“I’m...” If I still had the paiza... But the Prince’s silver bracelet was still left in the saddlebags behind the secret passage. "...I'm here on Prince's orders!"

They looked at each other, hesitating. “Come with us little pony. We’ll sort it out.”

I took a breath. In and out.

"Do we have to do this?" I tried to make my voice sound tired and earnest, but my disguise was meant for the creature not for them. The dishevelled mane, the erratic breathing, it just did not work for this. "I'm really here on Gideon's request. I just forgot my paiza."

"Yes, little pony, we have. Come with us -- or we'll have to get rough."

"O-of course." I raised my hooves in a placating gesture. An imperceptible shiver ran from the tip of my muzzle to the tip of my rear hooves, as I dropped my bag. "I'll go. Just d-don't hurt me.”

His posture relaxed, and they looked for a second at each other, amused by my compliance. In that moment, in the second their eyes were off me, I surged forward, turning up between them, and my shoulder threw one of them into the wall, just as I bucked the other with my hind-hooves. I felt his wing slide out of the shoulder-joint where I hit him, and he stumbled and fell, crumpling into a heap, and I reared and fell on the other before he would stand up, and then again. He jerked, spasmed and grew still.

The air smelled of blood, the heavy iron tang I could feel on my tongue and my stomach spasmed again with a sickening mix of nausea and hunger.

I twisted back, where the first griffon was already standing up, baring his claws and raising his one whole wing, ready to shout an alarm.

He was one of Gideon's - young, proud, eager. I couldn't fight him and win, not without my--
I pushed the thought away. What I had or didnt have didn't matter. I had to win anyways -- there was no other way for me.

Besides, I had something better than any spell or power: Fear.

I forced my lips into a rictus grin and stepped forward. Like she did, a flowing, liquid step, like a stalking leopard, like a slithering snake, my tired muscles groaning in protest.

"Don't worry, little bird." I said softly, "I won't enspell you."

He tried to gather himself, shock from seeing death up close still holding him frozen, and reflexively he stepped back.

"I won't turn your blood to flame inside your veins."

Another step. He wanted to shout, to call for help, but nothing more than half-whimper came out.

"I won't break your bones."

He stepped back again, putting his claws into a protective gesture.

"I won't burn off your wings, I won't rip out your throat..."

He took the last step back, almost crying out with fear when his back touched the cold metal bars of the prison.

"He will, though."

He twisted, trying to see behind him, to step away, but from behind him hands have already whipped up from the darkness, wrapping around the griffon's neck, and the arimaspi's long, thin fangs sunk into exposed flesh just over the gorget.

Silly birds. Never watch where they step.

The creature’s throat bulged as he drank, after centuries of hunger, his fill of life's blood, and the muscles rippled with strength, bulging and filling out until the struggling griffon's neck snapped.

Releasing the body, the arimaspi turned to me. "Nice showing, little pony.” His narrow, serpentine tongue flickered out, picking up the last specks of blood off his muzzle. "Yes, little pony, nice showing indeed. But what is that noise above, yes, the mighty wings and the shouting, even here I can hear them, and why do you come here now? Is it what I think it is?"

"Yes. I came to bring you what you want." and to tell you what you fear. "I've done as you asked."

"Well then," His arms swelled with muscles, and he grabbed the bars of his prison and ripped the door out of the frame with a short, powerful tug. The metal screamed and gave. "Come in, little pony."

He rose up, his spine straightening, the curve of years of supplication undone with firework-like crackle, his chest expanding and growing sinewy with muscle.

"Give it to me, pony. Give me what I want."

"N-no." I gulped and сlutched the bag tighter in my hooves. "Release me first! You gotta hurry, they're right after me."

"Don't—" A savage backhand threw me clean of my hooves, and my back smashed into the bricks of the cell. "—tell me what to do, little pony. I have the power here! Me!" Before the spots have cleared from my sight, he snarled a spell, and his chains snapped up from the floor, black energy crackling around them, and latched onto my every hoof.

He picked up the Idol that fell out of my saddlebag, and his nostrils flared when he sniffed the air for the cold power of Boreas. “Thank you little pony,” he flashed his yellow teeth. “Now to release you...” He reached for me, pulling on the threads of his spells, and I held my breath.

Nothing. No pain to flare in my chest, no green or gold magic on his horn. It worked!

I laughed, crazy, bubbling laughter born of exhaustion and exhilaration. "I've got no magic, creature. There is nothing for you to steal. You have no power over me.”

“I have power enough to kill you anyway, little pony.” His hand twisted into a fist, his paw the size of my head, fresh muscles rolling under his skin like a wave, but his voice was hesitant. “Without your magic you are nothing, yes, you are nothing.”

"But the guards are drawing near," I lowered my horn and prepared to dodge, "and the Prince has been in bad spirits as of late. You have the power -- but do you have the time?”

Do you have the guts?

He looked at me wildly, his ears flickering to the sounds of griffons screeching in search for the idol. He was bigger than me, and stronger by far. He could've killed me even without the stolen magic, but it would've taken time, and perhaps I would've hurt him in the process.

Plomo o plata, lead and silver: The arimaspi was no exception from his own rule. I could see his eyes shift, as his fear and greed pulled against caution and anger, his nostrils flaring, his coat growing damp with sweat, and giving me the final, bleating cry of anger, he ran.

I took a breath, licking the blood from my rebroken lip.

The Prince would follow him, taking his flight as a sure sign of guilt, and with no magic but the fake idol I gave him, my money was on the Prince. Either way, one of them would end up dead, and I would have the time for the next part of my plan.

Kicking off the horseshoes off my hooves, I wiped the ashes off my forehead, feeling the subtle warmth of my magic building back up. My stomach spasmed again, my body feeding on itself to for energy Bluette drained out of me. Though this part of the process was hardly as pleasant as the other.

I breathed and I waited.

Minutes ticked by, darkness and silence, and nothing to focus on but the raging spasms in my belly. I grit my teeth and bore it best I could. It did pay off to know how to go hungry after all.

Finally, my magic built up a little, I whispered a spell -- a charm, one of eighteen. Nine long nights it took me to learn it. Nine long days and nine long nights spent on the wind-swept gallows in the Everfree Forest, while my Princess thought I was at my parents’ house. Nine long nights, and each of them worth it: With barely a whisper of power the fetters burst from my neck, and the chains broke on my legs.

The Count was already waiting for me in the crook of the secret passage, just off the arimaspi's path.

"You have it?"

He jumped up when he heard my question. “Oh. Yes, yes. Quite so.” he revealed my saddlebag and the Idol within. "Are you sure you want to go on with this, Miss Shimmer?" he asked, "Surely we could try to negotiate with the King or the heir, reach some sort of compromise--"

"No." I stretched my hoof to take the Idol. I had no time for doubt or pity, and wouldn't swerve for his silly arguments.

"At least don't do it here." The Count stepped back away from my grasp, his hoof covering it protectively. "Someone might stumble upon us. And stop us. Stop you."

He was stalling. I could see it in his eyes, hear it in the cowardly beat of his heart hidden in my saddlebag. A silly childish diversion; Still at war with the realities of life and his silly little conscience, afraid to follow the logic of the plan to the ultimate conclusion of the final act... But he wasn't wrong either.

"Let's go." I agreed. "The arena. It should be empty now, and it'll be easier there."

The magic I was about to perform cared little for the walls and the castles once it would be cast, yet even ‘little’ was not something I was willing to risk. Under the open skies, further from the pattern of the spell and the thick walls and ancient masonry of Gormenghast, there I would finish this ordeal.

"Mind if I join?" A deep, silken voice interrupted us before I had a chance to take a step, and a winged silhouette stepped out of the shadows, shining with green opals and cold blue sapphire at her throat.

"Bluette? What are you doing here?" The Count nearly jumped out of his coat with surprised. Were I not so tired, it would have been really funny.

"I told her about our plan," I explained. I did tell her that, and in that moment that seemed wrong somehow, though I could not quite put my hoof on why exactly. I trusted her, after all.

"Why?" the Count's horn shone with slim light. Was he going to attack Bluette? That idea did not sit well with me.

"Because I asked her." she smiled a tiger's smile. "You'd do anything I ask you to, wouldn't you, child?"

I nodded before I caught myself. Those emerald eyes seemed to eclipse the world, drowning me in the smell of summer peaches. I trusted Bluette, and she would not ask me anything wrong, after all.

She laughed, her throaty, velvety laughter, and my heart would have beaten faster if it were still in my chest as she ran her feathered wing along my chin in a gentle caress.

"When you first sent that child to me, I thought it was merely a gift. Such a taste: ocean salt and daffodils, burnt meat and lion's roar, nightshade and moondust -- and hunger, his hunger in her blood. But no, you didn't know, did you? How many powers have left their mark on that child?

“That was already enough to peak my interest, but I had no idea that you delivered me a perfect tool to find the gem -- an opportunity I simply could not miss."

I trusted her. I liked her. But there were limits to my trust, and if I learned anything from my previous love, it was how to hex somepony who outdrew me.

Awkwardly, I stepped back, reluctant to leave the touch of her wing, and my horn took aflame, as I prepared to cast a spell.

“Come on now, child, put away your spells,” she purred, turning to me, "you love me, don't you?"

Her eyes shone with subtle green light, and again something very odd happened to her voice when she spoke. It became thicker somehow, richer. It wasn’t the voice or the cadence, but there was a suffocating-sweet smell of summer peaches in my mind, and her words became infused with an insidious blend of sensuality and desire that felt like it slid into my ears lighting up my brain with the soft magical glow.

And in that moment I loved her.

I loved her perfect form -- the motionless inequine grace and midnight-black velour of her coat, the lush wave of her tail. I loved her eyes, burning with the green flame of magic, the way she could command the room with just her presence, the way she knew me instantly to the depth of my soul just by looking at me. The way she made me feel safe when I came to her for help and the secret things she whispered to me at night while I slept, filling my mind with knowledge and magic.

"So eager, my little pet," Bluette murmured, giving me her hoof to kiss. "That mind so sharp, so open for new things to learn. A mind open like a fortress with its gates unbarred and unguarded.

"Her eagerness to learn, her instinctive trust to a teacher -- that was the chink in the armour of her soul, and all I needed to make her mine."

I loved her, with all my heart.

The touch of my lips to her hooves had filled me with warmth and contentment, and I almost moaned feeling my magic returned to me.

"Come on, Blue.." The Count was as suave as he's ever been, never missing a beat. "Perhaps we can come to some arrangement? We're all reasonable--"

"Yield the Idol milord. Or do you harbour any illusions that my pet won't rip out your throat should I command her?"

I loved her. I would kill for her without hesitation.

There was everything I ever wanted in her touch. Warmth. Understanding. Acceptance of me just as I was, for ever and ever. And most potent of all, intoxicating like the strongest drug in the world -- love, unconditional and undiscerning, making my head spin with the smell of summer peaches. With her, I could not pretend any more. With her, I could just be myself. No lies, no silence, no awkward pauses.

I loved her, and it made me want to die.

Even as I wanted it -- wanted it above anything else I've ever wanted in the world, I knew
that that love and acceptance that surrender promised was not for me. I could not just be me.

I could not fail my Princess again. I had to do better, I had to be better; and a feeling lurched in my soul, dark and terrible. A feeling for which I have not yet had a name, but I clutched to it, like a drowning mare to a straw. And through that feeling, a dark power came over me, a wave of black resolve, and I rose.

All four of my legs shot straight, and my horn stabbed her in the neck, just above the collarbone. And I kept pushing, with all my strength, with all my self-loathing and self-hatred, with all the darkness in the place where my heart used to be, ripping the skin and sinew, dragging up and along, until something snapped in her neck.

Her blood, hot and somehow wrong -- bitter and sour -- dripped down my muzzle instead of tears.

She fell limply on the floor, still trying to breathe with the ripped throat, her flesh rippling and shifting with the soft convulsions of agony, and still, she was beautiful beyond description.

And then it caught aflame, green fire bursting from underneath her skin, as my magic she held escaped from her body, burning it to ash in the process.

I watched her burn, and still I loved her. It may have been magic, a spell she put on me, but in those last dying moments, it was true love nonetheless. Were there still a heart in my chest, it would have died anew that day.

"Well," Fancy said, slightly paler than his usual white. "That's one way to deal with the issue."

I stretched, controlling my breath, the tip of my horn to the backs of my hooves, dumping all emotion in the ground, my magic flowing across my skin to wipe off the blood. “We should go.” I touched my left shoulder, where under the short coat a thin line of calligraphy reminded of another lesson, learned in another time. “Time grows thin.”

Author's Notes:

I thank my fate with all my heart 
For loving you not any longer, 
For nightmares that don't come at night, 
For lack of that familiar longing, 
For us not meeting under moonlight, 
For our not-standing under the sun's glow - 
That not with me - alas - you lose your mind, 
That not with you - at last- I lose my own.

Fancy, Count Hoffington
Dedicated to S.
Not yet written.

CHAPTER XXIV: BARRAGE

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The walls of the arena covered me, and the only witness to my work was the Count, and the Sun above us both. He wanted to say something, find another reason to stall, but I was beyond stopping now, beyond words.

All I took was a moment to finally look at my prize. There it was, the pride of Griffinstone in the frog of my hoof. A treasure worth a nation.

I smashed it against the stone wall.

Once, and again, and again, raising it high above my head, and bashing it into the stone, fountains of golden filigree turned to scraps, prying the soft metal and the leaden insides open, digging for its heart: A gem of the perfect crimson-red colour of arterial blood, its edges glinting with every colour of the rainbow, the very essence of griffish bravery and loyalty. And then I destroyed it as well, and it was so, so easy.

All I needed to do was to take it in my hooves and whisper a story to it.

A story of a filly, battling pride and desperation by a fountain in the desert. Of a boy with his toy sabre thrown clean across the room in my magic, of my friend dying on the snow smashed by my spell.

Of the griffon Prince throwing away the oath sworn by his fathers, tatters swaying slowly in the air. Of the little eaglet falling off a tower, and Gwyr's eyes wide with surprise when his brother killed him. Of the strange detachment in Count's voice as I held his heart in my hooves, the last, beautiful gasp of my love, trying to breathe with a ripped throat... all that I gave to the gem and it spluttered and died.

A story of betrayal, of broken promises, selfishness and cowardice. All that Griffonstone was not - and would be now and forever.

The red turned grey, stone’s shine becoming lifeless, and a wind, big and mighty, rose, full of black magic of my curse.

I felt the sapphire -- the baby-blue sapphire still carrying a piece of me inside -- crumble into dust somewhere far away, wherever the arimaspi carried it hidden in the fake Idol, and mists of energy, green and black, rise, magnified thousandfold by the magic of the gem, growing ever wider.

To the North and to the South, to the East and to the West they spilt, invisible to everyone but me, and I could see in my mind’s eye them washing over every street, every house of the city, a tide that’d roll ever outwards, over the countryside and past the ocean and touch every griffon in the world, no matter where she’d be. It’d pierce any magic they have, ignore any protections, slip through the flesh and the bones into their very spirits and take away that which the Idol of Boreas used to give them:

Their loyalty. Their pride. Their fearlessness.

All that made Griffinstone great - and all that made it a threat to Equestria. Without it, all that would be left was a bunch of craven brigands, living in the thatched barns, drinking in their own reek and rolling on the floor with the dogs they used to lord over. No claw would be raised against the country of my Princess, no wing would flap in its direction.

"Are we done?" The Count asked, tired. "Is it over?" There was a relief in his voice, behind the exhaustion.

"Not quite yet, my little lord." I swayed on my hooves, everything too sharp after the great work of magic I've just finished. "It sounds like the Prince's wings." I could see him too, now, a black dot on the horizon, growing with each flap of his wings. And with his griffon eyes, he must’ve seen us too.

I can only imagine his sudden revelation when he saw me standing over the scattered golden filigree and the dull grey stone that used to be the very heart of Griffonstone. How in a single moment he had finally pieced together the events of the weeks past, all deception revealed and my role in all that I did to him and his brothers finally laid bare.

“SUNSET SHIMMER!” He cried, and his cry was so full of loss and fury, it made the heavens themselves shudder. “I WILL CUT YOUR HEART OUT!”

***

He dropped by my side, the last vestiges of once-his power wafting away, evaporating away like mists upon the morn.

"You." Words failed him. All he could do was stare at me with bloodshot eyes, his wings flared in anger, and repeat again the single croaking word. "You!"

"Me," I agreed. "All of it -- me."

"I threw your arimaspi into the Abyss. The fake Idol too." He looked again at the scraps that were once the Idol of Boreas, the pride of Griffonstone. "Now I will kill you for it," he said, his voice level and raw. It was not a threat. Not any more. He was beyond ire now, the fire of his anger cooling down into cold hatred, focused only on me. Now it was only the statement of fact, his wings gesturing nothing but resolve. "Kill you, and cut your heart out -- if you still have one, that is."

"I do not." I did not deny the truth -- that habit was long since beaten out of me. "And you shall try."

He leaned forward, his wings mid-flap--

"One moment, though, Your Highness," I said, borrowing Bluette's intonations of unshakable confidence. "Things are to be done in the right fashion, or not at all. "

It gave him pause. He nodded, catching his breath after his flight, and waited. He would not let me leave the old arena, but he gave me a moment to do what I needed to do.

"My little lord," I called out to the Count by my side. He trotted up to me, still shivering from the cold winds that passed by us. "I need you to give the signal."

"But Sunset, you---"

I kissed him, savouring the taste of his lips. My magic stretched out, as our tongues wrestled, and reached out to pull on a secret thread of the spellwork I buried within him. Magic touched upon the magic, moving the complex machinery of the spell, and the knot of the spellwork I weaved when I ripped out his heart fell apart with a snap. I could feel the enchanted leaden box in my saddlebag become suddenly lighter, and his lips grow just a bit warmer.

"I will kill the Prince," I whispered, when we parted, my mane covering us from Gideon’s eyes, "though I may not live through it. If I don't, I need you to finish the mission."

"I am ready, Your Highness." I turned away from the Count still distracted by the sensation of his heart beating once again in his chest and turned towards the Prince. “My lord shall give us a signal.”

Eye to eye and head to head, we stood on the arena, taking each other's measure.

What a sight we must've been…

He was tired. Poisoned -- his magnificent wings like tattered rags: more missing feathers than not. He could have only flown with his power -- a power he no longer possessed. A curse I put on his kind should have already been taking effect, corroding his spirit, infusing him with cowardice and greed.

And me -- my magic barely returned --in the fire, and her blood, bitter and sour-- by Bluette and already spent again, my muscles tired, my belly still tying itself into knots…

"At thy pleasure, my lord," I repeated. This would end when one of us was dead, and I, for one, could wait for it no longer.

Fancy dropped the makeshift starter-flag.

Gideon pounced. Strength of a lion, speed of an eagle.

I matched him, turn for turn, twist for twist, my mere unicorn muscles almost rending with the effort, and felt the rush of exhilaration -- too small, too remote, I was too tired -- when the winged death had missed, his claws cutting nothing but lines in the sand.

My magic extended after him, and I weaved the Scourge of Shahab from the sand, a whip of coiled sharpness, ten yards long from the tip of my horn. He turned and we clashed again, shield and whip against claw.

Time itself fell apart and became an abstraction, a puzzle of attacks and parries.

He makes a tentative thrust. I skip back. He slices at my head and I duck to the side, trapping him with the whip. A chunk of meat, a drop of blood -- not enough, I need more, I want more. His claws snip at my face, cutting through my spellwork and across my snout, and I almost laugh, feeling the salt on my lips and heat growing from down below, and cast again. Ice and darkness, black sorceries and pure flame, it all melts away into one perfect moment, hot and wet with blood, and I want it to last forever.

Only my horn is growing heavier, and my head is growing lighter, and there is hunger and dull, throbbing pain growing behind my eyes...

We fall apart.

"Why?" he asked, flapping his useless wings again. "Why?!"

"You raised a claw against something dear to me," I said, panting. Talking was good. It gave me a chance to catch my breath, to figure out how to bypass those claws of his, that sliced every spell and charm I could summon. "If the price of Griffinstone’s crown is the war with Equestria, the House of Grover had to fall."

He roared, and pounced again, cutting my magic and reaching for my flesh, and all I could do was retreat, hiding my throat and eyes behind the shoulders, sacrificing bits of my skin and coat at a time.

I felt the wall of the area growing closer with every step I took as I retreated. Felt myself get slower, felt it harder to breathe, to maintain my magic, to counter or defend.

I stopped.

No more dodging. No more feints and clever spells, no more delaying the inevitable.

I was too tired.

Mentally, physically, emotionally -- there was nothing in me that did not want it to simply end.

And that’s when I finally saw it, the jigsaw of the combat coming together in my mind: the strange attractor to which all paths necessarily led, the ultimate finale of the scene, that which both the Prince and I wanted beyond all else -- his claws buried in my chest.

Breathing in, I set my spirit and advanced, dropping my shield when I met his pounce.

He hit me mid-step, claws first, and penetrated me. A single thrust, both of his eagle-claws pushing clean through my chest, reaching deep into the left side. It threw me off my hooves, and I fell on my back, pulling him upon me, as he dug ever deeper.

When it comes to either/or, there is only the quick choice... And it's really not that hard.

Pure, white-hot agony, ribs cracking like bursts of fireworks, I arched my back with the sheer sensation of it. For one beautiful second the floodgates of my brain broke open drowning me in pure endorphins and the sky was as diamonds and time ceased to exist.

I twisted in his grip, pushing the claws tighter inside, and my magic, renewed by that surge, lashed out, grabbing and crumpling him, pressing him tighter into my body, keeping his claws buried inside of me, his legs far below and out of reach.

He looked in my eyes, aghast.

"How...?" He said.

"Why, my lord, haven’t I told you?" I muttered, already feeling the shortness of breath. "I have no heart."

He lurched, trying to escape my grip, a bird trapped, a fish netted, his speed useless, his claws sheathed inside my flesh, his long legs raking at the sand instead of rending at my belly, and I laughed and I pulled him in, tighter and tighter, giving my everything into the magic, tapping into the last reserves beyond which was only death.

Hunger exploded in my gut and I bit into his neck, feeling his blood on my tongue, saltier than Count’s wine, sweeter than honey, and I kept on it, constricting grip of my magic, bringing us closer than lovers.

And then there was a crack, and there was an ugly pop, and my underbelly felt wet and squishy when something gave inside of him.

And Griffinstone had no more Princes to give.

I shook him off, standing up.

His body flopped on the ground, the chest cavity exposed, ripped by the shards of bone, the wet, glistening mass of the smashed heart dark against the spongy remains of lungs and the yellow-white of the broken ribs, the left wing, wrenched clear of its socket, hung by a thin, bloodied filament -- nothing more than body bag, a sack of flesh and viscera, offal for the ravens his father liked so much.

The Count already by my side, helping me up, his magic weaving into my flesh. "Do you truly have no heart?" He asked as he attended me. There finally was fear in his voice -- a real pony emotion.

"No." The pressure where my left lung used to be abated slowly, and I managed a half-inhale. Spitting out out a globule of dark, phlegm-stained blood, I stayed stubbornly upright -- it seemed important somehow, to be the last mare standing. "Thaumoinduced heterotaxia -- it's in the wrong place is all.”

I tried to check on my wound, but turning my head was a mistake -- I could feel the wet flap of flesh against flesh, and the wounds screamed with pain, almost dropping me to the ground. “How’s it looking?"

“I’ve taken care of the most pressing issues,” the Count said, laying down the final stitch on the drainage in my breast. "You should be lying down," he said. "For the next week at least. I have no idea how you're even breathing right now."

"Don't worry, Fancy, I--." another coughing spasm doubled me up, as I wheezed and gasped trying to force the air down my throat. "--I won't die. I cannot drown -- not even in my own blood.”

“I--”

“Do your best: There’s still the King, and I aim to have words with him as well.”

He had something -- I knew it, I saw it in the way his eyes dropped, his hoof shifted, his horn almost-turned towards his left pocket.

“We need to finish it, Fancy. Once and for all. And unless you’re willing to do it, I need my game face on.”

He sighed and reached for the pockets of his now blood-stained tux. From there he produced another flask, and another snuffbox, mixing the clear liquid with a dash of white powder in the cup-like cap.

"Coltic tea," he said. "To prop you up."

I smelled the liquid. Ethane, alcohol so strong I almost sneezed -- a proposition ill-advised in my situation -- and a vague banana-lemon taste I could not recognize.

It could have been poison. A more deadly one this time, though I wasn't quite persuaded of the Count being capable of something this drastic.

Or it could've been what he said it was. In the end, it didn't matter -- even if I died right here, my job was done anyways, and could not be undone anymore. I breathed out and swallowed the burning liquid in one breathless gulp.

One way or the other the drink would cure me of my weakness.

It burned down my throat, making me feel suddenly like a textbook picture of a digestive system, with all the different parts picked out in different colours. The warm fire it spread made my mind all shiny, washing the tiredness and pain away, making everything sharp and young and clear.

It took effort and discipline not to skip like a filly over the steps, as we made our way to see the King.

The throne room was empty. Well, the King wasn’t there -- a bunch of griffons shivered in the corners, suddenly unsure what to do, and a bunch of ponies loitered about, all confused and lost. They had no idea of what was happening -- it was so far removed from experiences of Equestria, their little brains probably refused to even comprehend it. For a small second, I felt sympathy towards them.

"The King..." Sweet Melody, the ambassador apparent from the brainless noblepony herd to me, choked when her eyes fell on the grime and blood across my coat. She cleared her throat and braved on, the poor thing. "...the King has required your presence. On the High Balcony. He won’t take anyone else."

‘Required.’ I was being summoned like a common servant. A cowardly, barely-veiled insult.

"I was going to see him anyway," I shrugged. "Milord?"

"It was you, wasn't it!" Strawberry Leaf pushed through the crowd, barging into my space, almost crying. "I know it was you who did this, who caused all this death and madness!"

"Maybe I did," I stood my ground, and stared her down. "And maybe I did not. But then if I did..." I stretched my magic -- the slightest trickle, touching the fur at her throat, just near the jugular -- and looked her straight in the eye, anger and the Count's wicked potion fueling my magic. "Maybe it would be a bad idea to piss me off."

She stepped back, and I let her. Plomo o plata, fear and desire, push and pull, my voice relaxing, turning soft. "Come on, 'Berry, we did a great thing. All of us." I spoke louder, reaching the whole herd of nobleponies. "We stopped the war. No pony was hurt, no gale, not even a single snowflake moved across the border. We won!"

I could feel their doubt, their little greed and fear. "We all," "together" keywords, laden with trapped meaning, Count’s subtle science moving my lips almost by rote now. A promise to share in my victory drew them in already, and accepting the victory would make them complicit, marring them with my crime.

Take the win -- or deal with the sorceress who just destroyed Griffinstone and would have nothing to lose. The ponies chose wisely.

"I..." she lowered her eyes, "we.. we have to help them." Grammar be damned, that was a question, it was her asking -- begging -- for my permission. It made me drunker than the drink in my flask, higher than the Count's powders. A subtler pleasure but so much more potent.

"Of course," soft as silk, amicable, simple. "Lord Fancy can help you plan. Now that there'll be no threat of war we need to help them out as best we can.” I put my hoof on her shoulder, “I'll need your help, ‘Berry, your expertise."

She smiled, fearful, sheepish smile, a docile little part of the noblepony herd, happy that she was still useful, happy that would not be led to the slaughter just yet.

Giving her shoulder a final pat, I moved on. Behind me, Fancy took my place distracting the ponies with the planning of these events and those talks, but I wasn’t listening. A King was expecting me, and it wasn't very polite to make him wait.

Illusions, after all, have to be maintained.

***

The same tower, the same vertigo-inducing view. Same pony and the same griffon, standing on the roof, still slippery with the morning rain. Yet this talk could not be more different from the one I shared with the King before.

"He's dead," The King said, looking down on his crows pecking the birdfeed he scattered. "My boy."

I nodded. Somewhere far away, beneath the waning fuzz of the drug, the motion made my everything hurt.

"I welcomed you as a guest, Lady Shimmer. I shared my wine and my bread, every courtesy and entertainment. And in return my sons lay slain, my country destroyed, and my whole species cursed.” He looked at me, and his eyes were full of pain. "Why?"

"You threatened something dear to me. And if the price for your power is war in Equestria -- then your power had to be broken.” There was really nothing more to it. "Do you wish vengeance upon me now, Your Majesty?"

I could take him. And his guards, looming by the door, too. Maybe. Maybe not. It didn't matter. I could take him and that was all that mattered.

"No.” Though his wings were slumped in Surrender, his tone stayed defiant. “I cannot defeat you, little pony. Not with your magic, not with my power shattered, my subjects craven, and your curse already clawing at my mind.

"All I can do is tell you the truth, and I tell you this, Lady Shimmer, student of the Sun Princess:

“In every endeavour, you shall be without equal, in every combat a victor, in every war triumphant. None will be able to stop you. But I tell you this, and I tell you true: Your every victory shall turn into defeat. All your spoils shall taste like dust and ashes, every fruit of your labour shall rot in your grasp, and all you'll ever bring will be pain and fear even to those you wish to protect.

“And one day you will wake up and realize what you are and that there is no more place for you in this world.”

I shrugged. I did not care for his prophecies. There was no future for me -- none but that of my own making, not of the old soothsaying fool. I reached for my magic, but he already stepped back, beyond the roof and his wings did not open.

I stood there for a while, listening to the sound of birds cawing, delighted at the unexpected feast. And a tired thought slipped into my mind, a bit of trivia sharp with delicious irony:

Crows. Family - Corvidae. Collective noun: murder.

Author's Notes:

Then, amid the peaks ahead,
Look! a silken tent is spread.
Wondrous hush enfolds the scene
Round the tent; a gaunt ravine
Cradles hosts in battle rent.
Now the King has reached the tent.. .
Staggers backward: sight appalling,
Hard before his eyes lie fallen,
Stripped of helm and armour chain,
Both his noble princes, slain,
Pierced each by the other's charge;

Griffon fairytale

EPILOGUE: JURY

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Sunset sighed and finished her cold tea.

“After that, all that was left was boring work, quashing whatever had remained of the griffon pride. There wasn’t much to do, honestly.

“Disoriented by loss of their King and Idol, bereft of the source of their pride, it took no more than a scowl and a shine of a hoofful of bits to make them turn to grovelling and begging. The Equestrian nobles, in turn, were only too happy to play the part of graceful saviours, planning the restoration efforts for the palace, the stimulus loans and the friendship exchanges for students and children, their guilt fueling their generosity.

“I played a part of my own as well -- smiling and waving, shaking claws and signing meaningless papers, writing speeches and arguing the legalese. The Count and Dame Strawberry taking charge, I helped out -- fair and generous; the very image of a perfect student of my Princess, the linchpin and the cornerstone of our delegation.

“I knew it wouldn’t matter.

“It meant nothing -- ‘all valiant dust that builds on dust’, as the Count had put it once in his ever clever verse. No loans or restitutions, alliances signed and friendships proclaimed would ever replace that which I have taken away.

“And another lesson has been learned for me, a lesson you cannot learn in Equestria: no matter the species, no matter the magics they possess or the strength of their arms and armies, true power comes from two things -- the lead and silver, the fear and desire. She who holds those two within her hooves, holds the reigns of your soul.”

“That’s what you stand by?” Twilight sat bloodlessly pale. “Seduction, blackmail and bribery? Kill or be killed?”

"Yes." She refused to look away. "I do."

“Why?”

“For my Princess,” Sunset replied, her voice hollow with exhaustion and longing. “I would do anything for my Princess and my country. I would rip unborn foals from their mothers' wombs and burn them to ashes while their husbands watched. And I’d sleep without nightmares on the same night. This -- this was nothing.

"There were no lines I would not cross. Nothing I would not do to keep my Princess safe."

"I don't believe that. There has to be something decent about you."

“I’ve told the truth, Twilight -- I did not tell you this story just to fool you. And the proof is right here." Sunset twisted her head slightly and stared in Twilight's eyes. "Look.” For a split second, the pupil of her right eye seemed to splash apart, forming four vertical slits on her iris.

A loud slap broke the silence and Sunset's head jerked to the side. Twilight drew back her hand, unable to believe what she had just done.

She touched her finger to the broken lip and looked at the blood. "Feisty," she commented, satisfied. "I like you better this way, little princess."

"How do you live with yourself?" Twilight asked, helplessly. "You... I can't..."

"Would someone care to explain what has just happened?" Rarity asked.

“There is a fish in Equestria--" Sunset explained readily, "-- a subspecies of salmon that stores magic in itself like animals store fat. To eat the meat of this fish is to gain great insight, great ken. Seven pupils on your eyes -- four on the right to peer without and three on the left to see within. Many would want to get it, but that fish is very hard to catch.”

“The only way to catch it,” Twilight intervened, her voice still unsteady, “is to bait it with an eye of the Prince of Birds.”

“So, a few moons after that whole affair, I went on a trip back to Griffinstone. Did some digging, and went a-fishing one fine Friday morning. I think it was Galad’s -- his corpse was the best preserved.”

"For the Princess."

"For my Princess and Equestria. I forged myself into a weapon, I did things that no pony would do, I crossed every line, spat on every sensibility and broke every rule that could be broken, and I would do it again in a heartbeat -- if I still had a heart in my chest, that is."

"And here? Did you do things you did in the school and in this world for Sun and Country?"

“Hah! This world is not Equestria of sunshine and rainbows, little princess. This is not even Griffinstone or Dragonlands. This is the world of humans, and it’s all mind games and blackmail and bribery and kill or be killed here. If that offends your pretty little pony sensibilities, you’re more than welcome to get right back to Equestria through that portal.”

“Is that really what you think of us?” Fluttershy asked softly. “That we’re all monsters?”

“Yes!” Sunset threw her hands up in exasperation, ”that’s what I love about you, you weird hairless monkeys. You’re real. You kill your own kind to survive.”

“Ladies”. Rarity interrupted, slamming her teacup into the table with slightly more force than was necessary. “It is late, and I am leaving for my bed. I strongly advise everyone to do the same before they will say and hear things that everyone will surely regret in the morning.”

Author's Notes:

We're those who pledged their lives and sacred honor 
Who of their own will accept the chain and iron collar 
Preserving peace through strength one thousand years. 
From roots of earth to sky's blue roof 
By spell, by steel or by bare hoof.

Bull-Slayers Oath,
Author unknown
No confirmed documents exist

Plomo o Plata

by ChudoJogurt

PROLOGUE: EN GARDE

CHAPTER I: DRAW

CHAPTER II: SALUT DES ARMES.

CHAPTER III: DIRECT

CHAPTER IV: ABSENCE OF BLADE

CHAPTER V: ADVANCE

CHAPTER VI: DEVELOPMENT

CHAPTER VII: ENGAGEMENT

CHAPTER VIII: ANNULEMENT

CHAPTER IX: ONE-TWO ATTACK

CHAPTER X: STOP-THRUST

CHAPTER XI: TOUCHE

CHAPTER XII: BALESTRA

CHAPTER XIII: CORPS-A-CORPS

CHAPTER XIV: POINT IN LINE

CHAPTER XV: CHANGE OF ENGAGEMENT

CHAPTER XVI: SECOND INTENT

CHAPTER XVII: BROKEN TIME

CHAPTER XVIII: BIND

CHAPTER XIX: ATTAQUE AU FER

CHAPTER XX: RED CARD

CHAPTER XXI: REPRISE

CHAPTER XXII: LUNGE, REMISE, REDOUBLEMENT

CHAPTER XXIII: PRISES DE FER

CHAPTER XXIV: BARRAGE

EPILOGUE: JURY