Author's Notes:

Talib meets an unlikely ally, while his sister and Rarity are added to the list of ponies scheming against him. At least they have his best interests at heart, right?

Somehow, one hoof in front of the other, Talib managed to keep walking along the faint, scrubby path. The Everfree Forest hummed softly to him, settling down into its evening quiet as the sun’s light followed its source, retreating away over the horizon. This time of year the colder evenings were relatively silent, as insects died off and birds went dormant. But the Forest never truly slept, and there were still things browsing, foraging, and hunting. Talib plodded onward to his next experimental plot, trying to stay alert but senses dull and sluggish.

It had been an exhausting few days. He and Old Sim had been processing their haul from the previous week – with two ponies sledding, Old Sim had increased his take and there seemed to be a mountain of logs to get through. At least my muscles have stopped burning, he thought, and it was true. His body was adapting, he was putting on bulk, and the hard physical labour was becoming easier to handle. That wasn’t the source of his fatigue.

As he’d become more assured and comfortable during the day’s lumberpony work, the other demands on his time had grown more and more insistent. The previous evening he and Old Sim had sat long by the fire, hammering their report for the Council into shape. Long silences defined by the scratching of quills on paper were occasionally broken by Talib to ask for clarifications. He’d needed fewer and fewer over the last few days. As the night drew on and grew deep, Old Sim finally drew a breath and forced it out slowly.

“That’ll do for tonight, colt,” he’d said, stretching his wiry frame, “reckon we’re on track to give this to the Council next rest day.”

Talib had paused, chewing his quill thoughtfully. “Mmm,” he nodded, “I think I understand all of the numbers and reasoning now. I can get it all tidied up by myself over the next few days.” He yawned and shook his head. “I better be off home, I think.”

Old Sim had helped Talib pack his things and saw him to the door. He watched the younger pony walk out into the night for a moment, then called to him.

“Talib.”

Talib turned around, an inquiring expression on his face. Old Sim was silent for a moment.

“Thanks,” he finally said.

Talib looked down, embarrassed, then looked up, straightened, and smiled, before turning and walking off down the path. He’d kept walking towards Sugarcane Farm until hearing Old Sim’s door close, then looked back and turned right into the darkened Everfree Forest.

But his nights weren’t ending there. Talib had also managed to complete the frames for his cabin walls and was ready to move onto the roofing beams. Whatever additional time he managed to scrounge up for his experiments inevitably came from the dark hours, stolen from sleep, and it was beginning to tell. Talib hadn’t seen his family for a while. But things were getting very, very interesting.

He arrived at his next plot and bent low eagerly, grasping the lantern in his teeth as he examined the young seedlings and saplings. Just like the others. It was just a preliminary impression, not obvious, but Talib was beginning to see a pattern.

The Forest plants were rambunctious as always – growing scraggly, disordered and… violent, for lack of a better word, racing to out-grow and shadow each other. Selfish, they put all their energy into tough stem, leaf and seed, producing precious little in the way of succulent fruit or flesh for hungry ponies to enjoy. But the crop plants, taken as seed or sapling from the farm, were what held Talib’s interest. At Sugarcane Farm the cane grew straight and regimented, the cabbages plump and compact, the carrots deep and fat and sweet. But here in the Forest, Talib’s Earth Pony growth magic didn’t seem to be producing its usual orderly results, and the normally co-operative crops seemed to have gone feral. The cause, as yet, was not obvious, but it was still exciting. Perhaps after harvesting his plots and examining the data itself a cause might be suggested. Maybe one of the Forest plants had some kind of magic-dampening effect.

If that were the case, thought Talib, perhaps I could distil the effect, create some kind of anti-magic solution…

His excited theorising came to a crashing halt when he glanced down and saw the scuff marks in the dirt around the plot.

Talib froze, feeling his skin tighten in fear and a shiver flicker over his coat. His sleeping ears shot suddenly upright and his nostrils flared, scanning the air for signs of danger. He slowly turned around, surveying the trees. There was no sign, however, that whatever had left the marks was still around. Talib crouched down lower and sniffed them carefully. His sensitive nostrils confirmed it – griffon. It was the same complex, slightly rank odour that had assailed him when tackled by Mujeer, but different; less musky, spicier. He couldn’t put his hoof on it, but he was confident it wasn’t Mujeer’s scent.

Great, he thought. At least Mujeer had been the devil he knew. He sighed, almost too tired to care, and headed home – as he had begun to consider his little shack. Arriving soon after, he dragged open the walls and looked longingly at the pile of bracken, but shook his head wearily. He still had to write up his observations from this evening, so Talib opened the chest and pulled out his notes and a pencil, then used the chest lid as a makeshift desk. He scribbled a few lines in his rough style and sighed with fatigue, drawing a deep breath in the hopes it would energize him. Instead it distracted him, as he smelled the griffon’s scent still stuck to his hooves. It was unnerving. He huffed with frustration and got up to go wash in the creek, then returned and forced himself to sit back down and keep writing. But the faint smell was still there.

“Argh!” Talib leapt up, throwing his pencil down on the floor. Would the wretched smell cling to him forever? He sniffed his hooves and frowned, confused. It wasn’t there, nor was it on his coat. And, in fact, he hadn’t noticed it outside, washing himself. He followed the train of thought to its logical conclusion.

The griffon had been inside.

He looked around carefully, hyper-alert now, searching for anything missing or out of place, finding nothing. But his gaze drifted, as if drawn, to the only object of interest in the little room: his storage chest. Cautiously, he re-opened it and sniffed inside. The barely-perceptible smell was definitely stronger within, and he sorted carefully through all his possessions. Nothing appeared missing or out of place, and Talib was starting to wonder if he was imagining it. But as he was returning a sheet of paper to the chest, something caught his eye as it passed in front of the lantern. He paused, and slowly moved it back, and froze when he saw it. A few tiny pinpricks of light showed through where the paper had been punctured, as though by sharp claws.

He sagged back onto the ground, feeling helpless. A griffon had broken in and rifled through his notes, and had it not been for his delicate nose and the experience with Mujeer he never would have known. The illusion of safety and refuge conjured up by his shack had been destroyed, and rather than sleep in the ruins he dragged the bracken outside and camped under the stars, protected from the cold by a thin woollen blanket. He wasn’t sure if it was a defiance or surrender.

Next day dawned, and Talib woke to the dawn chorus with insipid grey light revealing the new day in the Everfree Forest. He lay there for a moment, felling like a heavy sludge was pressing down and into his mind, when he realised he was supposed to be at Old Sim’s for work by now. Flailing his hooves, he stuttered upright and quickly gathered his things, racing off to Old Sim’s cottage and arriving as the older pony was just opening up the workshop. Talib galloped up to him, trying to catch his breath and apologize at the same time.

“Sorry...” he gasped, “…Sim. Don’t know,” gulp “how that happened!”

Old Sim didn’t answer or look at him immediately, going about the business of preparing the workshop. Talib leant against the wall as he recuperated. The silence drew on, and Talib tried to come up with some plausible excuse. He opened his mouth, but was immediately cut off by Old Sim.

“Don’t bother, colt.”

Talib’s stomach lurched. Something was wrong.

“You slept in, right?”

There was no fooling the wily old stallion, it seemed, and Talib nodded. But why was he so angry?

“Where did you go last night?” said Old Sim, “And don’t say Sugarcane Farm. I saw you sneak off into the Forest.”

“Oh,” said Talib, heart in his throat.

“I’m guessing your parents don’t know?”

Talib shook his head. Old Sim just looked at him for a while.

“What are you doing in there?” he asked, exasperated.

Talib hesitated. Old Sim was clearly upset about being lied to, even if by omission. He drew a breath and told the older pony about his cabin, and his experiments. The older pony listened without expression or interruption until Talib’s story wound down.

“This explains a bunch,” said Old Sim, sighing. “No wonder you’ve been so tired lately.”

Talib looked at him uncertainly, trying to read his expression.

“Will you tell my parents?”

Old Sim considered this at length, eyeing Talib sharply and rubbing his chin. The coarse hair made a scritch-scratch noise. Talib waited uncertainly.

“If they flat-out ask, I’ll have to. I have a responsibility,” he finally replied. “But until such time, I’m going to imagine they already know. I won’t bring it up.”

Talib sagged with relief.

“But you have to tell them as soon as possible,” continued the older pony harshly. “At some point, you’re going to have to have the courage of your convictions.”

They began work, and the subject dropped.

While Talib was working hard to try to bury Old Sim's disappointment under sawdust, another pony had him in mind as she walked through the crisp, breezy morning towards the Carousel Boutique. Bianca Cane's light blue coat danced shyly as the autumn winds played their music on Ponyville's many trees, but her introspective mood did not admit such external stimuli. Her brother had said he'd consider going to the Spring Dance, but she didn't believe him for a moment. She loved Talib, but she knew him; he could be deceitful when threatened with inconvenience. And going to the Spring Dance was more than an inconvenience for the withdrawn young colt.

Bianca’s thoughts turned, as usual, to the Rhum Shot. Though she’d almost won the Derby, and had a few modifications that gave her confidence for next year, something was still missing. She glanced back at her cutie mark, a stylised gust of wind, and relived the hazy memories of the day, when she’d been a young filly, that it had appeared. She’d been sat on a cart, she couldn’t remember where or why, when it had somehow slipped its chocks and careened down a steep hill, accelerating to an unbelievable speed, her panicking father sprinting after her but being rapidly out-distanced. But she hadn’t been scared. Instead of shrieking and cowering, she’d stood up, eyes alight, and whooped for joy to see the landscape whip past, the wind pushing her purple mane almost straight back out behind her.

It’d ended badly; the unstable cart’s speed wobbles had worsened until it had pitched sideways, tipping her unceremoniously out onto the dirt and, to her father’s everlasting chagrin, breaking a forelimb. But even then, in the brief second or two of flight before the pain, she’d been elated. All her life she’d wanted to re-capture that sense of freedom, of joy. Nothing since had quite scratched the itch, though the Rhum Shot had come close. But the racing cart, and chasing the trophy down the track of the Soap Box Derby, were just means to an end, and Bianca had begun to feel it was time to move on. She wanted more.

She needed to go faster.

She’d come pretty far for a self-taught engineer-mechanic, but it felt like time to get serious. And the way to do that was an engineering degree. Though Bianca wasn’t quite the academic that Talib was, her graduating marks, at least in the relevant subjects, were not the problem. Family, however, was. There was no engineering degree offered in Ponyville, which meant leaving town altogether, at least for a few years. Her parents were fair-minded and Bianca worked Sugarcane Farm for a wage, but it was unlikely that any hired replacement would work as hard. Fundamentally, despite her mother’s acute business sense, the farm was probably not that profitable except as a family affair. Her parents might struggle. Then, of course, there was the entirely more difficult problem of her brother. Though the pursuit of speed caused Bianca to be almost reckless with her body, she flirted with no such risks when it came to her family.

Bianca sighed and tilted her head back to look at the sky. To her complete lack of surprise, no helpful Pegasus had written the answers up there. Hopefully Rarity would have some ideas.

Bianca arrived at the Carousel Boutique just as the door was opened, and two ponies emerged. For a moment, she thought she was seeing things – there appeared to be two Rarities, one a Unicorn, the other a Pegasus – before she noticed the slight difference in colouring, and the Pegasus’s different cutie mark: a bunch of purple grapes. She carried a brown dress bag.

“I’m sure it’ll suit you marvellously, Sugar Grape, our colouring is so similar.”

“Thank you so much, Rarity! Are you sure I can’t offer you anything?”

“Oh, please,” said Rarity, “the adjustments were the work of mere minutes. Seeing you looking your best at the Spring Dance is all the payment I need!”

Sugar Grape smiled broadly. “You’re the best. Don’t be surprised if a bottle of wine shows up on your doorstep one of these days.” She cantered off happily.

Rarity, beaming at this, noticed her new visitor and brightened even further.

“Bianca, darling!” she cried, “Just the pony I wanted to see! Are you stopping?”

Bianca nodded. “Sure, Rarity, if you have the time. It’d be nice to chat.”

“Well then, come in and let’s have some tea.”

Bianca followed Rarity through the lavender-coloured door and into the magenta fitting room, hung everywhere with cloth and mirrors. A little wrought-iron table, painted sky blue, with two chairs had been set up and Bianca saw the remnants of Rarity’s tea with Sugar Grape. Rarity magically picked up the teapot and Sugar Grape’s teacup and disappeared into the kitchen.

“The pot’s gone cold. Back in a moment!” she sang as she left.

Bianca sat down and looked around. Over the years, she’d learned to estimate Rarity’s business turnover by the number of clothes-horses in use, and almost all of them were dressed up. All manner of dresses and a few suits, in various stages from basic pinning to final adjustments, were on display.

“Business good?” she inquired as Rarity returned with a fresh cup and brew. The unicorn rolled her eyes.

“You wouldn’t believe it. It’s always a busy time of year, but it’s been quite a profitable one for Ponyville and ponies just aren’t content to make do with altered, hoof-me-down dresses. Of course, I shouldn’t complain, but it seems everypony simply must have a new outfit for this year’s Spring Dance, and they’re all worried about leaving it too late. Still, I’m glad to have the clients, of course.”

“What’s creating all these wealthy ponies all of a sudden?” asked Bianca.

“Oh darling, don’t you pay attention to these things?” asked Rarity, a little despairing. “Well, firstly, of course, it’s been a bumper year for our farms, as you saw at the Parade; combined with a bit of a parasprite problem in Fillydelphia and some other agricultural towns, many here have made a killing off that.” The businessmare deftly poured the tea as she continued. “Then there’s the recent drop in the price of lumber and charcoal – everypony uses those, but the reduced costs haven’t yet trickled through to their pricing, so profits are up. I believe we have Progress Group to thank for that. Sugar?”

Bianca caught herself staring, astonished, at her old school friend. She remembered how easy it was to underestimate her.

“Um, one please.”

“I should have thought Talib would have at least mentioned the part about Progress?”

“Progress who?” said Bianca, stirring the sugar into her tea.

“Oh, sorry, darling. Progress Miller is a businesspony, fairly recently arrived. He runs a rather large timber operation – Progress Group, as I believe I mentioned – on the far side of the Everfree Forest. Such a dashing, generous gentlecolt. He’s become quite the patron of my boutique, commissioning some extremely quality pieces. He seems to have taken a shine to Talib, too, making him an apprenticeship present of a full morning dress outfit,” she gestured to a clothes horse in full formal dress, “that’s it over there.”

Bianca was surprised. “Talib hasn’t mentioned him.”

“I don’t believe they’re particularly well acquainted. And you know Talib, skittish young thing, plays things close to the chest. It’s taking him a while to warm to Progress.”

Bianca sighed. “That’s my brother. Actually,” she continued, seizing the segue, “I was hoping you might have some ideas about him. I’ve been thinking.” She paused, uncertain.

“About what, dear?” said Rarity, encouragingly.

“About college.”

“Oh, Bianca… engineering? Leaving home?”

Bianca just nodded.

“You’re worried about what would happen to Talib if you leave Ponyville,” said Rarity. It wasn’t a question.

“I know it’s not my responsibility to make friends for my brother. But without anypony to push him, what if he just stays the way he is? He says he’s fine, he might even believe it. But I don’t.”

“Well of course not, darling!” said Rarity forcefully, “It’s not natural. Ponies are herd animals, social creatures, and if you don’t have some friends, something is wrong, or will be, even if you don’t realise.”

“You know he’s not planning to go to the Spring Dance?”

Rarity rolled her eyes.

“Ugh,, I know, that’s why I wanted to speak with you. I bumped into him at the Golden Oak Library and he let it slip. I tried to convince him later, when he was here for a fitting, by reminding him Applejack would be there,” she said with a strange emphasis, “but he denied any interest. Of course, I didn’t believe him for a moment. I wonder if he felt embarrassed because Progress Miller was with us?”

“Why should he feel embarrassed?” asked Bianca, “Or care if Applejack is go-” she froze, unbelieving.

“He couldn’t,” she said.

Rarity smiled coyly. “He could.”

“He doesn’t!”

“He does,” sang the unicorn gleefully, “didn’t he tell you?”

“He’s smarter than that,” said Talib’s big sister, “barely.” An evil expression came over her face. “Oh, I’m looking forward to that conversation.”

Rarity just sat a moment, stirring her tea and looking thoughtful.

“Maybe hold off on your sisterly torment,” she said slowly, “just for a little while.”

Bianca raised an eyebrow.

“I’ve been thinking. We may,” said Rarity, “get him to the Spring Dance after all.”

That evening, Old Sim showed Talib around the bonsai garden some more, walking around with a watering-can and giving each plant a light spray.

“These small pots can dry out mighty quick, so give ‘em a splash twice a day if it’s warm. Draw the water from the pool behind the sauna.”

Talib nodded. The two-dozen odd miniature trees seemed to span all ages, sizes and varieties: gnarled oaks and junipers contrasted nicely with smooth-trunked silver beech. Caring for them was much simpler than Talib had imagined – for now, he was just to make sure the soil was kept moist. Later, Old Sim would go through trimming and re-potting. Talib wondered again where the beautiful trees had come from, and their mysterious origins somehow reminded him of his conversation with Zecora.

“Sim,” he began hesitantly, earning a quirked eyebrow from the old stallion, “could I read your father’s journal? I’m curious about his experiences early on, learning about the Forest.”

Old Sim’s face darkened.

“I don’t mean to pry,” continued Talib hastily, “it’s just that there’s so much I don’t understand-”

“That’s private.” Old Sim had cut him off sharply, visibly struggling to keep his voice level. Talib saw the warning signs and could tell this was not up for discussion. He deflated and didn’t press the issue, but it was too late; Old Sim had turned withdrawn and even more surly than usual. They finished up watering the bonsai, Talib worked on some wood carving for a while, then walked home.

Entering the Everfree Forest without pretence now, Talib walked through the dimming, dappled light, the confusion of leaves and branches mirroring his own feelings. He’d been, for once, hoping he’d found somepony to open up to, and had thought the older pony seemed to be warming to him. But Old Sim had shut him out, like so many others before. Well, he thought, that’s just fine with me. I don’t need him to like me. As long as he pays my wage and keeps me near the Forest I don’t care. But Talib was reminded of Zecora’s words, and a small, un-acknowledged part of him knew he wasn’t taking this well.

And then, suddenly, it was as if the blade had always been there, at his throat.

He froze completely, even holding his breath, mind gone suddenly blank. He realized there was also a set of sharp talons which were weaving themselves into his mane and pricking delicately into either side of his neck. So unobtrusively had the attack occurred that his body had skipped fight-or-flight and gone straight for catatonia. He felt strangely calm, and why shouldn’t he? There was absolutely nothing he could do.

His assailant paused a moment to ensure his helplessness had fully sunk in, and Talib’s mind began to work again, almost independently of his will. He was, for once, unhappy to be proved right – he smelled a griffon, alright, but not Mujeer. The scent was less piercing, and masked by layers of Forest odours. Whoever it was, they either lived here or had spent much effort masking their scent. Or both. Out of the corner of his eyes, Talib could vaguely make out a slighter, more slender shape than Mujeer, but when he cautiously began to look back for a better view, the claws on either side of his neck dug in sharply, just short of drawing blood. He snapped his vision frontwards again.

“What are you doing here in the Forest?” asked a soft voice in his ear. Talib was again reminded of Mujeer, but this was different. Mujeer had been brutish and rough, throwing him to the ground. This griffon implied. The threat was of violence, but violence with finesse. All thoughts of deception deserted his brain.

“I’m a lumberpony, I cut down trees,” he said distantly, still staring straight forward.

“You don’t say,” purred the sardonic, un-accented voice, “but what else, young Talib? What else?”

“I…” Talib carefully tried to swallow around the blade, “I’m conducting some experiments on the Everfree Forest plants, and their effects on pony magic.”

“Indeed. Why?”

“Because… it’s interesting?” said Talib nervously.

The shape behind him moved fluidly, soundlessly, but the blade and the claws were so steady they were like the only fixed points in the universe. A griffon came into view, prowling around to stand in front and a little beside him: a lean, taughtly-muscled bundle of agile carnivory; a vision in snow-white feathers and tawny-gold fur. Talib realised it was female. She was magnificent, beautiful. And terrifying. He trembled slightly, and she felt it.

“That’s good, Talib,” she said, “that fear shows me you’re taking this seriously. I had begun to think perhaps you were joking with me.”

“I can’t really see the funny side,” he replied fervently, but the griffoness nevertheless looked amused.

“A matter of perspective, I imagine,” she said, eyes still smiling, “now, this is very important. What is your relationship with Progress Miller?”

Talib’s eyes widened in surprise. Why does she want to know? Come to think of it, he wondered, confused, what is my relationship with Progress?

“Thinking time is lying time,” said the griffon, pushing the blade slightly harder into his skin. “Just say the first thing that comes into your head and go from there.”

“I guess we’re… enemies, of a sort,” he started hastily, and the pressure from the weapon lessened.

“What sort, exactly?”

“Well, we’re business rivals…” he began to shake his head at this idea, then hastily reconsidered, “no, that’s not important. He’s doing something to the Everfree Forest. I don’t know what, exactly, he’s felling too many trees but it feels like there’s something more going on. I don’t know what.”

The griffon looked at him with interest. “But he seems to be grooming you for something, no?”

“How do you- never mind,” Talib interrupted himself before his curiosity could aggravate the griffoness, “I suppose he is. I get the feeling he really is a generous pony, but yes he’s been offering me things and trying to get information from me. I can’t tell if it’s malicious.”

“Take a guess.”

Talib looked into her liquid amber eyes. “I think so. I don’t trust him. I can’t explain it.”

“You have accepted his gifts?”

“Some. I don’t want him to know I don’t trust him. He scares me, to be honest.”

“Smart,” she said, “and cautious. You may be of some use, Talib Cane.” Her impersonal appraisal and cultivated voice, flowing smooth as oil, made a chill run up his spine. “I’m going to release you now. Don’t run.”

“Would there be any point?” he asked sullenly.

“Now don’t sulk,” she said, eyes dancing in amusement again as she put away the knife and let go his neck, “bitterness does not become you. I had to figure you out a little better before we could talk. You are a strange pony, Talib Cane.”

“Oh, insults now?” he said, anger finally catching up with him, “I almost preferred Mujeer.”

Her eyes turned hard and she clacked her beak sharply, twice. “Then you are ignorant,” she said, now matching Talib’s anger. They glared at each other for a time.

“This is no good,” she finally said, softening, “let’s start again. My name is Hayfa Karima, currently of the Everfree Forest.” She repeated the gesture Mujeer had used; a claw touched to her ­breast, then forehead and beak, finally swept towards Talib, palm-up. He jumped slightly as the claw approached him, and she laughed.

“Oh dear. I seem to have rather over-done it. Fear not, I am at your service, Talib,” she bowed gracefully, a little mockingly, and waited. “Won’t you introduce yourself?”

“You seem to know who I am,” he replied.

“But it is good manners to observe the forms.”

Talib wanted to say something about the manners of holding a knife to somepony’s throat, but bit his tongue. Instead he returned her bow.

“Talib Cane, of Sugarcane Farm,” he said, cautiously.

“A pleasure to meet you,” said Hayfa, sounding genuine now.

“Oh no,” said Talib sarcastically, “the pleasure is all mine.”

This earned him a snort of laughter from the griffoness. “You know, holding a grudge is a most griffon-like trait. So be it.” She looked at him for a time, attaining that effortless stillness which seemed second nature to most predators. Talib soon grew tired of it.

“Was there something you wanted?” he asked. Other than to put the fear of Celestia into me?

A brief pause. “Indeed. I have begun to think we may have certain goals in common. But these are matters better discussed in comfort and privacy – may we continue at your camp?”

Talib hesitated, but then realized that, of course, she knew where he lived already. He sighed and nodded.

“Lead the way, my friend,” she said, generously.

They walked in relative silence through the evening Forest, Hayfa moving like a cat. Even when straining his ears, Talib was barely able to hear her. He tried to ask questions but she clacked her beak and told him to wait, constantly looking around as if expecting to be attacked at any moment. She was worse even than Talib, when he went deep into the Forest – Talib always tried to remain alert to predators, but Hayfa acted as if expecting malice.

When they arrived she demanded tea as essential to the discussion, so Talib brewed some of his store: dried mulberry leaves and hibiscus flowers from his parents’ garden. Hayfa perched on top of his incomplete cabin, observing the darkening tree line.

Keeping watch, thought Talib, feeling more sure in his suspicions, very military.

The older Royal Guards, those few who had seen active service, were the same. On his occasional trips into Canterlot he’d learned to pick them out even when they were off-duty: backs to the wall, facing the door, always scanning the crowd. He couldn’t accurately guess griffon ages but Hayfa was young, maybe not much older than Talib, but it seemed she’d already seen some heavy action.

“Tea’s ready,” he called.

She flew down lightly and gestured towards his rough shelter.

“May I?”

“Haven’t you already?” he countered.

“Still sparring, are we? I’m just trying to be polite. Not your strong suit, is it?”

He sighed, and shrugged. “Be my guest.”

The dancing eyes again, then she turned, planted her legs and dragged the walls open wide, flexing the muscles in her back and instinctively flapping her wings for extra pull. Talib stared. Compared to Mujeer she was positively slender, but densely-packed muscle stood out as she heaved. Hayfa went inside, settling in on the bracken with her back to the boulders. He passed her the tea and, at her gesture, sat nervously at the far edge of the bracken. She raised the wooden cup in salute and sipped carefully, and Talib did the same. The floral, honeyed note of the hibiscus contrasted pleasantly with the pungent mulberry leaf.

Hayfa spoke first. “So, Talib. Tell me more about your experiments. I’m intrigued.”

“I know. You seem to have already indulged your curiosity,” he gestured towards his storage chest, “I apologize if my notes were unhelpful.”

“Forgive me,” she said with a courtly elegance that surprised him, but seemed to come naturally to her, “I was interested, but couldn’t make sense of them. I’m not much of a botanist. Would you humour me?”

Talib rolled his eyes, defeated. It seemed Hayfa was determined to make small talk before revealing her true purpose. And, for what it was worth, when not holding a knife to his throat she actually seemed rather a pleasant conversationalist. He recounted the change in Miss Scribes’ and Dawn Flare’s magic in the Forest, his theory that the plants had something to do with it, and his experiments using his Earth Pony growth magic. Hayfa listened intently until he finished.

“And when do you expect to finish?” she asked, clearly interested.

“Not for a few weeks yet, probably.”

She nodded. Talib ventured a question.

“So what brought you to the Everfree Forest?” he asked, if only because why have you been stalking me? seemed a little blunt. Hayfa paused, sipping some tea before answering.

“It’s a long story.”

“I’m not busy,” lied Talib, looking longingly at his unfinished cabin.

“By which I mean I’d rather not discuss it.”

“Oh.” He searched for something to say. “Well… may I ask how long you’ve been in the Forest?”

“Only a few weeks, really. I’m still learning my way around.”

“You don’t find it too dangerous?”

“It is, isn’t it?” she said cheerfully, as if agreeing with a compliment, “I like it. It’s good practise.” for what? thought Talib. He didn’t ask.

“Well, I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” he said instead, keeping up the polite charade, “hunting and such. Will you be moving on soon? I believe most griffons are just passing through on their way to richer prospects.”

“Most griffons, yes,” she replied, “not I.” No such luck, Talib thought. “Your Progress Miller has piqued my interest,” she said cautiously, sipping tea and looking at Talib over the cup. A change in her tone suggested that they were finally getting to the real business at hand.

“He’s an interesting pony,” said Talib.

“Indeed,” Hayfa said again. It was apparently an idiosyncratic phrase of hers, perhaps a direct translation from some word in Griffon. He was surprised – her speech was otherwise highly cultivated. “I’ve read your report,” she continued, without a trace of embarrassment, “it’s quite compelling.”

“Have you noticed displaced animals as well?” asked Talib eagerly, but Hayfa shook her head.

“I wouldn’t recognize them if I saw them – I’m ignorant of their usual home ranges.” Talib deflated. “But there is something else.”

He looked at her expectantly, but she seemed to be brooding; staring out of the shelter into the darkened trees, tea momentarily forgotten. Presently she gathered herself.

“I think… the Everfree Forest grows angry.”

Talib felt his heart skip a beat as he, too, turned his head to stare at the trees, imagining them watching, listening. More sensible ponies, like the Ponyville Council perhaps, would have dismissed Hayfa’s assertion immediately as fanciful nonsense. Not Talib. He’d spent enough time here to know that the various components of the Forest added up to something greater than the sum of their parts; it was, in a sense, a being in its own right. He’d already noticed it had… moods, indefinable but tangible, calm or ominous. Or wrathful. He turned back to Hayfa.

“What… what makes you say that?”

She dragged her eyes away from the night-blackened greenery to look at Talib.

“I’m aware the Everfree Forest has always contained creatures both dangerous and strange,” she began, “but have they always acted with intelligence? With co-ordination and purpose?”

Talib reflected on his many near scrapes. “The animals have always been opportunists, not… directed, as you seem to be suggesting. That is… odd.”

“Have the trees themselves always been fractious and violent?”

He started, and Hayfa saw the concern in his eyes. “Only once, to my knowledge,” he said, “when the Tree of Harmony was compromised.” Shaken, he took a draught of tea to steady his hooves. “I knew something was wrong. But how did you know this was unusual? You’re new to the Forest.”

“I could feel it. I’ve… experienced this feeling before,” she said, expression unreadable.

“When?” asked Talib.

Hayfa drank more tea. “It’s a long story,” she finally said.

This time, Talib didn’t press. “Why haven’t I noticed these things?” he said, instead. “Why didn’t Zecora mention them?”

“For now, they are confined to a deep area of the forest far to the East.”

“That’s towards Progress Group’s logging camp!” exclaimed Talib.

Hayfa nodded. “Indeed. But it is spreading. I suspect you will experience them soon enough.”

Talib shivered, glancing at the trees again. “What the buck is going on here?” he whispered.

Hayfa took a deep breath and let it out noisily, breaking the tension. “I cannot help but feel it has something to do with Progress’s actions, but those are hidden from us. We must ensure your report is successful.”

Talib nodded. “I agree, of course,” he said, “but I think there’s something else going on, too. Have you been over to his camp?”

Hayfa shook her head. “It’s too far, and too dangerous. I may be stealthy, but I’m still learning about the Forest – and even stealth is no protection against some ambush predators. My hearing and smell are only average, and in the dense trees my eyes aren’t much use.”

Talib nodded. “Progress said his camp has been sabotaged, that ponies unknown had burned and smashed some of his equipment one night. They were never seen. I don’t suppose you’ve noticed anypony else wandering around the Forest?”

“Only you and Zecora,” said Hayfa. She smiled with her eyes. “I do not suspect either of you.”

“Indeed,” he said, subconsciously picking up her mannerism, “this sounded like the work of many. But then they just vanished, not even leaving tracks.”

Hayfa sighed. “Another mysterious player in our little game, it would seem.”

“Our game?” asked Talib. “Why are you so invested in this, anyway?”

Hayfa sipped her tea and looked at him coyly.

“Don’t tell me,” he said, “it’s a long story.”

Dancing eyes. “Indeed.”