“I thought I’d find you out here,” said Bianca, making Talib jump, “though I’d sort of hoped otherwise. Should have known you wouldn’t have the sense to listen to mom and dad.”

That morning, as soon as his parents had left the farm for one of the more distant fields, Talib had snuck shakily out to one of his experimental plots, behind the small shack which housed the old copper rhum-still. It was, he judged, time to begin the final harvest and start weighing and measuring the plants. There was no telling how long his concussion would take to heal, and delaying for even a week could mask the differences between plots, as the plants’ juvenile growth spurts ended and they all entered an indistinguishable middle age. He was intimately familiar with the running of the farm, and had decided to take the calculated risk to begin harvesting while his parents were out in distant fields, undeterred by the dreary mid-autumn weather. But he hadn’t thought Bianca might be watching, too.

“You should go back to bed,” said his sister. She seemed upset.

“I can’t,” replied Talib as he carefully uprooted and bagged some Everfree Nut-Sedge, the loamy smell of fertile farm-soil filling his nostrils and clinging to his hooves. “I have to harvest these today.”

“Or what?” demanded Bianca, hunching her tightly-knitted, dark-blue woolen jacket further up around her neck against the stiff, cutting breeze. Somehow, on his stocky sister, the subtle movement had the air of a physical challenge. Talib could see she was not going to drop this easily. He straightened up from his stoop over the plants, and looked her full in the face. Her pale blue coat contrasted well with the stronger, dark blue of her jacket, and her curly purple hair was tossed about in the wind. Her grey-black eyes, however, were like steel.

“Or I have wasted years, and broken our parents’ trust, for nothing,” he retorted, giving her a beseeching look. “Don’t tell? Please?” When she didn’t reply, he turned back to work, gently plucking another sapling from the earth.

Out of the corner of his eye, Talib saw Bianca lean against the still-shed and fold her hooves testily, watching him work in silence. She was clearly frustrated. He hoped she’d be convinced by the speed with which he’d shrugged off the worst effects of the concussion – that morning, he’d been woken by his parents for a few motor and cognition tests which the nurse had suggested, and demonstrated an almost complete recovery. By his bedside, Sim had watched with not-quite-concealed anxiety. Either the old pony hadn’t moved all night, or they’d taken the watch in shifts, with Sim first and last. Talib’s dizziness and headache, he had kept carefully hidden.

“Old Sim slipped out before breakfast,” said Talib, changing the subject. “I didn’t get a chance to thank him.”

Bianca’s eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed. “I see why you two get along,” she said, still angry. “He shuns company almost as much as you do. Bet you don’t say fifty words to each other all day.”

“You’d be surprised,” replied Talib amiably, not wanting to sound argumentative.

“Any idea what he’s up to today?” asked Bianca. “Can’t imagine he’ll be playing tour guide to Huon’s family, not with those bruised ribs.”

Talib, still metaphorically walking on eggshells, couldn’t help grinning. “Worse. He’s headed back into the Everfree.”

Bianca was stunned, her anger at Talib momentarily forgotten as she looked at her brother in disbelief. “What?”

“He said he’d be darned if a few timberwolves would keep him out of the Forest – he’s somehow conscripted Huon to help retrieve the logging wheel and the large tree that we left behind after... when he brought me home, yesterday. Plus I asked him to leave a note for Ha- Sifir, so she doesn’t worry.” Talib was sure, when he hadn’t returned to the cabin, that Hayfa would have snuck up to his window last night to investigate. On seeing Sim by his beside, she would have retreated back to the Forest. “The wife and son are exploring Ponyville without them, at least for the morning.”

Bianca was scowling and tight-jawed. “No wonder this all seemed like a good idea to you, with that influence,” she muttered, “stubborn, reckless old stick...”

Talib decided to keep the focus on Sim. “He’s certainly tenacious,” he said, “you have to give him that. And he has his principles.”

“Oh, he certainly does,” said his sister sarcastically, “thank goodness for that”.

Talib had had enough. Whatever was bothering Bianca, it was more than just concern over his injury, but for once he couldn’t read her. Over the years they’d squabbled, of course, and Talib always felt even more socially inept and evasive when contrasted with his sister’s blunt, outgoing likeability, but they’d always been able to talk. Now, it was different – he could sense something hurt and resentful and dark inside her. Despite his aversion to confrontation, Talib knew he had to draw it out. Maybe it’s the concussion, thought Talib. Nurse Snowdrop did say it could cause behavioural changes – lowered inhibitions and irritability. Well, I’m certainly irritated.

“Alright, Bianca,” he said, trying to sound confident, but not accusatory. “What’s going on?”

Bianca was clearly startled by his demand, uncharacteristic as it was. His sister gave him a long, slow look, wrestling with something. Above, the autumn clouds – coloured that middling grey which threatens rain at any moment, but never delivers – slowly drifted across the anxious, cold sky. Finally, Bianca found her voice.

“I’m jealous,” she said, to Talib’s surprise. “No, not jealous – resentful.” She turned away from her brother’s uncomprehending expression, looking back to the farmhouse and the road leading into Ponyville. Her gaze, however, seemed fixed much further off as she spoke.

“I’ve been making sacrifices, you know,” she said, hollowly, “doing the right thing. You think I don’t want to run off, chase my dreams, find my place?” Her voice turned a little bitter. “You know, nopony’s cutie mark comes with an instruction manual, Talib. We’re all trying to figure it out. But I can’t – because the farm still needs me. You lied, and deceived us, and got your own way, but you only had the space to do that because we’re supporting you. Meanwhile, I’m treading water, because somepony has to do right by the family.” She looked back at him suddenly, her body still turned towards the open road. “That doesn’t seem fair.”

Talib felt a sinking in his chest. Have I really been that selfish? How could I not realize? The escalating wind hissed menacingly through the nearby trees, and Talib looked at his little patch of dirt, full of half-grown plants. It looked forlorn, small, and suddenly pointless.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean... I guess I just didn’t think.”

“That’s just the problem,” said Bianca, “of course you didn’t mean any harm. And I know you’d make sacrifices for us, for me, if we asked. We’re close. But it’s not enough to mean well – part of being close is making the effort to think about each other. To be less self-centered, to remember us. Because we do that for you, because we love you, and we’re stronger for it.”

She looked forward again, at the road, while Talib looked back: back at the swaying trees which delineated the abrupt edge of the Everfree Forest and the beginning of fields: a perfect-seeming ninety-degree intersection of light and dark green. Talib was finding it hard to see, however – and it wasn’t the concussion blurring his vision. Tears sat delicately in his eyes, not wanting to fall. There was nothing he could say, and for a while the only noise was the sighing wind and the dull banging of some unsecured window. The farm felt abandoned, the world empty except for him and Bianca, and the hurt he’d caused.

With sudden clarity, Talib caught a glimpse of the web of relationships he was entangled in. Things aren’t just pushed, given, he realized, they’re pulled. Demanded. But somehow this isn’t because they’re being selfish. The benefit given by one was shared by all – multiplying without dividing.

Suddenly, Bianca was at his side. “So,” she said, “what exactly are you doing?” She was ignoring the moisture in Talib’s eyes, her tone gruff. Though she was still clearly upset, Talib heard the peace-offering for what it was, and immense gratitude washed over him. Someday, sister, he thought, fervently, someday I’ll be the brother you deserve. Regaining his composure, he explained about the different measurements he was going to take: dry weight, lengths, numbers of leaves, branchings, flowers and fruit and seeds, their sizes… the list went on.

“You’re going to measure all that?” she asked, incredulous. Talib nodded. “Won’t that take forever?”

Talib shrugged. “It needs doing. They’re all measures of the differences I’ve observed, anecdotally, between sites. When I examine the data in aggregate, I’ll be able to tease apart precisely which plants are different, by how much, in what way. Much better than just eyeballing them, though that can be useful too. The data might give me some clues about what’s going on here.”

Bianca looked skeptical. “And that, somehow, will tell you what your cutie mark is for?”

Another shrug. “It’s got something to do with the Forest and magic, so that’s what I’m studying. Plus, it might somehow be related to whatever the heck is going on in there,” he said, jerking a hoof sideways towards the Everfree.

His sister did not look convinced, as she narrowed her dark eyes.

This is it, thought Talib. This is the part where she goes running to mom and dad. For my own good, of course.

“Alright then,” she said, eyeing off the plants which were as-yet un-harvested, “got another bag?”

Lunch that day was a subdued affair. Fortunately for Talib, he’d known his parents would spend the day out in distant fields, clearing some neglected old-growth stands. In the spring they’d be replaced with stem cuttings from younger plants. Bianca had apparently begged the morning off somehow, perhaps to continue “monitoring” her brother, and had helped Talib harvest and bag up his plots in secret. They’d both retreated out of the icy wind before lunch, washing off any trace of dirt before their parents came in to eat. Talib had lunch brought up to him in bed, and spent a few minutes chatting with his father about the work. Outside, he could hear the cold air rustling the leaves on immature cane stalks. Occasionally they creaked and clacked against one another in a strong gust, as though talking. In summer it sounded pleasant and friendly, but gloomy weather changed their tone, and Talib fancied he could hear them plotting resentfully against the ponies who cut off their long necks every year. For once, he was glad to be warm, indoors and out of the weather.

Bianca and Ghaliya came to fetch Melaco so the three could head out to finish off the field-clearing together. Ghaliya lingered behind as Talib’s sister and father went downstairs, Bianca giving him a significant look as she went out – a warning of some kind, he guessed. It might just have been an admonishment to take it easy while they were gone, but Talib raised his mental defenses anyway as his mother sat down by the bed.

“So,” she said, lightly, “Sim took that note to the cabin first thing this morning, so Sifir should know you’re alright. And the invitation for tomorrow was on there, as well. What should we expect?”

“Well,” Talib replied, “she’s friendly enough, though very guarded. Fond of irony. I actually don’t know much about her, though I think she’s spent some serious time in the military, which surprised me because she’s quite young. But anyway, I doubt she’ll come.”

“Oh?” Ghaliya raised an eyebrow, smiling faintly.

“She’s... private,” Talib elaborated. “Intensely,” he added.

Ghaliya nodded. “I guessed as much. Tell me, do you remember any of Baba’s stories?”

Talib blinked at the sudden change of tack. “Vaguely, I think – I remember they were good. But not many details.”

His mother smiled. “They were incomparable. You were quite young... do you remember the stories about the wise fool and his many adventures, absurd and dangerous and strange?”

Something awoke in Talib’s memory... a vague scene, but his grandfather was there, more as a presence than a concrete body, though Talib was sitting on his knees and breathing the pungent pipe-smoke-smell that he’d always thought was just the way Talib Azhar naturally smelled. He’d listen for hours as the tales rambled on, sometimes taking part and steering the characters when, in his young foal’s judgement, things had got too dull. Talib would stare up at Baba’s wizened, expressive face – even in Talib’s earliest memories, his grandfather was already an old pony – with wide eyes, until he had a crick in his neck and Baba’s throat had run dry. There had always seemed time for stories.

“A little,” he eventually replied. “There was the one about... about prince Khalil who hated to be bored, so the fool had to keep inventing endless stories to avoid execution...”

“That’s him,” said Ghaliya, “he was a kind of folk hero, an archetype of sorts. Apparently foolish and tragic, and fond of hopeless quests, but whose actions always worked out, through some mix of luck and design. There are hundreds of stories, popular all through Saddle Arabia and the Griffon Kingdom.”

“That’s right!” exclaimed Talib, memory clearing as he remembered the joys and travails of the character. “I used to love those stories. Oh, what was his name...”

“So did I,” said Ghaliya. “It was quite an unusual name,” she continued, the trap sprung. “It was Sifir Habiba.” She looked at him without expression.

Talib’s mind froze and went blank. In the hanging silence, a break in the clouds allowed bright, cold midday sunlight to stream through his window. It caught motes of dust drifting through his room and set them ablaze. They floated, glowing, until passing beyond the round spotlight and winking out in the relative darkness beyond.

Of course it was, he thought. It had sounded vaguely familiar at the time, but he’d just dismissed it as another of Hayfa’s private jokes. Her eyes were constantly a-sparkle at some perceived absurdity, rarely shared with others. In all probability, they were the butt of the joke. Well, Hayfa, thought Talib, you’ve been a bit too clever for your own good, this time. He had lied enough to his parents – time to start telling the truth.

Just coincidence, then, that this lie happens to be for somegriffon else, and while you’re least likely to get away with it? his conscience needled. Amazing what a lack of personal benefit and a suspicious audience does for your ethics. Go on, why don’t you really turn over a new leaf? You could tell her about your restful morning, out harvesting plants.

Talib carefully filed that self-flagellation away for later and let out a long breath. “Sorry,” he said for the hundredth time in two days, “she asked that I not give out her real name. Like I said, she’s very private.”

Ghaliya nodded. “It’s all right. A certain amount of paranoia is healthy in the Griffon Empire. Interesting choice of name, though. Has she told you her real name?”

“...yes,” replied Talib, after some hesitation.

“Oh!” said Ghaliya, “that’s interesting. She must trust you, to a certain degree.”

Talib thought back to the knife-point interrogation, and the contrastingly civil introductions. “I suppose so,” he said, unconsciously rubbing his throat, “though I think she was also trying to make up for something.”

Ghaliya merely sat looking expectant. Eventually, she spoke. “Well?”

“...well what?” replied Talib, confused.

“What’s her real name?” Talib’s mother was fairly bouncing with excitement, girlish and unselfconscious. She loved a mystery, and in these moments Talib loved her as a friend as well as a mother. “You know I’ll keep it to myself.”

Talib grinned. “Promise you won’t even tell Melaco?” he demanded, mock-solemn. Ghaliya raised an eyebrow and gave him a when-do-I-ever-tell-him-anything look. “Alright then,” said Talib, “she told me her name is Hayfa. Hayfa Karima.”

Ghaliya’s eyes widened, suddenly serious. “Talib,” she said, “that’s a noble name.”

Talib was about to say he quite liked the sound of it himself when his concussed brain made the realization.

Noble. As in, a member of the nobility. He didn’t know what to make of it.

“You said she’s young, yes? What did you say she’s doing in the Everfree?” asked his mother, slowly.

Talib thought. “Just... surviving, as far as I can tell. She goes hunting, makes jerky, tans hides and makes bone carvings. That whole creepy carnivore thing. She said she’ll sell them to passing traders, eventually. It sounded a bit… pointless.”

Talib’s mother frowned and stared out the window, thinking silently. “But why here?” she said quietly, apparently to herself.

“Mom?” he asked, “what is it?”

Ghaliya looked at him, and assumed a slightly didactic tone. “The Griffon Empire can be a harsh place for the young. It’s a very rigid society, which hasn’t greatly altered in many hundreds of years. Equestria has experienced slow but substantial changes to our society and politics. As you’d know,” she said archly, raising her brows, “if you’d applied yourself half as much in political history as you had in magical history. Anyway. Since Princess Luna became Nightmare Moon, Princess Celestia has been gradually devolving executive powers to ordinary ponies. I mean over the past thousand years – it’s strange to think somepony could maintain that resolve and consistency for so long, but then who really knows how old those sisters are? Maybe it seems like a decade to her. Anyway,” she said again, trying to stay on track. She didn’t get to expound on this very often; Melaco did not share her interest in the affairs of state, which Ghaliya had received from her own mother: an outwardly trivial but really quite sharp mare. “Feudalism was eventually wound down to pretty much a symbolic position with some land and a title but no power, much to the chagrin of our nobility, if the civil wars are anything to go by. Afterwards, regional representatives were appointed; they got the first small piece of the cake. Then towns like Ponyville got mayors, and local elections, and there’s been a lot more done since. Of course, we’ve also had the steam engine which, combined with a little engineering and unicorn magic, is totally transforming the economy. I’m afraid Progress Miller is just the tip of the wedge there, though that doesn’t mean I agree with what he’s doing.” She took a breath, trying to find her original thread.

“Young griffons...” prompted Talib.

“Right. In contrast, the Griffon Empire has been fundamentally unchanged over the same time. Sure, they’ve had their wars, internal and external, and new families periodically march into power over the bodies of the old, but the system hasn’t greatly changed. There’s a certain way to do things, and strong resistance to change. That can be difficult for the young, especially since they’re expected to be respectful and obedient. During their... rebellious youth,” she intoned meaningfully, giving Talib a sharp look, “some families send young griffons away to work out their energies far from home. They usually come back after a couple of years, a little older and wiser – or at least more conformist.”

“You think Hayfa might be in this situation,” stated Talib.

His mother swayed a hoof to and fro. “Yes and no. The nobility are expected to keep up appearances, to be an example. They tolerate small transgressions by their young, as long as money or influence can sweep it under the rug. If it’s something serious, however, the offending youngster is shipped off to distant relatives under some pretext before they can bring shame on the family. Only in extreme cases,” she said, coming to the crux of the matter, “do things get a little more... formal.”

“Formal how?” asked Talib.

“Exile,” said his mother, simply. “Which, due to the inflexible nature of griffon honour, is usually permanent. Disownment may follow, if the family really needs to save face.”

Talib was shocked. All that bitterness, the sardonic armour suddenly made sense. As for “why here” – what was it she had said? Ah yes, he thought, remembering. When he’d asked whether she found the Everfree Forest dangerous, she’d said it was “good practice”.

For what?

“The question, of course,” continued his mother, “is ‘what did she do?’ You say she’s not dangerous?”

Talib laughed. “On the contrary. She’s extremely dangerous – but only in ability. Not in temper or motivation, as far as I can tell.”

“Yes, well,” said Ghaliya, “perhaps I’ll be the judge of that.”

“I don’t know when,” said Talib, “I told you she won’t come tomorrow.”

“You see?” said his mother, slightly smug, “I already know something about her you don’t.” She produced a folded sheet of paper from somewhere. “This came by special courier owl just now – though I’ve no idea where she got such elegant stationery, not to mention the owl. I feel quite flattered – and she must be resourceful indeed.” The note was plunked into Talib’s hooves, then his mother rose and walked out. She didn’t look back.

Talib unfolded it and read the first few words of the elegant writing aloud. “To the Cane family...” He lapsed into silence as he mouthed the rest of the words, then groaned, looking at, for no particular reason, Moondancer’s coffee table on the braided rug.

“Oh, no.”

Sitting in his lap, written in formal style fit, indeed, for nobility, was Hayfa’s acceptance of their invitation to dinner tomorrow.