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with the bits of actual magic — Coltec pictograms painted in red on the walls that made my horn tingle, centuries-outdated weather-tools cast in intricately-decorated bronze, carving knives of black, crimson-stained obsidian and red, pulsing gemstones.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.

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