Hoard

“They have departed the city?”

“As of an hour ago, your Majesty,” Clarent answered, seating himself at the conference table. “In precisely the manner I predicted. As such, there are as yet no further developments to report.”

“Very good, M. Clarent, thank you,” Queen Henrietta von Holtzmann said, nodding. “For the sake of the others present, would you please summarize the situation?”

“Of course, your Majesty.”

The spymaster shifted his attention; this was an extremely abbreviated counsel, with the minimum possible ears and mouths given access to state secrets, but he still had to divide his stare as of the two other individuals present, one refused to stay still.

Princess-Consort Etienne von Holtzmann sat beside her wife; she was present in her role as the commander of Boisverd’s military and as usual wore an army uniform with none of her medals on display and only the thin silver circlet atop her short regulation haircut to signify her royal rank. The court mage, Cora d’Acron, was pacing like a caged tiger, which in another person might be taken as a sign of the gravity of their situation, but she was usually doing that. A perpetual bundle of tension, she had the gaunt cheeks and shadowed eyes of someone too stressed to eat or sleep properly. Henrietta was not unconcerned about an unstable mage having access to the center of power, but Cora’s work had never seemed to suffer for her perpetually taut disposition.

“Some of this you will already know, but I will attempt to balance thoroughness with brevity,” said Clarent, the kingdom’s spymaster falling smoothly into the brisk delivery he used for such reports. “We were alerted yesterday afternoon to a visit by the dragon Izayaroa, who arrived in the city on foot via the south gate, in human disguise. Court Mage d’Acron was the first to identify her presence, as usual, but since she alerted me, I’ve had people shadowing her. On this trip, Empress Izayaroa did what she has done on every previous visit: stayed at the Renaissance hotel and visited the Silver Hound Trading Company to buy antiquities. This was not a standard visit, however, and it was her other activities with which we are concerned. For the first time she was accompanied by another person: a human, male, apparently an ethnic Rhiva who has been identified only as Ar-Kaln. Izayaroa introduced him to the concierge at the Renaissance as her husband.”

“Hells uncounted,” Etienne hissed, then cleared her throat. “Excuse me, Clarent. Please, continue.”

He nodded sympathetically as he did so. “We have as yet not identified this man, nor learned anything about him. He appears to be a relatively young adult, with notably formal manners, and has been described as quite attractive. Like his companion, he was dressed expensively, leading most they encountered to take him for an Imperial noble. The two visited the Roundabout last night, where they spent several hours…carousing, in essence. They spent a great deal of money, indulged in several unseemly public displays of affection, and one or the other of them appears to have discreetly neutralized several attempts at robbery through mind-befuddling magic, which to me indicates a desire for discretion rather incongruous with other aspects of their behavior. They departed the Roundabout shortly after dark, returned to the Renaissance, and seem to have spent the entire night carrying on like honeymooners in such a loud and inconsiderate manner as to disturb other guests at the hotel, then emerged after breakfast looking…surprisingly well-rested. From there they proceeded to Izayaroa’s normal errand at the Silver Hound. After departing the trading hall, they were approached by a young priestess of the Shepherd’s Flock whom we have identified as Selena Nourvant, a sister with a good reputation but no particular achievements to her name. Claiming to have been sent directly by Anessima, the sister seems to have offered herself to Izayaroa as a human sacrifice.”

Etienne frowned in puzzlement, and Cora actually halted her pacing momentarily, turning a scowl upon him. Unperturbed, Clarent continued his recitation.

“Izayaroa declined this, which is consistent with what we know of her. After this, the two returned to their hotel, checked out as normal, and then departed the city.”

“Why in the hells would the Flock try something like that?” Cora demanded, once more pacing. “None of the dragons have ever shown the slightest interest—and to Izayaroa! I’m amazed she didn’t take it as an insult.”

“That is one of several confusing details about this which concern me,” Clarent said gravely.

“So the Empress has picked herself a boytoy,” Etienne mused. “Well, I can’t say I blame her, attached to the Dread as she is. Are we expecting any particular trouble to result from this, or shall we default to the standard wisdom of not meddling in the affairs of dragons?”

“The Dread is the issue,” Cora growled, now repeatedly clenching her fists in addition to stomping back and forth. “If Atraximos learns he’s been cuckolded by some human, his temper tantrum will be apocalyptic. And of course she had to come and do it here!”

Etienne winced; Clarent was too composed to react, but Henrietta allowed herself a faint moue of disapproval. None of them were superstitious, but to speak the name of the dread dragon so casually was considered uncouth.

“In essence, we are gambling upon Izayaroa’s discretion,” Henrietta explained, reaching over to lay a hand gently on her wife’s wrist. “If she is able to keep her business private, and he doesn’t learn of it…nothing will happen. However, the details of their visit have brought her discretion into question.”

Etienne grimaced, shifting to entwine her fingers with Henrietta’s. Since they had only the two onlookers and both were on fairly close terms with the royal couple, the Queen decided to allow this. Boisverd was like everywhere else in that royal marriages were always political, but she had been very lucky in that both of hers had held genuine warmth. Her marriage to the previous King had been for political reasons, but they had grown to share genuine affection; she had been devastated for more than political reasons at his untimely passing. Her second marriage was the reverse, a union based on affection, adopted because the politics of the situation happened to permit it. She did not want even to imagine how she might have fared these last few years without Etienne.

“All right, then… What do we know about this fellow?” the Princess-Consort inquired. “That name, Ar-Kaln… If he’s Imperial nobility, does that prefix tell us anything? You’ll have to forgive me, Rhivaak is far outside the matters my duties require me to consider and I’m less familiar with their customs than I perhaps should be.”

“The Empire has an upper class, as does any civilization,” said Clarent, “but they do not have nobility in the same sense we do. The Ar- prefix is simply a naming convention. Centuries ago it was masculine, but the Golden Empress has deliberately de-emphasized gendered social roles and now it means almost nothing. Obviously, I have set inquiries in motion, but at this time we are very much in the dark about this chap.”

“It is clear that the Flock know something we do not,” said the Queen. “And likely that the Silver Hound does, as well. Have we the capacity to get these answers from them, Clarent?”

“Some capacity, your Majesty, but I cannot yet say how far it will extend. Both organizations span far more than Boisverd. The Flock, of course, must be handled with the utmost care. I fear all we can do in that case is ask politely for details, and if they decline to offer them…that will be that. I would recommend your Majesty undertake this personally; the priesthood may take an overture from my agency…amiss.”

“Agreed,” Henrietta said, nodding. “I will see to it directly.”

“The Silver Hound is not a match for my people in terms of the keeping of secrets; the risk there is not that we cannot get information from them, but what the consequences might be. I can extract anything we might need from the local branch, but not prevent them from learning that I did so. That will rile not only the entire trading company, but the other merchant guilds, potentially the adventurer guilds to which they are connected, and almost certainly the Societies.”

“Never mind the economic consequences, it’s consequences at all we need to worry about,” Cora said brusquely, still pacing. “Everyone who learns we’re investigating this will also investigate it. Every soul who learns Izayaroa has herself a cuddlebug is another risk of it getting back to Atraximos.”

“Surely the Dread doesn’t have friends in our capital?” Etienne protested.

“No, and I can’t say how likely it is, but he’s neither deaf nor stupid! I am not a scryer or diviner by specialization, but I can lay a basic enough detection ward to notice when a dragon enters the city, disguised or no. Same works in reverse. Those damned creatures hoard magics the way they do everything else; they have countless potential ways of gathering information and we have no idea what their capabilities are! Every loose lip is an additional chance of Atraximos taking notice and taking an interest, and then everyone dies.”

“I have to concur,” Clarent said quietly. “Utmost secrecy is paramount. The Dread is brutal as a matter of course; upon suffering such a personal humiliation his wrath will be devastating, and far more likely to be vented upon the place where it occurred than upon Izayaroa.”

Henrietta permitted herself the indulgence of a small sigh. “Then we cannot risk tipping our hand. Which means we cannot proceed aggressively enough to actually gather reliable intelligence, nor even lay countermeasures against a likely dragon attack. Anything that creates the impression we know something is a risk. Is there any good news?”

“Our defenses against dragon attack are…as good as it is possible for them to be,” Etienne said quietly. “Something will survive. There is simply…not much to be done. What can be done, we have already done as a matter of course. Going to high alert is almost superfluous.”

“One thing,” Cora grunted, now clutching her chin as she strode back and forth along the wall, glaring at empty space in front of her. “Atraximos doesn’t bother to keep track of human activities like shifting national borders. If he attacks Boisverd he’ll probably just hit this valley. And maybe our outlying territories out of aimless spite, but I strongly doubt he knows which are affiliated with us. He sure as every hell doesn’t know we have a political claim on Dragonvale itself. Anything outside the mountain walls, he might ignore or miss.”

Henrietta raised her head, frowning in momentary concentration, then nodded.

“Clarent, if we were to move the upcoming Dawntide celebrations to…let us say, the Rivenvale shrine complex, would the political consequences be unmanageable?”

“Such a large change at this late date would cause waves,” the spymaster said slowly, then a smile began to spread across his features. “The Houses and Societies would likely think it was a ploy aimed at some of them, and begin tripping one another up in scrambling to find out your goal. Yes, your Majesty, that is eminently doable—and in fact, I may be able to gather some valuable results quite incidentally.”

“Then at least some good will have come of this,” she said, sighing. “I will give the orders to see it done, then. As it will draw undue suspicion if I or my wife absent ourselves from the city on such short notice, this year the ceremony will be overseen by the Prince and Princess. That will keep them both out of the city for a good two weeks, by which time we should know more and the danger may have passed entirely. In the worst case, thus, the royal line will be preserved.”

Cora halted mid-stride, turning a frown on her. “Uh…is that a good…”

“It was my understanding,” Clarent said more delicately, “that her Highness does not participate in affairs of state.”

“Her Highness is not an invalid,” Henrietta said firmly. “Yes, she has been excused from royal duties, but her duty to this family is to avoid becoming a casualty of dragon attack, and I will insist that she perform that one no matter how it discomfits her. Besides, the Prince is quite capable of handling both the ceremony and his sister.”

“We’ll need to do something nice for him after making him do it, though,” Etienne murmured.

“It is, at the very least, a plan.” Henrietta stood, and everyone else did so as well. “Let us be about it. We know not how little time we have.”

“And how do you want to handle the Societies?” Madame Vourchel asked, her tone fatalistic. “It is too much to hope we’ll be able to keep them out of this entirely; you know they will be positively slavering to make what they can of a development like this.”

“It’ll be the same delicate balance as always, Marie,” Champion said wearily. “Let them do their sniffing and snooping; we will not tempt their retaliation by trying to interfere…up to a point. The privacy of a client is absolutely sacrosanct, and they know better than to disrespect it. I suspect this time I shall have to administer a few pointed reminders of this, without crossing whatever invisible line sets them off. There’s no need to worry,” he added more gently. “I will handle it; you stay well clear of the business. If any of the Societies make any overtures at you, let me know immediately.”

“I always do,” she agreed, then hesitated, frowning. “M. Champion… Stop me immediately if I am prying, but…should I be concerned about that man?”

He hesitated himself, glancing at her concerned expression, carefully revealing nothing. He trusted her if he did anyone, but…the careless spread of information was anathema to him, both as a merchant and a Verdi. Still… To leave her in ignorance was to leave her vulnerable, and he could not so fail to look after one of his most important people.

“That one, too, Marie,” he said quietly. “If you see or hear anything of him again, bring it to me. That one is a new player. He may have been introduced as a hanger-on of Lady Roa, but not even in the name of subterfuge would she call him ‘husband’ so lightly. And he went well out of his way to express to me that he is now a power in this realm.”

“He did?” she asked in alarm.

“He paid, immediately, up front, the first price I named,” Champion whispered. “He was making a point of how little it mattered to him to drop such a vast quantity of coin. I know what you’re going to say, and yes, there are some nobles who are simply foolish and unable to bargain. This was not that; I trust my instincts. We will be hearing from that one again; he made sure to let me know of it. Let me handle him, when next he comes around. A man who dallies with dragons is not to be taken lightly.”

The meeting chamber which held the tribe’s most closely-guarded secrets was deep, deep below the casino in which they had their open headquarters and did most of their business. Which meant it was roughly at ground level; you just had to climb the long, spiraling street of the Roundabout to the ruined clock tower at its apex, and then go down a bunch of hidden stairs.

That was why Grandmother never left the tower anymore. Bad enough she sometimes had to come down here; that was more than enough climbing for someone her age.

Now, they had all gathered, the old stone chamber barely lit by smoky oil lamps, hung with fabric draperies to make it resemble the interior of one of their tents from the old country. She sat cross-legged upon her stack of rugs and pillows, tapping her lips with the stem of a long pipe upon which she did not yet puff.

Before her were arranged four generations of her family—descending generations, that was, as she was the eldest. All their faces were unlined, soft and rosy as they day they had reached adulthood, as was her own.

Doubtless there were some who knew it, this being a country of secrets and intrigues, but they were not many; the Nhiyah carefully discouraged outsiders from learning their business. Everyone knew they were congenitally unable to use magic of any kind, because it was impossible to conceal a fact which had been used to hound and oppress them across the millennia. Very few outside their tribes knew that, by another inexplicable quirk of biology, they did not show any signs of age in skin and connective tissue.

And so, to the countless Verdi punters who passed through her casino and caught a glimpse of the enigmatic proprietess, she was just another Nhiyah girl lounging about with her robe half-unlaced to show off an abundance of cleavage that remained as bouncy as the day she’d gotten it, her only apparently unique trait her snow-white hair—not, as most assumed, a peculiarity of coloration, but a sign of exactly what it was on everyone else. For the Nhiyah, the relentless hand of age was felt no less firmly for being unseen. Grandmother, who still looked not a day over twenty, felt her years in her inability to handle the spicy food she so loved, in her bladder which these days was the size of a hazelnut, in the way her tail ached whenever the weather changed—which in this mountainous northern climate was all but constantly.

She gazed across the upturned faces before her, the intently perked ears and vertical pupils widened with focus, and finally nodded.

“It is confiwmed. The bwack dwagon is on the move.”

There was a faint rustle; several ears twitched and a few tails waved, but her tribe remained silent, waiting on her word.

“What we do not know is who that man is, that Aw-Kawn. That is onwy the fiwst of the things we must weawn.”

“I weawwy hope we don’t have to kiww him,” Seffin commented, grinning. “He’s so pwetty!”

“Yup,” Disha agreed, nodding laconically. “Wouwd.”

“Wouwdn’t we aww!”

“If he’s good enough fow the Empwess, I want a nibbwe!”

“It wemains to be seen,” Grandmother said indulgently. “It is faw fwom time to make pwans. As yet, aww we know is that she is active, and up to something. Befowe sticking ouw paws into the middwe of it, we wequiwe mowe infowmation. That wiww be ouw fiwst pwiowity.”

In the front row, a black haired boy who actually was as young as he looked—the youngest of those gathered, in fact—began making small movements of his ears, accompanied by subtle hand signals, nose twitches, and faint shifts of the muscles around his eyes. The silent signals of the Nhiyah hadn’t the depth of a full language, merely a set of terse codes used to communicate discreetly.

dragon = danger

business / dragon = danger / more

avoid / safe?

“Speak, Kiff,” Grandmother said sternly. “You awe in Boisvewd, and not on mission.”

He bristled—literally, his tail puffing up in anger. The lad had enough restraint not to bare his teeth at her, but his ears flattened back to the point he had to compose himself before he could use them to signal again. He had clearly been stewing on this for quite a while; she knew him to be too gentle-mannered to blow up over such a mild rebuke.

human / language = difficult = stupid / sound

human = mock

angry / tired / shame = noise

family / alone = Nhiyah / signal = better

Grandmother stared down at him, impassive. Silent. Letting the seconds tick on, until he lowered his ears and hunched in on himself, feeling the pressure. Finally, she brought the stem of her pipe to her lips and began to softly puff.

Bubbles rose, one by one, to drift out over the heads of the assembled Nhiyah. Several of those heads turned to track these new floating targets.

“The Vewdi,” she finally said, implacably calm as ever, “awe a peopwe of secwets and schemes. Theiw eyes awe evewywhewe, etewnawwy watchfuw. Theiw minds awe shawp, weww abwe to dwaw connections that even the humans of the owd countwy wouwd not. That we wive hewe in peace, and awe fwee to move among theiw cities, is because they do not suspect we awe wowth watching.”

She paused to blow another bubble.

“What you pwactice is what you wiww do when pwessuwed. You wiww thus pwactice human speech, so that when you awe fwustewed, you wiww show the Vewdi a siwwy catboy, and not a poised pwofessionaw in contwow of his ciwcumstances. Evewy Vewdi who sees ouw signaws is anothew wisk that they wiww be wecognized fow what they awe. And you know these facts, Kiff.”

He lowered his head, tail falling limp and ears flattened sideways in mortification.

“Fowgive me, Gwandmothew. Yes, I… I know. I’m just so… I wet fwustwation get the best of me.”

Grandmother leaned forward, reaching out to gently stroke one of his ears with the backs of her fingers, ignoring the twinges the motion brought to her shoulders and lower back. Kiff hesitantly raised his eyes to her again.

“Bettew to eww hewe, among famiwy, whewe you awe safe. Twy not to fowget again, chiwd. Now, in answew to youw question: yes, but no. Yes, it is famouswy hazawdous to meddwe in the affaiws of dwagons. But we awe who we awe. We have ouw histowy, ouw pwide, and ouw memowies. Ouw peopwe have suffewed gweatwy, and we shaww nevew fowget why. The Nhiyah know who has wwonged us and who had hewped us, and we beaw ouw gwudges in siwence untiw the moment comes to bawace the ancient scawes.”

She paused to puff a few more bubbles. In the back of the gathering, a young woman could apparently resist no longer; she lunged for a floating bubble, crashing into one of the tent walls and knocking over its support with a clatter, causing a huge pile of fabric to come loose and fall upon her. The other Nhiyah turned to give this sidelong looks, then turned back to Grandmother, dutifully ignoring the miscreant.

“And now,” she continued quietly, “the bwack dwagon is moving. Yes, it wemains dangewous to twifwe with her—but whatevew ewse she may be, so wong as hew pwans wequiwe hew to ciwcuwate among the mowtaws with a mowtaw companion, she is vuwnewabwe. We wiww obsewve and weawn befowe we act. It may be that yet again, it is best to wemain siwent and wet the moment pass us by. But it may awso be that this, at wong wast, wiww be the moment of ouw vindication.”

The quiet fervor in her voice reminded them who they were, and what had led them here. As one, her collected descendants answered her with ritual conviction, each clenching the right fist before their throat, lowering their heads, and murmuring in unison their ancient benediction.

“Uwu.”

Grandmother smiled, and let her fluffy white tail wave behind her in satisfaction, ignoring the creak of her old bones. Sometimes she worried, living as they did in this foreign land, but once in a while she was blessed by one of these reminders. What befell the other Nhiyah she could not say, but her tribe at least remembered who they were.

“What is youw pwan, then, Gwandmothew?” asked Kefni in the front row, lifting her head. “The Empwess has weft the city with hew new pwaything. Twacking hew out into the wiwdewness would be…a twiaw.”

“Indeed, chiwd, it is not wisest to scampew among the feet of a dwagon,” Grandmother agreed. “Fowtunatewy, we have no need to. Ouws awe not even the shawpest eyes in this city. If we obsewved Izayawoa’s movements, so did othews—aww the usual pwayews. The powewfuw of this city come hewe to ouw home to wet off steam, and when they encountew us ewsewhewe, think nothing of ouw pwesence. We have wowked hawd fow many wong yeaws to be thus discounted, and now it shaww pay off. We wiww watch the watchews, and weawn what they know, with none of them any the wisew. They wiww hoawd theiw tidbits of infowmation against one anothew as they awways do: onwy we wiww weawn the fuww pictuwe. And when the moment comes to act, we shaww be the fiwst to see it.”

She took the pipe from her lips to point.

“You shaww take the wead on this, Kefni. You know whewe to begin wooking, and the best ways to monitow each of them. Aww of you, answew to hew in this mattew.”

Kefni again clenched a fist in front of her throat, grinning in delight.

“I wiww not disappoint you, Gwandmothew!”

“You nevew have, chiwd,” Grandmother replied, smiling warmly back.

Oh, to live at such a moment in history—to see the fruition of such long hopes and the vindication of ancient grudges. It was a mercy after all that her years stretched this long.

She placed the pipe back at her lips and blew more bubbles.

Even on holy ground, some places were more sacred than others. The innermost sanctuary of Boisverd’s main temple of Anessima, known more colloquially as the Shepherd, stood not only at its center but, in contrast to local architectural convention, at its peak. Her central shrine rose above the temple and the surrounding district, persevering against both the elements and the eternal threat of wrath from the skies, in accordance with her doctrine.

Rare were the ceremonies that brought mortal priests into this space, but it remained spotlessly free of dust or mold, so heavy was the goddess’s perpetual presence here. For all that, it was a surprisingly humble chamber, octagonal in shape, braced by slender columns, seven of its walls comprised of towering windows which did not even have stained glass, the last being the door. In its center stood a depiction of her in white marble, showing a tall woman carrying a shepherd’s crook in one hand, head lifted to gaze outward in an expression of solemn patience.

In the silence of this holy of holies, the only movement was the incremental passage of the sun through the windows, and the ponderous rotation of shadows, those of columns and of the statue itself.

Until that last, the shadow of the goddess’s own statue cast upon the marble floor, suddenly shifted, stretched, and moved its mouth.

“You see what I mean, though, right?”

The goddess’s own voice was very different—a sense of pressure upon the air, of resonance with the light itself, a sound that was not quite a sound and might not have been perceived by mortal ears, were any present.

It is well that you were right. The consequences otherwise could have been grievous indeed. Even thus vindicated, I regret that I allowed you to persuade me into this. The loss of one of my innocent faithful would have been merely the beginning of the possible repercussions of so prodding at an ancient dragon.

“Oh, but what an absolute trooper that girl was!” the statue’s shadow said exuberantly, practically bouncing in excitement. “The balls on her! You better give her a raise or something, she’s a keeper. But nah, nothing was gonna happen. Izayaroa’s not the type to pitch a fit over every little thing. Any of the others, sure, but this was a perfectly safe way for me to make my point. And I thank you kindly for humoring me, because now you have more than just my word for it!”

Do not forget that I am no mortal to be strung along in your schemes. I see the shape of your soul, and it precludes taking your word for anything.

“Which is the whole point, yeah? Now you don’t need to. That’s all this was about, darling, simple courtesy and reassurance. One of my little projects has regrettably spilled into your front yard; it would be downright uncivil if I didn’t drop by and offer a solid demonstration that everything’s under control.”

Is it? The lack of a brewing crisis is not the same as control—and, I would add, not even that much has been demonstrated to my satisfaction.

“Don’t worry, I know my boy; Kaln’s a good kid. He’ll do the right thing—he always does in the end, he just might need a little reminding what it is from time to time. He very rarely does the smart thing…but then, maybe you can appreciate those priorities. That’s your whole deal, right?”

He, and you, are playing with forces none of us could hope to control. It is your own failure to learn from your failure to manage your own scheme that worries me most.

“Fine, you don’t have to trust me. But I think you do have to have some faith in the goodness of people.”

Faith, yes. No matter how many times they disappoint me, I keep that faith. And I find it is its own reward…even as I am not blind to the inevitability of further such disappointment.

“You and me both, sister. That’s the job we signed up for, eh?”

Be mindful of the forces with which you trifle—do not forget that your schemes have consequences for others beyond your interest. Act with care in my domain.

“Darling, it’s the only way I know how.”

The shadow swept an elaborate bow, and then snapped back into place, reflecting the statue’s position against the sun. Once again, there was silence in the sanctuary.

As dusk was falling and the family had retired indoors for their supper, a hulking shape materialized out of the nearby forest. Sniffing the air, and drawing closer with plodding steps to the wooden fence separating this farm from the wilderness beyond.

Cordi burst out from where she’d been grazing behind the barn, charging right for it and braying at the top of her lungs. At the donkey’s approach, the brown bear hesitated, drawing back in confusion…for a moment. Then she had come almost within reach, trotting back and forth behind the fence and snorting in furious aggression. Close enough it could see how much smaller she was.

The bear rose up on its hind legs, looming above her, tall enough to see over the roof of the little cottage in the near distance. Fearless, Cordi reared up herself, braying and slashing at the air with her hooves.

With a snort, the beast took a lumbering step forward, reaching out toward her. One of its paws passed over the fence—into the territory of a farm whose owner had recently received a certain blessing from a stranger met in passing.

Her intent slammed down upon it. Though nothing changed, physically, the bear’s world was thrown into chaos as its hostile intentions made it the recipient of a very personal message. Titanic ebon wings darkened the sky; the golden eyes of the ultimate apex predator fixed upon it, silently conveying a single thought.

This place is protected.

The beast toppled over backward in panic, scrambling awkwardly to get back to its feet and running back into the forest with such haste it kept crashing into trees in its desperate fervor to put as much space between itself and the farm as possible.

Left behind, the donkey reared up again, braying proudly in her victory, and behind her, the farmhouse door opened and old Marcel himself stepped out, clutching a shovel.

“Cordi? What is it, ol’ girl? What’s amiss?”

Head high, she turned and trotted back over to him to receive the head pats she fully expected for her service, and possibly even an apple.

In one little part of the world, at least, all was still well.