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As he chewed, a subtle sensation of heavenly peace and well-being began to spread through his body.
His eyes shut halfway as he devoured the superlative mouthful, but he could still see the ranks of trees
climbing the southern hillside, ranging far up toward the peaks themselves.
For a koala a single grove of such tall wonders was all anyone could hope to own in a lifetime. Here was
an entire forest growing wild on unclaimed land. Paradise, and a fortune for the claiming. He plucked
another handful, being more selective this time, extracting the dead or blighted leaves before stuifing the
rest into his mouth. Crossing his legs, he sat down on the branch, put his hands behind his head, and
leaned back against the trunk as he chewed while staring up at the blue, blue sky.
His dried-and-cubed eucalyptus had run out months ago. Since then he'd been forced to eat whatever
greenery he'd been able to scrounge from the woods. His stomach had been constantly upset, and eating
became a chore instead of a pleasure. Beans, nuts, and pine needles were little better than garbage.
And now he sat on a branch of the True Tree, nibbling its bounty and reminiscing. And planning. For all
he had to do was package this produce and ship it back home. Within a year he'd be independently
wealthy. A third handful of leaves followed close on the stems of the first two. For the first time in months
he was able to relax.
The sweeping panorama of endless, rolling meadow struck Dormas like a solid blow as they turned a
bend in the trail. There had been no warning. They had been marching through tall pine forest, tramping
around bushes, and shoving aside low-hanging branches, only to emerge unexpectedly onto the open
grassland.
No normal meadow this. You could tell that right away. There were no trees enclosing it, none at all, and
in consequence it stretched endlessly in all directions, conceding not even the horizon to the lowering sky.
More incredible still, it was composed not of sedge and other grasses but of multiple varieties of clover.
There was red clover and blue-green, dandelion clover and seven-sided shaboum, which has a nutty
taste when chewed slowly. The air was thick with green sweetness.
Most unbelievably of all, the consistency and height of the clover hinted that this was that rarest of all
grasslands, a virgin meadow. No teeth had cropped at that rain-cleansed greenness. It was such a
meadow as browsers and grazers only dream of.
She broke into a gallop, not slowing even when she plunged into the fragile growth itself. It parted
around her like a green sea around the prow of a ship until she slowed, panting, and finally bent to use
her teeth on the rich reward. The first taste was indescribably pure.
Here was a playground unthought of since colthood, a place to rest and regain the strength lost during
the long journey from Ospenspri. She lay down in the clover, rolling and kicking her legs, drunk with the
very smell of it. Every taste was cool-fresh, as though each blade had just been kissed by the first
morning's dew. The occasional pungent clover flower only added spice to each exquisite mouthful.
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The blossoms crushed underneath gave up their spring perfume to the air. Such a place could not be
real, could not exist.
But it did, and she had it all to herself, a reward for a lifetime of hard work and ennobling sacrifice.
Flying scout duty, Sorbl couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. Below, the trees gave way suddenly
to a wide expanse of golden-hued liquid. The lake lay just beyond the pass his poor land-bound
companions were struggling through, nestled in the valley beyond.
At the far end it was a deep azure blue. But the southern third was no more than a foot deep, clear as
glass above a bottom of smooth pebbles and pristine river sand. Swarming in incredible numbers above
the gravel were more fish than he'd ever seen in one place in his life. The schools fought for swimming
space, so thickly were they compacted. He picked out salmon and trout, bass and blue gill, their scales
shining like metal in the midmorning sun.
There was no work involved, no strain. Precision was not required. You didn't even have to take aim as
you folded your wings and plummeted toward the water. All you had to do was open your talons and
touch down to be certain of coming away with a fresh meal of white meat.
Nor was that the only surprise the lake held. It puzzled him at first, then confused him, and when he hit
the water and snatched his first fish, it astonished him.
The water splashed over him as he swept up the golden trout in his claws. It washed down over his face
and feathers. That was when he knew it to be true. It explained the lake's golden hue.
Putting the trout aside for later eating, he hopped down to the water's edge. A single sip provided
confirmation enough. Fields of wild grain lined the lakeshore. Some inexplicable fermenting process had
transformed centuries of grain growth, and the result had been leaching into the lake waters ever since.
How the fish could not only survive but thrive in the result he didn't know, but who was he to question
such a wonder?
For the undeniable fact remained that the water was at least eighty-proof, and stronger in the shallows.
Furthermore, different parts of the lake had different flavors, no doubt reflective of the particular grains
growing along each section of shoreline. It was just like the master's cleansing rainstorm over Ospenspri,
only here one didn't have to catch drops in one's open beak. Here one could sample and sip at leisure.
He drank until he thought he would burst, then returned to his fish. Settling down on his tail, he hefted the
trout in both wingtips and began gnawing away. Time enough later for cooking, if he felt like some
variety. The raw flesh was delicious, firm, and undiseased.
Why spend years of drudgery as a wizard's famulus when a fortune was staring him in the face? He
would resign his service with Clothahump, fly back to Lynchbany or Ospenspri, and strike a deal with
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