For the first time since his death, someone voiced regret that Gauv wasn’t around: “He would’ve been strong enough to pull the mill on his own. No mule needed.” Yven’s uncles and cousins strained against the mill-arm the mule had been yoked to. Straining against the impossible.

The stranger hadn’t gotten off the island with the mule. He’d been unlucky enough to ride for the bridge while the isle’s taskmaster paced it. The taskmaster knew every face of every resident, and the law said trespassers were sanguinate food. The stranger fell on the bridge. The mule kept running through the gate, into the city, and made it about twenty meters before plagued paupers slit its throat and dragged it into an alleyway to eat. The stranger was a lunch for the golden guard, the mule a lunch for impoverished carnivates, both dead.

Just to feel the impossibility of it, Yven gave the mill arm her best pull and push, too, churning her hooves in the mud with the rest of her family. Afterward, washing mud from the azure fur on her ankles, Yven said, “Medin’s got more mules than mills. She’ll spare us one. I know it.”

Her mother chided, “Yven, none of us have been to Encyclia in over a year. For all we know, Medin’s whole clan are the noble’s livestock now. And you’d have to go through the city to get there. Through the plague.”

All Yven did was scowl, throw a sack of sugar over her shoulder, and take to the road.

At the bridge across the Parro Strait, the taskmaster stopped her to put a pink band on her arm, marking her for safe passage to the Encyclia Isle and back. He then put around her neck a white scarf that was enchanted to keep the plagues away for a short while and pointed at her sugar, “Quota doesn’t get adjusted for hardship. Trade that away and you’ll have to make it up.”

“New strong mule will make plenty,” Yven mumbled, not for a moment imagining that such an animal lived on any of the plantations. Young, healthy beasts rarely lived long around so many thirsty sanguinates.

Across the bridge, passing through the Parro Gate, Yven hugged the sugar to her chest. The armband protected her from sanguinates and the scarf from the plagues, but she could still get robbed. She kept her eyes open, looking this way and that. This was the gate where Queen Aetha’al’ain had fought a beast, it was rumored. Aetha had never seen the queen, rarely seen the city. As she stepped out of the gate tunnel into the city proper, she couldn’t help but stare up at the grandeur of the Marble City. Built by angels centuries past, the capital of the Isle of Spheres, all perfectly white high walls and tall balconies where Seraphs and their orders had once basked in sunlight, sealight, perfect golden light from the glowing alder trees and the divine warmth of the golden fountain turning in the center of the garden district.

There was so much to look at. Gold-lined cliffs. Sparkling roads all leading to the palatial promenade. There was smoke, now, rising from the foundry district that the working class had built of wood and iron, but Yven barely noticed it. Like she barely noticed all the vermillion banners hung on newly-erected wooden poles, encircling the square where intersected the roads to the Amaranth Isle, the Encyclia Isle, the Solandra Isle, and the great sweep of the Isle of the Spheres. The vermillion banners seemed to encircle the central, high banner of Al’ain. Yven didn’t imagine for a moment that these things might have meaning.

A tawny-furred hand reached for the sack of sugar. Yven barely noticed in time to flinch away and snap, “Fuck off!”

A skinny, weary anthral with a broken horn grumbled at her, “Privileged bitch. You look well-fed enough,” and then turned away. By the way his crooked head twitched in rhythm with his pulse, by how he favored one side as he hobbled away, it was obvious he was deeply plagued.

Surprised and hurt, Yven said quick, “I’m sorry. I just…” then lowered her voice to a muttered whisper, “Didn’t mean to cuss.” Suddenly self-conscious about her lustrous fur, her healthy posture, even her farm-ragged grass clothes that at least were patched where they were torn, Yven ducked her head and hurried on through the beautiful, plagued city. She passed hungry-looking laborers, starving paupers, gold-armored soldiers that were nonetheless narrow and gray beneath their helmets.

Through a gate, across a bridge, Yven set hoof on the Encyclia Isle and took a deep breath of relief. She’d visited here frequently enough when she was younger that it was comfortable, familiar, the sweep of the road toward the tobacco fields where she knew she’d find Medin’s house, the old anthral’s sons hard at work. Maybe grandsons, by now, if they were old enough. How long had it been? A few years.

The island’s taskmaster stood against the marble pillar of the bridge, arms crossed, gaze dark beneath his gleaming helm. “That sugar?”

Yven flinched again, but didn’t cuss this time. She nodded quickly, keeping her gaze down. “Yes. Brought to trade for-“

“Give it to me.”

Yven was slow to answer that. The man’s tone was unmistakable, demanding. No argument would be helpful; none even came to mind. Yven did say, “What would a sanguinate need with sugar?”

The taskmaster walked toward her, grumbling low in his chest. Dropping the sugar, Yven yelped and staggered away. She held forth her arm and pointed at the pink band. “I’ve got assured passage!”

“Beasts eat the sugar. Blood’s sweeter.” The taskmaster picked up the bag, turned his back on her, and walked away. “Go.”

Groaning, Yven started, “But how am I supposed to…?” but ended in a heaved sigh. For just a moment, the taskmaster stopped and looked over his shoulder at her. Fear shot through Yven and she hurried off along the road.