New Forest had once been Forest Park and Metro Portland’s outer suburbs, before the firestorms and the plagues and then the Lord Protector’s spearmen had emptied them.

Government Island to the east was still Government Island; the government had changed . . . but not the restricted status. They passed through the new agricultural zone quickly. Truck gardens and specialty orchards had been planted where once houses had crowded cheek by jowl.

Once off the old highways, Tiphaine relaxed a bit. Trees arched over Airport Way for a while. Then they opened out to reveal shaggy, intensely green meadow thick with blooming thickets of purple lilac and wild roses gone feral into impenetrable tangles and making the air heavy with sweetness. Then a stand of young garry oaks and black walnuts planted by the Crown’s foresters, thirty or forty feet high, with here and there the snag of a scorched brick wall, or a reedy pond where a basement had been, and then self-sown woods ranging from the tall poplar trees and copper beeches of some park or suburb to tangled saplings poking their way through the monstrous barbed chevaux-de-frise of blackberry vines around a chimney. A generation’s rapid growth in this moist mild climate had drawn a haze across the past, as if it were trying to turn the Change into something in a story or a song or a picture in an illuminated book.

Now and then a taller building poked through, a green mound overrun with vines, but most of those had been torn down for their materials in the program that had rebuilt Portland and sown the land with castles. It had been policy to clear these areas first. Now they helped feed and fuel the Crown city of Portland and provided hunting for its lords.

Practical, and I think Norman wanted to wipe out the remains of a world he hated. Maybe one man in a hundred thousand welcomed the Change, knowing full well what it was and what it would do. And they were the ones who did best.

The sounds of life were thick—the air full of northbound wings, murmurous with bees, squirrels chattering and scolding, now and then the slap of a beaver’s tail, or a glimpse of a raccoon. Once an elk bounded across the roadway, and she saw the tracks of mule deer, whitetails, antelope and feral cattle and bison and the churned patches where wild boar had fed, besides smaller game innumerable. There were wolf and bear and cougar here too, and sometimes tiger wandered in for a while from the mountains or the river swamps, though the predators were fewer and wary.

Like me, she thought. I’m rare and wary, all right. And I still don’t like this area. It’s even better hunting ground than Barony Ath’s share of the Coast Range forests, but . . .