It was Banquo. Greedy, but hesitant. The Artful Dodger Slim, black and wicked, had two feet in the trough Before that obese indecision moved. “Here, piggy! Here, piggy, piggy!” The gleaming call Floated the air like a bright glassy bubble, Far, far, with its clean silver and white ash. And Ellyat, lost and desperate in the wood, Heard it, desirous as the elvish blast Wound on a tiny horn of magic grass To witch steel riders into a green hill. He stumbled toward its music. “Piggy, piggy, Here, piggy, piggy,” The swine grunted and jostled. Melora watched them, trying to count them up With grave eyes, brown as nuts in rainwater. They were all there, she thought⁠—she must be sure. She called again. No, something moved in the woods. She stared past the clearing, puzzled. So Ellyat saw her Beyond the swine, head lifted like a dark foal