The Sharing Knife Volume Two
Legacy

Chapter One

Dag had been married for a whole two hours, and was still light-headed with wonder. The weighted ends of the wedding cord coiling around his upper arm danced in time with the lazy trot of his horse. Riding by his side, Fawn—my new bride, now there was a phrase to set a man's mind melting—met his smile with happy eyes.

My farmer bride. It should have been impossible. There would be trouble about that, later.

Trouble yesterday, trouble tomorrow. But no trouble now. Now, in the light of the loveliest summer afternoon he ever did see, was only a boundless contentment.

Once the first half dozen miles were behind them, Dag found both his and Fawn's urgency to be gone from the wedding party easing. They passed through the last village on the northern river road, after which the wagon way became more of a two-rut track, and the remaining farms grew farther apart, with more woods between them. He let a few more miles pass, till he was sure they were out of range of any potential retribution or practical jokers, then began keeping an eye out for a spot to make camp. If a Lakewalker patroller with this much woods to choose from couldn't hide from farmers, something was wrong. Secluded, he decided, was a better watchword still.

At length, he led Fawn down to the river at a rocky ford, then upstream for a time till they came to where a clear creek, gurgling down from the eastern ridge, joined the flow. He turned Copperhead up it for a good quarter mile till he found a pretty glade, all mossy by the stream and surrounded by tall trees and plenty of them; and, his groundsense guaranteed, no other person for a mile in any direction. Of necessity, he had to let Fawn unsaddle the horses and set up the site. It was a simple enough task, merely laying out their bedrolls and making just enough of a fire to boil water for tea. Still, she cast an observant eye at him as he lay with his back against a broad beech bole and plucked irritably at the sling supporting his right arm with the hook replacing his left hand.

"You have a job," she told him encouragingly. "You're on guard against the mosquitoes, ticks, chiggers and blackflies."

"And squirrels," he added hopefully.

"We'll get to them."

Food did not have to be caught or skinned or cooked, just unwrapped and eaten till they couldn't hold any more, although Fawn tried his limits. Dag wondered if this new mania for feeding him was a Bluefield custom no one had mentioned, or just a lingering effect of the excitement of the day, as she tried to find her way into her farmwifely tasks without, actually, a farm in which to set them. But when he compared this to many a cold, wet, hungry, lonely, exhausted night on some of the more dire patrols in his memory, he thought perhaps he'd wandered by strange accident into some paradise out of a song, and bears would come out tonight to dance around their fire in celebration.

He looked up to find Fawn inching nearer, without, for a change, provender in her hands. "It's not dark yet," she sighed.

He cast her a slow blink, to tease. "And dark is needed for what?"

"Bedtime!"

"Well, I admit it's a help for sleeping. Are you that sleepy? It's been a tiring day. We could just roll over and..."

She caught on, and poked him in reproof. "Ha! Are you sleepy?"

"No chance." Despite the sling he managed a pounce that drew her into his lap. The prey did not precisely struggle, though it did wriggle enchantingly. Once she was within kissing range, they found occupation for a little. But then she grew grave, and sat up to touch the cord wrapping her left wrist.

"How odd that this all should feel harder, now."

He kissed her hair beneath his chin. "There's a weight of expectation that wasn't there before, I suppose. I didn't..." He hesitated.

"Hm?"

"I rode into West Blue, onto your family's farm, last week thinking... I don't know. That I would be a clever Lakewalker persuader and get my way. I expected to change their lives. I didn't expect them to change my life right back. I didn't use to be Fawn's patroller, still less Fawn's husband, but now I am. That's a ground transformation, in case you didn't realize. It doesn't just happen in the cords. It happens in our deep selves." He gave a nod toward his left sleeve hiding the loop binding his own arm. "Maybe the hard feeling is just shyness for the two new people we've become."

"Hm." She settled down, briefly reassured. But then sat up again, biting her lip the way she did when about to tackle some difficult subject, usually head-on. "Dag. About my ground."

"I love your ground."

Her lips twitched in a smile, but then returned to seriousness. "It's been over four weeks since... since the malice. I'm healing up pretty good inside, I think."

"I think so, too."

"Do you suppose we could... I mean, tonight because... we haven't ever yet... not that I'm complaining, mind you. Erm. That pattern in their ground you said women get when they can have babies. Do I have it tonight?"

"Not yet. I don't think it'll be much longer till your body's back to its usual phases, though."

"So we could. I mean. Do it in the usual way. Tonight."

"Tonight, Spark, we can do it any way you want. Within the range of the physically possible, that is," he added prudently.

She snickered. "I do wonder how you learned all those tricks."

"Well, not all at once, absent gods forefend. You pick up this and that over the years. I suspect people everywhere keep reinventing all the basics. There's only so much you can do with a body. Successfully and comfortably, that is. Leaving aside stunts."

"Stunts?" she said curiously.

"We're leaving them aside," he said definitely. "One broken arm is enough."

"One too many, I think." Her brows drew down in new worry. "Um. I was envisioning you up on your elbows, but really, I think maybe not. It doesn't exactly sound comfortable, and I wouldn't want you to hurt your arm and have to start healing all over, and besides, if you slipped, you really would squash me like a bug."

It took him a moment to puzzle out her concern. "Ah, not a problem. We just switch sides, top to bottom. If you can ride a horse, which I note you do quite well, you can ride me. And you can squash me all you want."

She thought this through. "I'm not sure I can do this right."

"If you do something really wrong, I promise I'll scream in pain and let you know."

She grinned, if with a slight tinge of dismay.

Kissing blended into undressing, and again, to his mixed regret and entertainment, Fawn had to do most of the work. He thought she was much too brisk and businesslike in getting her own clothes off, although the view when she finished was splendid. The setting sun reached fingers of golden light into the glade that caressed her body as she flickered in and out of the leaf shadows; she might well have been one of those legendary female spirits who were supposed to step out of trees and beguile the unwary traveler. The way her sweet breasts moved not quite in time with the rest of her was fair riveting to his eye, too. She folded up his astonishing wedding shirt with fully the care he would have wished, tucking it away. He lay back on his bedroll and let her pull off his trousers and drawers with all her considerable determination. She folded them up too, and came and sat, no, plunked, again beside him. The after-wobble was delightful.

"Arm harness. On or off?"

"Hm. Off, I think. Don't want to risk jabbing you in a distracted moment." The disquieting memory of her bleeding fingers weaving her wedding cord flitted through his mind, and he became conscious again of it wound around his upper arm, and the tiny hum of its live ground. Her live ground.

With practiced hands, she whisked the hook harness away onto the top of the clothes pile, and he marveled anew at how easy it was all becoming with her.

Except for, blight it all again, having no working hand. The sling had gone west just before the shirt, and he shifted his right arm and attempted to wriggle his fingers. Ouch. No. Not enough useful motion there yet. Inside his splints and wrappings, his skin, damp from the sweat of the warm day, was itching. He couldn't touch. All right, there was a certain amount he could do with his tongue—especially right now, as she returned and nuzzled up to him—but getting it to the right place at the right time was going to be an insurmountable challenge, in this position.

She withdrew her lips from his and began working her way down his body. It was lovely but almost redundant; it had been well over a week, after all, and... It used to be years, and I scarcely blinked. He tried to relax and let himself be made love to. Relaxation wasn't exactly what was happening. His hips twitched as Fawn's full attention arrived at his nether regions. She swung her leg over, turned to face him, reached down and began to try to position herself. Stopped.

"Urk?" he inquired politely. Some such noise, anyway.

Her face was a little pinched. "This should be working better."

"Oil?" he croaked.

"I shouldn't need oil for this, should I?"

Not if I had a hand to ready you nicely. "Hang should, do what works. You shouldn't have that uncomfortable look on your face, either."

"Hm." She extracted herself, padded over to his saddlebags, and rummaged within. Good view from the back, too, as she bent over... A mutter of mild triumph, "Ah." She padded back, pausing to frown and rub the sole of one bare foot on her other shin after stepping on a pebble. Was this a time to stop for pebbles...?

Back she came, sliding over him. Small hands slicked him, which made him jolt. He did not allow himself to plunge upward. Let her find her way in her own time. She attempted to do so.

She was getting a very determined look again. "Maidenheads don't regrow, do they...?"

"Shouldn't think so."

"I didn't think it was supposed to hurt the second time."

"Probably just unaccustomed muscles. Not in condition. Need more exercise." It was driving him just short of mad to have no hands to grasp her hips and guide her home.

She blinked, taking in this thought. "Is that true, or more of your slick patroller persuasion?"

"Can't it be both?"

She grinned, shifted her angle, then looked brighter and said, "Ah! There we go."

Indeed, we do. He gasped, as she slid slowly and very, very tightly down upon him. "Yes... that's... very... nice."

She muttered, "They get whole babies through these parts. Surely it's supposed to stretch more."

"Time. Give it." Blight it, at this point in the usual proceedings, she would be the one who couldn't form words any more. They were out of rhythm tonight. He was losing his wits, and she was getting chatty. "Fine now."

Her brows drew down in puzzlement. "Should this be like taking turns, or not?"

"Uhthink..." He swallowed to find speech. "Hope it's good for you. Suspect it's better for me. 'S exquisite for me right now."

"Oh, that's all right, then." She sat for a moment, adjusting. It would likely not be a good idea at this point to screech and convulse and beg for motion; that would just alarm her. He didn't want her alarmed. She might jump up and run off, which would be tragic. He wanted her relaxed and confident and... there, she was starting to smile again. She observed, "You have a funny look on your face."

"I'll bet."

Her smile widened. Too gently and tentatively, she at last began to move. Absent gods be praised. "After all," she said, continuing a line of thought of which he had long lost track, "Mama had twins, and she isn't that much taller than me. Though Aunt Nattie said she was pretty alarmin' toward the end."

"What?" said Dag, confused.

"Twins. Run in Mama's side of the family. Which made it really unfair of her to blame Papa, Aunt Nattie said, but I guess she wasn't too reasonable by then."

Which remark, of course, immediately made his reeling mind jump to the previously unimagined idea of Spark bearing twins, his, which made his eyes cross. Further. He really hadn't even wrapped his mind around the notion of their having one child, yet. Considering just what you're doing right now, perhaps you should, old patroller.

Whatever this peculiar digression did to him—his spine felt like an overdrawn bow with its string about to snap—it seemed to relax Fawn. Her eyes darkening, she commenced to rock with more assurance. Her ground, blocked earlier by the discomfort and uncertainty, began to flow again. Finally. But he wasn't going to last much longer at this rate. He let his hips start to keep time with hers.

"If I only had a working hand to get down there, we would share this turn..." His fingers twitched in frustration.

"Another good reason to leave it be to heal faster," she gasped. "Put that poor busted arm back on the blanket."

"Ngh!" He wanted to touch her so much. Groundwork? A mosquito's worth was not likely to be enough. Left-handed groundwork? He remembered the glass bowl, sliding and swirling back together. That had been no mere mosquito. Would she find it perverse, frightening, horrifying, to be touched so? Could he even...? This was her wedding night. She must not recall it with disappointment. He laid his left arm down across his belly, pointed at their juncture. Consider it a strengthening exercise for the ghost hand. Beats scraping hides all hollow, doesn't it? Just... there.

Oh!" Her eyes shot wide, and she leaned forward to stare into his face. "What did you just do?"

"Experiment," he gritted out. Surely his eyes were as wide and wild as hers. "Think the broken right has been doing something to stir up my left ground. Like, not like?"

"Not sure. More...?"

"Oh, yeah..."

"Oh. Yeah. That's..."

"Good?"

Her only reply was a wordless huff. And a rocking that grew frantic, then froze. Which was fine because now he did drive up, as that bowstring snapped at last, and everything unwound in white fire.

He didn't think he'd passed out, but he seemed to come to with her draped across his chest wheezing and laughing wildly. "Dag! That was, that was... could you do that all along? Were you just saving it for a wedding present, or what?"

"I have no idea," he confessed. "Never done anything like that before. I'm not even sure what I did do."

"Well, it was quite... quite nice." She sat up and pushed back her hair to deliver this in a judicious tone, but then dissolved into helpless laughter again.

"I'm dizzy. Feel like I'm about to fall down."

"You are lying down."

"Very fortunate."

She tumbled down into the cradle of his left arm, and snuggled in for a wordless time. Dag didn't quite nap, but he wouldn't have called it being awake, either. Bludgeoned, perhaps. Eventually, she roused herself enough to get them cleaned up and dressed in clothes to sleep in, because the blue twilight shadows were cooling as night slid in, seeping through the woods from the east. By the time she cuddled down again beside him, under the blanket this time, he was fully awake, staring up through the leaves at the first stars.

Her slim little fingers traced the furrows above his brows. "Are you all right? I'm all right."

He managed a smile and kissed the fingers in passing. "I admit, I've unsettled myself a bit. You know how shaken I was after that episode with the glass bowl."

"Oh, you haven't made yourself sick again with this, have you?"

"No, in fact. Although this wasn't near such a draining effort. Pretty, um, stimulating, actually. Thing is... that night I mended the bowl, that was the first time I experienced that, that, call it a ghost hand. I tried several times after, secretly, to make it emerge again, but nothing happened. Couldn't figure it out. In the parlor, you were upset, I was upset, I wanted to, I don't know. Fix things. I wasn't upset just now, but I sure was in, um, a heightened mood. Flying, your Aunt Nattie called it. Except now I've fallen back down, and the ghost hand's gone again."

He glanced over to find her up on one elbow, looking at him with the same interested expression as ever. Happy eyes. Not shocked or scared or repelled. He said, "You don't mind that it's, well, strange? You think this is just the same as all the other things I do, don't you?"

Her brows rose in consideration. "Well, you summon horses and bounce mosquitoes and make firefly lamps and kill malices and you know where everyone is for a country mile all around, and I don't know what you did to Reed and Rush last night but the effect was sure magical today. And what you do for me I can't hardly begin to describe, not decently anyhow. How do you know it isn't?"

He opened his mouth, then closed it, squinting at his question turned upside down.

She cocked her head and continued, "You said Lakewalker folks' groundsense doesn't come in all at once, and not at all when they're younger. Maybe this is just something you should have had all along, that got delayed. Or maybe it's something you should have now, growing right on time."

"There's a new thought." He lay back, frowning at the blameless evening sky. His life was full of new things, lately. Some of them were new problems, but he had to admit, a lot of the tired, dreary, old problems had been thoroughly shaken out. He began to suspect that it wasn't only the breaking of his right arm that was triggering this bizarre development. The farmer girl was plowing his ground, it seemed. What was that phrase? Breaking new land. A very literal form of ground transformation. He blinked to chase away these twisting notions before his head started to ache.

"So, that's twice," said Fawn, pursuing the thought. "So it can happen, um, more than once, anyhow. And it seems you don't have to be unhappy for it to work. That's real promising."

"I'm not sure I can do it again."

"That'd be a shame," she said in a meditative tone. But her eyes were merry. "So, try it again next time and we'll see, eh? And if not, as it seems you have no end of ingenuity in a bedroll, we'll just do something else, and that'll be good, too." She gave a short, decisive nod.

"Well," he said in a bemused voice. "That's settled."

She flopped down again, nestling in close, hugging him tight. "You'd best believe it."

To Fawn's gladness they lingered late in the glade the next morning, attempting to repeat some of last night's trials; some were successful, some not. Dag couldn't seem to induce his ghost hand again—maybe he was too relaxed?—which appeared to leave him someplace between disappointment and relief. As Fawn had guessed, he found other ways to please her, although she thought he was trying a bit too hard, which made her worry for him, which didn't help her relax.

She fed him a right fine breakfast, though, and they mounted up and found their way back to the river road by noon. In the late afternoon, they at last left the valley, Dag taking an unmarked track off to the west. They passed through a wide stretch of wooded country, sometimes in single file on twisty trails, sometimes side-by-side on broader tracks. Fawn was soon lost—well, if she struck east, she'd be sure to find the river again sometime, so she supposed she was only out of her reckoning for going forward, not back—but Dag seemed not to be.

For two days they pushed through similar woodland. Pushed might be too strong a term, with their early stops and late starts. Twice Dag persuaded his ghost hand to return, to her startled delight, twice he didn't, for no obvious reason either way, which plainly puzzled him deeply. She wondered at his spooky choice of name for this ground ability. He worried over it equally afterward whether or not he succeeded, and Fawn finally decided that it had been so long since he hadn't known exactly what he was doing all the time, he'd forgotten what it felt like to be blundering around in the dark, which made her sniff with a certain lack of sympathy.

She gradually became aware that he was dragging his feet on this journey, despite his worries about beating his patrol back to Hickory Lake, and not only for the obvious reason of extending their bedroll time together. Fawn herself was growing intensely curious about what lay ahead, and inclined to move along more briskly, but it wasn't till the third morning that they did so, and that only because of a threatened change in the weather. The high wispy clouds that both farmers and Lakewalkers called horsefeathers had moved in from the west last night, making fabulous pink streaks in the sunset indigo, and the air today was close and hazy, both signs of a broad storm brewing. When it blew through, it would bring a sparkling day in its wake, but was like to be violent before then. Dag said they might beat it to the lake by late afternoon.

Around noon the woods opened out in some flat meadowlands bordering a creek, with a dual track, and Fawn found herself riding alongside Dag again. "You once said you'd tell me the tale of Utau and Razi if you were either more drunk or more sober. You look pretty sober now."

He smiled briefly. "Do I? Well, then."

"Whenever I can get you to talk about your people, it helps me form up some better idea what I'm heading into."

"I'm not sure Utau's tale will help much, that way."

"Maybe not, but at least I won't say something stupid through not knowing any better."

He shrugged, though he amended, "Unknowing, maybe. Never stupid."

"Either way, I'd still end up red-faced."

"You blush prettily, but I give you the point. Well. Utau was string-bound for a good ten years to Sarri Otter, but they had no children. It happens that way, sometimes, and even Lakewalker groundsense can't tell why. Both his family and hers were pressuring them to cut their strings and try again with different mates—"

"Wait, what? People can cut their marriage strings? What does that mean, and how does it work?" Fawn wrapped a protective right hand around her left wrist, then put her palm hastily back on her thigh, kicking Grace's plump sides to encourage her to step along and keep up with Copperhead's longer legs.

"What leads up to a string-cutting varies pretty wildly with the couple, but lack of children after a good long time trying is considered a reason to part without dishonor to either side. More difficult if only one partner assents to the cutting; then the argument can spread out to both their families' tents, and get very divisive. Or tedious, if you have to listen to them all go on. But if both partners agree to it, the ceremony is much like string-binding, in reverse. The wedding cords are taken off and re-wrapped around both partners' arms, only with the opposite twist, and knotted, but then the string-blesser takes a knife and cuts the knot apart, and each takes back the pieces of their own."

Fawn wondered if that knife was carved of bone.

"The grounds drain out back to their sources, and, well, it's done. People usually burn the dead strings, after." He glanced aside at her deepening frown. "Don't farmer marriages ever come apart?"

"I think sometimes, but not often. The land and the families hold them together. And there's considered to be a shame in the failure. People do up and leave, sometimes, men or women, but it's more like chewing off your leg to escape a trap. You have to leave so much behind, so much work. So much hope, too, I suppose." She added, "Though I heard tell of one marriage down south of the village that came apart again in two weeks. The bride and all her things just got carted right back to her family, being hardly settled in yet, and the entry was scratched out in the family book. Nobody would ever explain to me why, although the twins and Fletch were snickering over it, so I suppose it might have had to do with bed problems, though she wasn't pregnant by someone else or anything. It was all undone right quick with no argument, though, so someone must have had something pretty big to apologize for, I'd guess."

"Sounds like." His brows rose as he considered this in curiosity, possibly of the more idle sort. "Anyway. Utau and Sarri loved each other despite their sorrow, and didn't want to part. And they were both good friends with Utau's cousin Razi. I'm not just sure who persuaded who to what, but one day Razi up and moved all his things into Sarri's tent with the pair of them. And a few months later Sarri was pregnant. And, to top the matter, not only did Razi get string-bound with Sarri, Razi and Utau got string-bound with each other, so the circle went all the way around and each ended up wearing the strings of both the others. All Otters now. And everyone's families went around for a while looking like their heads ached, but then there came this beautiful girl baby, and a while after this bright little boy, that all three just dote on, and everyone else pretty much gave up the worrying. Although not the lewd speculation, naturally."

Fawn laughed. "Naturally." Her mind started to drift off in a little lewd speculating of its own, abruptly jerked back to attention when Dag continued in his thoughtful-voice.

"I've never made a child, myself. I was always very careful, if not always for the same reasons. There's not a few who have trouble when they switch over from trying to miss that target to trying to hit it. All their prior care seeming a great waste of a sudden. The sort of useless thing you wonder about late at night."

Had Dag been doing so, staring up at the stars? Fawn said, "You'd think, with that pattern showing in women's grounds, it would be easier rather than harder to get a baby just when you wanted." She was still appalled at how easy it had been for her.

"So you would. Yet so often people miss and no one knows why. Kauneo and I—" His voice jerked to a halt in that now-familiar way.

She held her peace, and her breath.

"Here's one I never told anyone ever—"

"You need not," she said quietly. "Some people are in favor of spitting out hurts, but poking at them too much doesn't let them to heal, either."

"This one's ridden in my memory for a long, long time. Maybe it would look a different size if I got it outside my head rather than in it, for once."

"Then I'm listenin'." Was he about to uncork another horror-tale?

"Indeed." He stared ahead between Copperhead's ears. "We'd been string-bound upwards of a year, and I felt I was getting astride my duties as a company captain, and we decided it was time to start a child. This was in the months just before the wolf war broke. We tried two months running, and missed. Third month, I was away on my duties at the vital time; for the life of me I can't now remember what seemed so important about them. I can't even remember what they were. Riding out and checking on something or other. And in the fourth month, the wolf war was starting up, and we were both caught up in the rush." He drew a long, long breath. "But if I could have made Kauneo pregnant by then, she would have stayed in camp, and not led out her patrol to Wolf Ridge. And whatever else had happened, she and the child would both have lived. If not for that lost month."

Fawn's heart felt hot and strange, as if his old wound were being shared through the very ground of his words. Not a good secret to lug around, that one. She tried the obvious patch. "You can't know that."

"I know I can't. I don't think there's a second thought I can have about this that I haven't worn out by now. Maybe Kauneo's leadership, down at the anchor-end of the line, was what held the ridge that extra time after I went down. Maybe... A patroller friend of mine, his first wife died in childbed. I know he harbors regrets just as ferocious for the exact opposite cause. There is no knowing. You just have to grow used to the not knowing, I guess."

He fell quiet for a time and Fawn, daunted, said nothing. Though maybe the listening had been all he'd needed. She wondered, suddenly, if Dag was doubting whether he could sire children. Fifty-five years was a long time to go without doing so, for a man, although she had the impression that it wasn't that he'd been with so many women, before or after Kauneo, as that he'd paid really good attention when he had. In the light of her own history, if no child appeared when finally wanted, it would seem clear who was responsible. Did he fear to disappoint?

But his mind had turned down another path now, apparently, for he said, "My immediate family's not so large as yours. Just my mother, my brother, and his wife at present. All my brother's children are out of the tent, on patrol or apprenticed to makers. One son's string-bound, so far."

Dag's nephews and nieces were just about the same age range as Fawn and her brothers, from his descriptions. She nodded.

He went on, "I hope to slip into camp quietly. I'm of two minds whether to report to Fairbolt or my family first. It's likely rumors have trickled back about the Glassforge malice kill ahead of Mari's return, in which case Fairbolt will want the news in full. And I have to tell him about the knife. But I'd like to introduce you to my brother and mother in my own way, before they hear anything from anyone else."

"Well, which one would be least offended to be put second?" asked Fawn.

"Hard to say." He smiled dryly. "Mama can hold a grudge longer, but Fairbolt has a keen memory for lapses as well."

"I should not like to begin by offending my new mama-in-law."

"Spark, I'm afraid some people are going to be offended no matter what you and I do. What we've done... isn't done, though it was done in all honor."

"Well," she said, trying for optimism, "some people are like that among farmers, too. No pleasing them. You just try, or at least try not to be the first to break." She considered the problem. "Makes sense to put the worst one first. Then, if you have to, you can get away by saying you need to go off and see the second."

He laughed. "Good thinking. Perhaps I will."

But he didn't say which he believed was which.

They rode on through the afternoon without stopping. Fawn thought she could tell when they were nearing the lake by a certain lightness growing in the sky, and a certain darkness growing in Dag. At any rate, he got quieter and quieter, though his gaze ahead seemed to sharpen. Finally, his head came up, and he murmured, "The bridge guard and I just bumped grounds. Only another mile."

They came off the lesser track they'd been following onto a wider road, which ran in a sweeping curve. The land here was very flat; the woods, mixed beech and oak and hickory, gave way to another broad meadow. On the far side, someone lying on the back of what looked to be a grazing cart horse, his legs dangling down over the horse's barrel, sat up and waved. He kicked the horse into a canter and approached.

The horse wore neither saddle nor bridle, and the young man aboard it was scarcely more dressed. He wore boots, some rather damp-looking linen drawers, a leather belt with a scabbard for a knife, and his sun-darkened skin. As he approached, he pulled the grass stem he'd been chewing from his mouth and threw it aside. "Dag! You're alive!" He pulled up his horse and stared at the sling, and at Fawn trailing shyly behind. "Aren't you a sight, now! Nobody said anything about a broken bone! Your right arm, too, absent gods, how have you been managing anything at all?"

Dag returned an uninformative nod of greeting, although he smiled faintly. "I've had a little help."

"Is that your farmer girl?" The guard stared at Fawn as though farmer girls were a novelty out of song, like dancing bears. "Mari Redwing thought you'd been gelded by a mob of furious farmers. Fairbolt's fuming, your mama thinks you're dead and blames Mari, and your brother's complaining he can't work in the din."

"Ah," said Dag in a hollow voice. "Mari's patrol get back early, did it?"

"Yesterday afternoon."

"Lots of time for everyone to get home and gossip, I see."

"You're the talk of the lake. Again." The guard squinted and urged his horse closer, which made Copperhead squeal in warning, or at least in ill manners. The man was trying to get a clear look at Fawn's left wrist, she realized. "All day, people have been giving me urgent messages to pass on the instant I saw you. Fairbolt, Mari, your mama—despite the fact she insists you're dead, mind—and your brother all want to see you first thing." He grinned, delivering this impossible demand.

Dag came very close, Fawn thought, to just laying his head down on his horse's mane and not moving. "Welcome home, Dag," he muttered. But he straightened up instead, and kicked Copperhead around head to tail beside Grace. He leaned over leftward to Fawn and said, "Roll up my sleeve, Spark. Looks like it's going to be a hot afternoon.

Chapter Two

The bridge the young man guarded was crudely-cut timber, long and low, wide enough for two horses to cross abreast. Fawn craned her neck eagerly as she and Dag passed over. The murky water beneath was obscured with lily pads and drifting pond weed; farther along, a few green-headed ducks paddled desultorily in and out of the cattails bordering the banks. "Is this a river or an arm of the lake?"

"A bit of both," said Dag. "One of the tributary creeks comes in just up the way. But the water widens out around both curves. Welcome to Two Bridge Island."

"Are there two bridges?"

"Really three, but the third goes to Mare Island. The other bridge to the mainland is on the western end, about two miles thataway. This is the narrowest separation."

"Like a moat?"

"In summer, very like a moat. All of the island chain backing up behind could be defended right here, if it wanted defending. After the hard freeze, this is more like an ice causeway, but the most of us will be gone to winter camp at Bearsford by then. Which, while it does have a ford, is mostly lacking in bears. Camp's set on some low hills, as much as we have hills in these parts. People who haven't walked out of this hinterland think they're hills."

"Were you born here, or there?"

"Here. Very late in the season. We should have been gone to winter camp, but my arrival made delays. The first of my many offenses." His smile at this was faint.

Flat land and thin woods gave little to view at first as the road wound inward, although around a curve Copperhead snorted and pretended to shy as a flock of a dozen or so wild turkeys crossed in front of them. The turkeys returned apparent disdain and wandered away into the undergrowth. Around the next curve Dag twitched his horse aside into the verge, and Fawn paused with him, as a caravan passed. A gray-headed man rode ahead; following him, on no lead, were a dozen horses loaded with heavy basket panniers piled high with dark, round lumpy objects covered in turn with crude rope nets to keep the loads from tumbling out. A boy brought up the rear.

Fawn stared. "I don't suppose that's a load of severed heads going somewhere, but it sure looks like it at a distance. No wonder folks think you're cannibals."

Dag laughed, turning to look after the retreating string. "You know, you're right! That, my love, is a load of plunkins, on their way to winter store. This is their season. In late summer, it is every Lakewalker's duty to eat up his or her share of fresh plunkins. You are going to learn all about plunkins."

From his tone Fawn wasn't sure if that was a threat or a promise, but she liked the wry grin that went along-with. "I hope to learn all about everything."

He gave her a warmly encouraging nod, and led off once more. Fawn wondered when she was going to at last see tents, and especially Dag's tent.

A shimmering light through the screen of trees, mostly hickory, marked the shoreline to the right. Fawn stood up in her stirrups, trying for a glimpse of the water. She said in surprise, "Cabins!"

"Tents," Dag corrected.

"Cabins with awnings." She gazed avidly as the road swung nearer. Half a dozen log buildings in a cluster hugged the shore. Most seemed to have single central fireplaces, probably double-sided, judging from the fieldstone chimneys she saw jutting from the roof ridgelines. Windows were few and doors nonexistent, for most of the log houses were open on one side, sheltered by deer hide canopies raised on poles seeming almost like long porches. She glimpsed a few shadowy people moving within, and, crossing the yard, a Lakewalker woman wearing a skirt and shepherding a toddler. So did only patrolling women wear trousers?

"If it's missing one full side it's still a tent, not a permanent structure, and therefore does not have to be burned down every ten years." Dag sounded as if he was reciting.

Fawn's nose wrinkled in bafflement. "What?"

"You could call it a religious belief, although usually it's more of a religious argument. In theory, Lakewalkers are not supposed to build permanent structures. Towns are targets. So are farms, for that matter. So is anything so big and heavy or that you've invested so much in you can't drop it and run if you have to. Farmers would defend to the death. Lakewalkers would retreat and regroup. If we all lived in theory instead of on Two Bridge Island, that is. The only buildings that seem to get burned in the Ten-year Rededication these days are ones the termites have got to. Certain stodgy parties predict dire retribution for our lapses. In my experience, retribution turns up all on its own regardless, so I don't worry about it much."

Fawn shook her head. I may have more to learn than I thought.

They passed a couple more such clusters of near-buildings. Each seemed to have a dock leading out into the water, or perhaps that was a raft tied to the shore; one had a strange boat tied to it in turn, long and narrow. Smoke rose from chimneys, and Fawn could see homely washing strung on lines to dry. Kitchen gardens occupied sunny patches, and small groves of fruit trees bordered the clearings, with a few beehives set amongst them. "How many Lakewalkers are there on this island?"

"Here, about three thousand in high summer. There are two more island chains around the lake too separated to connect to us by bridge, with maybe another four thousand folks total. If we want to visit, we can either paddle across two miles, or ride around for twenty. Probably another thousand or so still back maintaining Bearsford, same as about a thousand folks stay here all winter. Hickory Lake Camp is one of the largest in Oleana. With the biggest territory to patrol, as a penalty for our success. We still send out twice as many exchange patrollers as we ever get in return." A hint of pride tinged his voice, even though his last remarks ought to have sounded more complaint than brag. He nodded ahead toward something Fawn did not yet see, and at a jingle of harness and thud of many hooves, gestured her into the weeds to make way, turning Copperhead alongside.

It was a patrol, trotting in double file, very much as Fawn had first seen Mari and Dag's troop ride into the well-house farm what was beginning to seem a lifetime ago. This bunch looked fresh and rested and unusually tidy, however, so she guessed they were outward bound, on their way to whatever patch of hinterland they were assigned to search for their nightmare prey. Most of them seemed to recognize Dag, and cried surprised greetings; with his reins wrapped around his hook and his other arm in a sling, he could not return their waves, but he did nod and smile. They didn't pause, but not a few of them turned in their saddles to stare back at the pair.

"Barie's lot," said Dag, looking after them. "Twenty-two."

He'd counted them? "Is that good or bad, twenty-two?"

"Not too bad, for this time of year. It's a busy season." He chirped to Copperhead and they took to the road once more.

Fawn wondered anew what the shape of her life was going to be, tucked in around Dag's. On a farm, a couple might work together or apart, long hours and hard, but they would still meet for meals three times a day and sleep together every night. Dag would not, presumably, take her patrolling. Therefore she must stay here, in long, scary separations punctuated by brief reunions, at least till Dag grew too old to patrol. Or too injured, or didn't come back one day but her mind shied from thinking too hard about that one. If she was to be left here with these people and no Dag, she'd best try to fit in. Hard-working hands were needed everywhere all the time; surely hers could win her a place.

Dag pulled up Copperhead and hesitated at a fork in the road. The rightward, eastern branch followed the shoreline, and Fawn eyed it with interest; she could hear voices echoing over the water farther along it, a few cheery shouts and calls and some singing too distant to make out the words. Dag straightened his shoulders, grimaced, and led left instead. Half a mile farther on, the woods thinned again, and the distinctive silvery light reflecting from water glimmered between the shaggy boles. The road ended at another that ran along the northern shore, unless it was just re-joining the same one circling the perimeter of the island. Dag led left again.

A brief ride brought them to a broad cleared section with several long log buildings, many of which had walls all the way around, with wooden porches and lots of rails for tying horses. No kitchen gardens or washing, although a few fruit trees were dotted here and there, broad apple and tall, graceful pear. On the woodland side of the road was an actual barn, if built rather low, the first Fawn had seen here, and a couple of split-rail paddocks for horses, though only a few horses idled in them at the moment. A trio of small, lean black pigs rooted among the trees for fallen fruit or nuts. On the lake side a larger dock jutted out into the water.

Dag edged Copperhead up to one of the hitching rails outside a log building, dropped his reins, and stretched his back. He cast Fawn an afterthought of a smile. "Well, here we are."

Fawn thought this a bit too close-mouthed, even for Dag in a mood. "This isn't your house, is it?"

"Ah. No. Patroller headquarters."

"So we're seeing Fairbolt Crow first?"

"If he's in. If I'm lucky, he will have gone off somewhere." Dag dismounted, and Fawn followed, tying both horses to the rail. She trailed him up onto the porch and through a plank door.

They entered a long room lined with shelves stuffed with piles of papers, rolled parchments, and thick books, and Fawn was reminded at once of Shep Sower's crammed house. At a table at one end, a woman with her hair in iron-gray braids, but wearing a skirt, sat writing in a large ledger book. She was quite as tall as Mari, but more heavily built, almost stout. She was looking up and setting aside her quill even as their steps sounded. Her face lit with pleasure.

"Woo-ee! Look what just dragged in!"

Dag gave her a wry nod. "How ‘de, Massape. Is, um... Fairbolt here?"

"Oh, aye."

"Is he busy?" Dag asked, in a most unpressing tone.

"He's in there talking with Mari. About you, I expect, judging from the yelps. Fairbolt's been telling her not to panic. She says she prefers to start panicking as soon as you're out of her sight, just to get beforehand on things. Looks like they're both in the right. What in the world have you done to yourself this time?" She nodded at his sling, then sat up, her eyes narrowing as they fell on the braid circling his left arm. She said again, in an entirely altered tone, "Dag, what in the wide green world have you done?"

Fawn, awash in this conversation, gave Dag a poke and a look of desperate inquiry.

"Ah," he said. "Fawn, meet Massape Crow, who is captain to Third Company—Barie's patrol that we passed going out is in her charge, among others. She's also Fairbolt's wife. Massape, this is Missus Fawn Bluefield. My wife." His chin did not so much rise in challenge, as set in stubbornness.

Fawn smiled brightly, clutched her hands together making sure her left wrist showed, and gave a polite dip of her knees. "How de', ma'am."

Massape just stared, her lower lip drawn in over her teeth. "You..." She held up a finger for a long, uncertain moment, drawling out the word, then swung and pointed past the room's fireplace, central to the inner wall, to a door beyond. "See Fairbolt."

Dag returned her a dry nod and shepherded Fawn to the door, opening it for her. From the room beyond, Fawn heard Mari's voice saying, "If he's stuck to his route, he should be somewhere along the line here."

A man's rumbling tones answered: "If he'd stuck to his route, would he be three weeks overdue? You haven't got a line, there, you've got a huge circle, and the edges run off the blighted map."

"If you've no one else to spare, I'll go."

"You just got back. Cattagus would have words with me till he ran out of breath and turned blue, and then you'd be mad. Look, we'll put out the call to every patroller who leaves camp to keep groundsense and both eyes peeled..."

Both patrollers, Fawn realized, must have their groundsenses locked down tight in the heat of their argument not to be flying to the door by now. No—she glanced at Dag's stony face—all three. She grabbed Dag by the belt and pushed him through ahead of her, peeking cautiously around him.

This room was a mirror to the first, at least as far as the shelving packed to the ceiling went. A plank table in the middle, its several chairs kicked back to the wall, seemed to be spread with maps. A thickset man was standing with his arms crossed, a frown on his furrowed face. Iron-colored hair was drawn back from his retreating hairline into a single plait down his back; he wore patroller-style trousers and shirt but no leather vest. Only one knife hung from his belt, but Fawn noticed a long unstrung bow propped against the cold fireplace, together with a quiver of arrows.

Mari, similarly clad, had her back to the door and was leaning over the table pointing at something. The man glanced up, and his gray brows climbed toward what was left of his hairline. His leathery lips twisted in a half-grin. "Got that coin, Mari?"

She looked up at him, exasperation in the set of her neck. "What coin?"

"The one you said we'd flip to see who got to skin him first."

Mari, taking in his expression, wheeled. "Dag! You...! Finally! Where have you been?" Her eyes, raking him up and down, caught as usual first on the sling. "Ye gods."

Dag offered a short, apologetic nod, seemingly split between both officers. "I was a bit delayed." He motioned with his sling by way of indicating reasonable causes. "Sorry for the worry."

"I left you in Glassforge pretty near four weeks ago!" said Mari. "You were supposed to go straight home! Shouldn't have taken you more than a week at most!"

"No," Dag said in a tone of judicious correction, "I told you we'd be stopping off at the Bluefield farm on the way, to put them at ease about Fawn, here. I admit that took longer than I'd planned. Though once the arm was busted there seemed no rush, as I figured I wouldn't be able to patrol again for nigh on six weeks anyway."

Fairbolt scowled at this dodgy argument. "Mari said that if your luck was good you'd come to your senses and dump the farmer girl back on her family, but if it ran to your usual form they'd beat you to death and hide the body. Did her kin bust your bone?"

"If I'd been her kin, I'd have broken more of them," Mari muttered. "You still got all your parts, boy?"

Dag's smile thinned. "I had a run-in with a sneak thief in Lumpton Market, actually. Got our gear back, for the price of the arm. My visit to West Blue went very pleasantly."

Fawn decided not to offer any adjustment to this bald-faced assertion. She didn't quite like the way the patrollers—all three of them—kept looking right at her and talking right over her, but they were on Dag's land here; she waited for guidance, or at least a hint. Though she thought he could stand to speed up, in that regard. Conscious of the officers' eyes upon her—Fairbolt was leaning sideways slightly to get a view around Dag—she crept out from behind her husband. She gave Mari a friendly little wave, and the camp captain a respectful knee-dip. "Hello again, Mari. How de' do, sir?"

Dag drew breath and repeated his blunt introduction: "Fairbolt, meet Missus Fawn Bluefield. My wife."

Fairbolt squinted and rubbed the back of his neck, his face screwed up. The silence stretched as he and Mari looked over the wedding cords with, Fawn felt, more than just their eyes. Both officers had their sleeves rolled up in the heat of the day, and both had similar cords winding around their left wrists, worn thin and frayed and faded. Her own cord and Dag's looked bright and bold and thick by comparison, the gold beads anchoring the ends seeming very solid.

Fairbolt glanced aside at Mari, his eyes narrowing still further. "Did you suspect this?"

"This? No! This isn't—how could—but I told you he'd likely done some fool thing no one could anticipate."

"You did," Fairbolt conceded. "And I didn't. I thought he was just..." He focused his gaze on Dag, and Fawn shrank even though she was not at its center. "I won't say that's impossible because it's plain you found a way. I will ask, what Lakewalker maker helped you to this?"

"None, sir," said Dag steadily. "None but me, Fawn's Aunt Nattie, who is a spinner and natural maker, and Fawn. Together."

Though not so tall as Dag, Fairbolt was still a formidably big man. He frowned down at Fawn; she had to force her spine straight. "Lakewalkers do not recognize marriages to farmers. Did Dag tell you that?"

She held out her wrist. "That's why this, I understood." She gripped the cord tight, for courage. If they couldn't be bothered to be polite to her, she needn't return any better. "Now, I guess you could look at this with your fancy groundsense and say we weren't married if you wanted. But you'd be lying. Wouldn't you."

Fairbolt rocked back. Dag didn't flinch. If anything, he looked satisfied, if a bit fey. Mari rubbed her forehead.

Dag said quietly, "Did Mari tell you about my other knife?"

Fairbolt turned to him, not quite in relief, but tacitly accepting the shift of subject. Backing off for the moment; Fawn was not sure why. Fairbolt said, "As much as you told her, I suppose. Congratulations on your malice kill, by the way. What number was that? And don't tell me you don't keep count."

Dag gave a little conceding nod. "It would have been twenty-seven, if it had been my kill. It was Fawn's."

"It was both ours," Fawn put in. "Dag had the knife, I had the chance to use it. Either of us would have been lost without the other."

"Huh." Fairbolt walked slowly around Fawn, as if looking, really looking, at her for the first time. "Excuse me," he said, and reached out to tilt her head and study the deep red scars on her neck. He stepped back and sighed. "Let's see this other knife, then."

Fawn fished in her shirt. After the scare at Lumpton Market, she had fashioned a new sheath for the blade, single and of softer leather, with a cord for her neck to carry it the way Lakewalkers did. It was undecorated, but she'd sewn it with care. Hesitantly, she pulled the cord over her curls, glanced at Dag who gave her a nod of reassurance, and handed it over to the camp captain.

Fairbolt took it and sat down in one of the chairs near a window, drawing the bone blade out. He examined it much the way Dag and Mari had, even to touching it to his lips. He sat frowning a moment, cradling it in his thick hands. "Who made this for you, Dag? Not Dar?"

"No. A maker up in Luthlia, a few months after Wolf Ridge."

"Kauneo's bone, yes?"

"Yes."

"Did you ever have reason before to think the making might be defective?"

"No. I don't think it was."

"But if the making was sound, no one but you should have been able to prime it."

"I am very aware of that. And if the making was unsound, no one should have been able to prime it at all. But there it sits."

"That it does. So tell me exactly what happened in that cave, again...?"

First Dag, and then Fawn, had to repeat the tale for Fairbolt, each in their own words. They touched but lightly on how Dag had come upon Fawn, kidnapped off the road by bandits in the thrall of the malice. How he'd tracked her to the malice's cave. And come—Dag bit his lip—just too late to stop the monster from ripping the ground of her two-months-child from her womb. Fawn did not volunteer, nor did Fairbolt ask, how she came to be alone, pregnant—and unwed—on the road in the first place; perhaps Mari, who'd had the tale from Fawn back in Glassforge, had given him the gist.

Fairbolt's attention and questions grew keener when they described the mix-up with Dag's malice-killing sharing knives. How Dag, going down under the malice's guard of mud-men, had tossed the knife pouch to Fawn, how she'd stuck the monster first with the wrong, unprimed knife, then with the right one, shattering in its use. How the terrifying creature had dissolved, leaving the first knife so strangely charged with the mortality of Fawn's unborn daughter.

By the time they were half through Mari had pulled up a chair, and Dag leaned against the table. Fawn found she preferred to stand, though she had to lock her knees against an unwelcome trembling. Fairbolt did not, to Fawn's relief, inquire into the messy aftermath of that fight; his interest seemed to end with the mortal knives.

"You are planning to show this to Dar," Fairbolt said when they'd finished, nodding to the knife still in his lap; from his tone Fawn wasn't sure if this was query or command.

"Yes."

"Let me know what he says." He hesitated. "Assuming the other matter doesn't affect his judgment?" He jerked his head toward Dag's left arm.

"I have no idea what Dar will think of my marriage"—Dag's tone seemed to add, nor do I care, but he didn't say it aloud—"but I would expect him to speak straight on his craft, regardless. If I have doubts after, I can always seek another opinion. There are half a dozen knife makers around this lake."

"Of lesser skill," said Fairbolt, watching him closely.

"That's why I'm going to Dar first. Or at all."

Fairbolt started to hand the knife back to Dag but, at Dag's gesture, returned it to Fawn. She put the cord back over her head and hid the sheath away again between her breasts.

Fairbolt, almost eye to eye with her, watched this coolly. "That knife doesn't make you some sort of honorary Lakewalker, you know, girl."

Dag frowned. But before he could say anything, Fawn, despite the heat flushing through her, replied calmly, "I know that, sir." She leaned in toward him, and deepened her voice. "I'm a farmer girl and proud of it, and if that's good enough for Dag, the rest of you can go jump in your lake. Just so you know this thing I have slung around my neck wasn't an honorary death." She nodded curtly and stood straight.

A little to her surprise, he did not grow offended, merely thoughtful, if that was what rubbing his lips that way signified. He stood up with a grunt that reminded her of a tired Dag, and strode across the room to the far side of the fireplace.

Covering the whole surface between the chimney stone and the outer wall and nearly floor to ceiling was a panel made of some very soft wood. It was painted with a large grid pattern, each marked with a place name. Fawn realized, looking at the names she recognized, that it was a sort of map, if lines on a map could be pulled about and squared off, of parts of the hinterland—all the parts, she suspected. To the left-hand side was a separate column of squares, labeled Two Bridge Island, Heron Island, Beaver Sigh, Bearsford, and Sick List. And, above them all, a smaller circle in red paint labeled Missing.

About a third of the squares had hard wooden pegs stuck in them. Most of them were in groups of sixteen to twenty-five, and Fawn realized she was looking at patrols—some squares were full of little holes as though they might have been lately emptied. Each peg had a name inked onto the side in tiny, meticulous writing, and a number on its end. Some of the pegs had wooden buttons, like coins with holes bored in the middle, hung on them by twisted wires, one or two or sometimes more threaded in a stack. The buttons, too, were numbered.

"Oh!" she said in surprise. "These are all your patrollers!" There must have been five or six hundred pegs in all. She leaned closer to search for names she recognized.

Fairbolt raised his brows. "That's right. A patrol leader can keep a patrol in mind, but once you get to be a company or camp captain, well, one head can't hold them all. Or at least, mine can't."

"That's clever! You can see everything all at once, pretty nearly." She realized she needed to look more closely at Two Bridge Island for names. "Ah, there's Mari. And Razi and Utau, they're home with Sarri, oh good. Where's Dirla?"

"Beaver Sigh," said Dag, watching her pore over the display. "That's another island."

"Mm? Oh, yes, there she is, too. I hope she's happy. Does she have a regular sweetheart? Or sweethearts? What are the little buttons for?"

Mari answered. "For the patrollers who are carrying sharing knives. Not everyone has one, but every patrol that goes out needs to have two or more."

"Oh. Yes, that makes sense. Because it wouldn't do a bit of good to find a malice and have no knife on hand. And you might find another malice, after. Or have an accident." Dag had spoken with a shudder of the ignominy of accidentally breaking a sharing knife, and now she understood. She hesitated, thinking of her own spectacular, if peculiar, sharing knife accident. "Why are they numbered?"

Dag said, "The camp captain keeps a book with records of the owners and donors, for if a knife is used. To send the acknowledgements to the kinfolk, or know where to send the pieces if they chance to be recovered."

Fawn frowned. "Is that why the patrollers are numbered, too?"

"Very like. There's another set of books with all the names and next of kin, and other details someone might want to know about any particular patroller in an emergency. Or when the emergency is over."

"Mm," said Fawn, her frown deepening as she pictured this. She set her hands on her hips and peered at the board, imagining all those lives—and deaths—moving over the landscape. "Do you connect the pegs to people's grounds, like marriage cords? Could you?"

"No," said Dag.

"Does she always go on like this?" asked Fairbolt. She glanced up to find him staring at her rather as she'd been staring at the patroller board.

"More or less, yes," said Dag.

"I'm sorry!" Fawn clapped her hand to her mouth in apology. "Did I ask too many questions?"

Fairbolt gave her a funny look. "No." He reached up and took a peg out of the Missing circle, one of two jutting there. He held it out at arm's length and squinted briefly at the fine print on the side, and grunted satisfaction. "I suppose this comes off, now." With surprising delicacy, his thick fingers unwound its wire and teased off one numbered button. The second he frowned at, but twisted back into place. "I never met the Luthlia folks; never got up that way. You be taking care of the honors on this one, Dag?"

"Yes."

"Good. Thanks." He held the peg in his palm as if weighing it.

Dag reached up and touched the remaining peg in the red circle. "Still no word of Thel." It didn't sound like a question.

"No," sighed Fairbolt.

"It's been near two years, Fairbolt," Mari observed dispassionately. "You could likely take it down."

"It's not like the board's out of room up there, now is it?" Fairbolt sniffed, stared unreadably at Dag, gave the peg in his hand a toss, and bent down and thrust it decisively into the square marked Sick List.

He straightened up and turned back to Dag. "Stop in at the medicine tent. Let me know what they say about the arm. Come see me after you have that talk with Dar." He made a vague gesture of dismissal, but then added, "Where are you going next?"

"Dar." Dag added more reluctantly, "Mother."

Mari snorted. "What are you going to say to Cumbia about that?" She nodded at his arm cord.

Dag shrugged. "What's to say? I'm not ashamed, I'm not sorry, and I'm not backing down."

"She'll spit."

"Likely." He smiled grimly. "Want to come watch?"

Mari rolled her eyes. "I think I want to go back out on patrol. Fairbolt, you need volunteers?"

"Always, but not you today. Go along home to Cattagus. Your stray has turned up; you've no more excuse to loiter here harassing me."

"Eh," she said, whether in agreement or disagreement Fawn could not tell. She cast a vague sort of salute at Fairbolt and Dag, murmured, "Good luck, child," at Fawn, in a rather too ironical voice, and took herself out.

Dag made to follow, but stopped with a look of inquiry when Fairbolt said, "Dag."

"Sir?"

"Eighteen years ago," said Fairbolt, "you persuaded me to take a chance on you. I never had cause to regret it."

Till now? Fawn wondered if he meant to imply.

"I don't care to defend this in the camp council. See that it doesn't boil up that high, eh?"

"I'll try not," said Dag.

Fairbolt returned a provisional sort of nod, and Fawn followed Dag out.

Missus Captain Crow was gone from the outer room. Outside, the sky had turned a flat gray, the water of the lake a pewter color, and the humidity had become oppressive. As they made their way down the porch steps to where the horses were tied, Dag sighed. "Well. That could have gone worse."

Fawn recognized her own words tossed back to her, and remembered Dag's. "Really?"

His lips twitched; it wasn't much of a smile, but at least it was a real one, and not one of those grimaces with the emphasis on the grim he'd mostly had inside. "Really. Fairbolt could have pulled my peg and chucked it in the fire. Then all my problems would have been not his problems any more."

"What, he could have made you not a patroller?"

"That's right."

Fawn gasped. "Oh, no! And I said all those mouthy things to him! You should have warned me! But he made me mad, talking over the top of my head." She added after a moment's reflection, "You all three did."

"Mm," said Dag. He pulled her into his left arm and rested his chin on her curls for a moment. "I imagine so. Things were moving pretty fast there for a while."

She wondered if the patrollers had all been saying things to each other through their groundsenses that she hadn't caught. For sure, she felt there was a good deal back there she hadn't caught.

"As for Fairbolt, you won't offend him by standing up to him, even if you're wrong, but especially if you're right. His back's broad enough to bear correction. He doesn't much care for folks who go belly-up to him to his face and then whine about it behind his back, though."

"Well... stands to reason, that."

"Indeed. You didn't make a bad impression on him, Spark. In fact, judging from the results, you made a pretty good impression."

"Well, that's a relief." She paused in puzzlement. "What results?"

"He put my peg in the sick box. Still a patroller. The camp council deals with any arguments the families can't solve, or arguments that come up between clan heads. But any active patroller, the council has to go through the camp captain to deal with. It's like he's clan head to all of us. I won't say Fairbolt will or even can protect me from any consequences of this"—he shrugged his left arm to indicate his marriage cord—"but leastways he's keeping that possibility open for now."

Fawn turned to untie the horses, considering this. The tailpiece seemed to be that it was Dag's job—and hers?—to keep the consequences from getting too out of hand. As she scrambled up on Grace, she saw under some pear trees at a little distance Mari sitting on a trestle table swinging her legs, and Massape Crow on the bench beside her. Mari seemed to be talking heatedly, by the way she was waving her arms, and Massape had her head cocked in apparent fascination. Fawn didn't think she needed groundsense to guess the subject under discussion, even without the curious glances the pair cast their way.

Dag had wrapped Copperhead's reins around his hook. Now, he led the horse beside the porch and used the steps for a mounting block, settling into the saddle with a tired grunt. He jerked his chin by way of a come-along gesture and led them onto the shore road, heading back east.

Chapter Three

Fawn turned in her saddle to look as they passed the woodland road they’d come in on, and turned again as the shore road bent out toward a wooden bridge spanning a channel about sixty feet across. The next island spread west, bounding the arm of the lake across from the patroller headquarters. Past the bridge, its farther shoreline curved north and the lake beyond opened out for a square mile. In the distance she could see a few narrow boats being paddled, and another with a small triangular sail. The island reached by the bridge had only a scattering of trees; between them horses and goats and a few sheep grazed, and beneath them more black pigs dozed.

"Mare Island?" Fawn guessed.

"Yep. It and Foal Island, which you can't see beyond the far end over there"—Dag waved vaguely northwest—"are our main pastures. No need to build fences, you see."

"I do. Clever. Is there a Stallion Island?"

Dag smiled. "More or less. Most of the studs are kept over on Walnut Island"—he pointed to a low green bump across the open lake patch—"which works fine until one of the fellows gets excited and ambitious and tries to swim across in the night. Then there's some sorting out to do."

The shore road swung back into the trees, passing behind the clusters of log buildings along the lake bank. After a scant quarter-mile, Dag pulled up Copperhead and frowned at a clearing enclosing just two buildings. The lake glimmered dully beyond in the hot afternoon's flat light. "Tent Redwing," Dag said.

"Well"—Fawn took a breath—"this is it, I guess."

"Not quite. Everyone seems to be out. But leastways we can drop off our saddles and bags and take the horses back to pasture."

They rode into the clearing. The two buildings were set facing each other at an angle opening toward the lake, both with long sides gaping under deerhide awnings. Other deerhide rolls along the eaves looked as though they could be dropped down to provide more wall at need. Houses and porches seemed to be floored with planks, not dirt, at least. Fawn tried to think simple, not squalid. A stone-lined fire pit lay in the clearing between the two structures—Fawn still could not make herself think of them as tents—in addition to the central fireplaces that could apparently heat both the outer and the enclosed inner chambers. Seats of stumps or sawn-off logs were dotted about; in summer, no doubt almost all work was done outdoors.

She hopped down and helped unsaddle, dealing with the straps and buckles; Dag with his hook hauled the gear from the horses' backs and dumped it on the plank porch of the house on the right. He scratched the back of his head gently.

"Not sure where Mama's got off to. Dar's likely at the bone shack. And if Omba's not out on Mare Island, it'll be a first. Dig down in the bottom of my saddlebags, Spark, and find those strings of horseshoes."

Fawn did so, discovering two bunches of new horseshoes tied together, a dozen each. "My word, no wonder your bags were so heavy! How long have you been carting these around in there?"

"Since we left Glassforge. Present for Omba. Hickory Lake's a rich camp in some ways, but we have few metals in these parts, except for a little copper-working near Bearsford. All our iron has to be traded for from other camps, mostly around Tripoint. Though we've been getting more from farmer sources in the hills beyond Glassforge, lately." He grinned briefly. "When a certain young exchange patroller from Tripoint walking the hinterlands arrived at Massape Crow and said, That's far enough, it's told his bride-gift string of horses came in from back home staggering under loads of iron. It made the Crows rich and Fairbolt famous, back in the day."

Fawn led Grace to a log seat and climbed up bareback, and Dag hooked her up the horseshoe bundles, which she twisted about each other and laid over her lap. He climbed up on Copperhead in turn, and they went back out to the road and returned to the bridge.

At the far end of the span he dismounted again to unhook a rope loop from the board gate, open it for Fawn, and shut it again behind them. He did not bother re-mounting, but led them instead toward a long shed that lay a hundred paces or so away. Fawn slid off Grace, managing not to drop the horseshoes, and Dag hooked off both bridles, flopping them over his shoulder. Copperhead scooted away at once, and after a moment's doubt, Grace followed, soon putting her head down to crop grass.

Of all of his relatives, Dag had talked most freely about his brother's wife, the Waterstrider sister who'd changed her name for her mother-in-law's sake. In order of increasing reticence came his grandfather, remembered with nostalgia from scenes of Dag's youth; Dar, of whom Dag spoke with cool respect; his father, tinged with distance and regret; and, in a pool of silence at the center, his mother. Every conversation Fawn had tried to lead toward her, Dag had led away. About Omba—horse trainer, mare midwife, maker of harness, and, it appeared, farrier—there had been no such problem.

As they rounded the corner of the shed and stepped under its wooden overhang, Fawn had no trouble recognizing Omba, for she came striding out of a door crying, "Dag! Finally!" She was not so thin as Mari, and quite a bit shorter, though still as tall as any man in Fawn's family; Fawn would have guessed her age at fifty or so, which meant she was likely fifteen years older than that. She was dressed much like a patroller woman, and Fawn finally decided that the trousers were just Lakewalker riding garb, period. Her skin, though tanned and weathered, was paler than Dag's, and her eyes a pretty silvery blue. Her dark hair, shot with a few white streaks, ran down her back in a single swift plait, without ornament. She caught sight of the sling, planted her hands on her hips, and said, "Absent gods, brother, what have you done to your right arm!" And then, after a momentary pause, "Absent gods, Dag, what have you done to your left arm?"

Dag gave her a nod of greeting, his smile lopsided. "Hello, Omba. Brought you something." He gestured Fawn forward; she held out the horse shoes.

Omba's face lit, and she pounced on the prize. "Do I need those!" She came to a dead halt again at the sight of the cord on Fawn's wrist, and made a choked noise down in her throat. Her gaze rose to Fawn's face, her eyes widening in something between disbelief and dismay. "You're a farmer! You're that farmer!"

For an instant, Fawn wondered if there was some Lakewalker significance to Dag tricking her into accepting this gift from Fawn's hands, but she had no time or way to ask. She dipped her knees and said breathlessly, "Hello, Omba. I'm Fawn. Dag's wife." She wasn't about to make some broader claim such as, I'm your new sister; that would be for Omba to decide.

Omba wheeled toward Dag, her eyebrows climbing. "And what does that make you, Dag Redwing Hickory? Besides head down in the slit trench."

"Fawn's husband. Dag Bluefield... To-Be-Determined, at this point."

Or would the effect instead be to make Dag not Omba's brother any more? Lakewalker tent customs continued to confuse Fawn.

"You seen Fairbolt yet?" asked Omba.

"Just came from there. Saw Mari there, too."

"You told him about this?" She jerked her head toward Fawn.

"Certainly."

"What did he do to you?"

"Put me on sick list." Dag wriggled his sling. "That was the To-Be-Determined part, or so I took it."

Omba blew out her breath in unflattering wonder. But not, Fawn thought, in hostility; she hung on tight to that realization. It did not seem as though Dag had taken her advice to start with the hardest ones first. By later today, not hostile might yet look pretty good.

"What did Mari say to you all, last night?" asked Dag.

"Oh, there was a scene. She came in asking if we'd heard from you, which was a jolt to start, since you were supposed to be with her. Then she said she'd sent you home from Glassforge weeks ago, and everyone was worried you'd been injured, but she said not. Is that right?" She stared at the sling.

"Was at the time. I collected this on the way. Go on."

"Then she had this wild tale about some cutie farmer girl being mixed up in your latest malice kill"—her eyes went curiously to Fawn—"which I barely believed, but now, hm. And that you'd jumped the cliff with her, which your mama hotly denied the possibility of, while simultaneously yelling at Mari for letting it happen. I kept my mouth shut during that part. Though I did wish you well of it."

"Thank you," said Dag blandly.

"Ha. Though I never imagined... anyway. Mari said that you'd gone off with the farmer girl, supposed to deliver her home or something. She was afraid you'd met some mishap at the hands of her kin—she said she was picturing gelding. That must have been some cliff. When Mari and your mama got down to arguing over lapses from twenty-five years back, I slipped out. But Mari took Dar down to the dock after, to talk private. He wouldn't say what she'd added, except that it was about bone craft, which even your mama knows by now is the sign she'll get no more from him."

It seemed Mari was still keeping the tale of the accident to the second sharing knife close. Nor had the term pregnant turned up in relation to Fawn, at least in front of Dag's mama. Fawn felt suddenly more charitable to Mari.

"Oh, Dag," sighed Omba. "This is going to top anything you've done ever."

"Look on the bright side. Nothing you can do ever after will top this. The effect might even be retroactive."

She gave a bemused nod. "I'll grant you that." She slung the horseshoes onto some pegs on the nearest post, and held up her hands palm-out in a warding gesture. "I think I'll just stay out of this one altogether, if you don't mind."

"You're welcome to try," said Dag amiably. "We were just over to the tent to drop our things, but it was empty. Where is everyone?"

"Dar went to the shack to work, or hide out. Mari was worried sick for you, and that shook him more than he was willing to let on, I think. She actually said I'm sorry to your mother at one point last night."

"And mama?" said Dag.

"Out on raft duty. Rationing plunkins."

Dag snorted. "I'll bet."

"They tried to convince her to stay ashore with her bad back, but she denied the back and went. There will be no vile plunkin ear chucking today."

Now Fawn was lost. "Rationing plunkins? Is there a shortage?"

"No," said Dag. "This time of year, they're worse than in season—they're in glut."

Omba grinned. "Dar still waxes bitter about how she'd nurse her supply through the Bearsford camp, like there was some sort of prize for arriving at spring with the most winter store still in hand. And then make you all eat up the old ones before allowing any fresh ones."

Dag's lips quirked. "Oh, yeah."

"Did she ever go through a famine?" Fawn asked. "That makes people funny about food, I hear tell."

"Not as far as I know," said Omba.

She's speaking to me, oh good! Though people wishful to vent about their in-laws would bend the ear of anyone who'd listen, so it might not signify much.

"Not that the choices don't get a bit narrow for everyone by late winter," Omba continued. "She's just like that. Always has been. I still remember the first summer Dar and I were courting, when you grew so tall, Dag. We thought you were going to starve. Half the camp conspired to slip you food on the sly."

Dag laughed. "I was about ready to wrestle the goats for the splits and the mishaps. Those are feed plunkins," he added to Fawn aside. "Can't think why I didn't. I wouldn't be so shy nowadays."

"It is a known fact that patrollers will eat anything." Omba twitched a speculative eyebrow at Fawn that made her wonder if she ought to blush.

To quell that thought, Fawn asked instead, "Plunkin ear chucking?"

Dag explained, "When the plunkin heads are dredged up out of the lake bottom, they have two to six little cloves growing up the sides, about half the size of my hand. These are broken off and put back down in the mud to become next year's crop. Plunked in, hence the name. There are always more ears than needed, so the excess gets fed to the goats and pigs. And there are always a lot of youngsters swimming and splashing around the harvesting rafts, and, well, excess plunkin ears make good projectiles, in a reasonably non-lethal sort of way. Especially if you have a good slingshot," he added in a suddenly warmly reminiscent tone. He paused and cleared his throat. "The grown-ups disapprove of the waste, of course."

"Well, some do," said Omba. "Some remember their slingshots. Someone should have given one to your mother when she was a girl, maybe."

"At her age, she's not going to change."

"You've made a change."

Dag shrugged, and asked instead, "How're Swallow and Darkling?"

Omba's face brightened. "Wonderful well. That black colt's going to be fit to go for a stud when he's grown, I think. He'll fetch you a good price. Or if you finally want to trade in Snakebrain over there for dog meat, you could ride him yourself. I'd train him up for you. You two'd look mighty fine, patrolling."

"Mm, thanks, but no. Sometime tomorrow or the next day, soon as I have a chance, I want to pull them out of the herd. I'll get a packsaddle for Swallow, and Darkling can trot at her heels. Send them down to West Blue with my bride gifts to Fawn's mama, which I am fearsome late presenting."

"Your best horses!" said Omba in dismay.

Dag smiled a slow smile. "Why not? They gave me their best daughter."

"But I'm their only daughter," said Fawn.

"Saves argument there, eh?" said Dag.

Omba caught up her braid and rubbed the end. "To farmers! What do they know about Lakewalker horses? What if they try to make Swallow pull a plow? Or cut Darkling? Or..." Her face screwed up, as she evidently pictured even worse farmer misuse of the precious horses.

"My family takes good care of our horses," said Fawn stiffly. "Of all our animals."

"They won't understand," said Omba.

"I will," said Dag. He gave her a nod. "See you at dinner. Who's cookin'?"

"Cumbia. You might want to grab a plunkin off the goats on the way, to fortify yourselves."

"Thanks, but I guess we'll survive." He gestured Fawn away. She gave Omba another knee dip and smile by way of farewell; the Lakewalker woman just shook her head and returned a sardonic wave. But not hostile, Fawn reminded herself.

As they reached the bridge again, Dag held the gate aside for a girl leading a couple of horses with pannier baskets piled high with plunkins; she gave him a nod of thanks. These plunkins did indeed seem to be mostly broken or weirdly misshapen or with odd discolorations. Fawn glanced back to see her walking along chirping and tossing out plunkins along her path, and a general movement among the goats and pigs toward this feast.

"Lakewalker animals eat plunkins too, do they?"

"Horses and cows and sheep can't. The pigs and goats chomp them down. So will dogs."

"I haven't seen many dogs. I'd think you'd have more, for hunting and such. For hunting malices, even."

"We don't keep many. Dogs are more hazard than help on patrol. The malices snap them right up, and they have no defense. Except us, and if you're trying to bring down a malice, it'd be no use to be distracted trying to protect a dog, especially if it's turning on you itself."

As they strolled back along the shore road, Fawn asked curiously, "Was your mother ever a patroller?"

"I think she had the training, way back when. All the youngsters at least get taken out on short trips around the camps. Patrollers are chosen for two things, mainly. General health and strength, and groundsense range. Not everyone can project their groundsense out far enough to be useful on patrol. The lack's not considered a defect, necessarily; many's the quite competent maker who can't reach out much beyond his arm's length."

"Is Dar like that?"

"No, his range is almost as long as mine. He's just even better at what he does with bones. What my mother always wanted, now..." He trailed off.

Volunteering useful information at last? No, evidently not. Fawn sighed and prompted, "Was what?"

"More children. Just didn't work out that way for her, whether because father was out on patrol too much, or they were just unlucky, or what, I don't know. I should have been a girl. That was my immediate next lapse after arriving late. Or been eight other children. Or had eight other children, in a pinch, and not off in Luthlia or someplace, but here at Hickory Camp. My mother had a second chance with Dar and Omba's children. She kind of commandeered them from Omba to raise; which I gather caused some friction at first, till Omba gave up and went to concentrate on her horses. They'd worked it all out by the time I got back from Luthlia minus the hand, anyway. There's still just a little... I won't call it bad feeling, but feeling, there over that."

Mother-in-law versus daughter-in-law friction was common coin in Fawn's world; she had no trouble following this. She wondered if Cumbia's thwarted thirst for daughters would extend itself to a little farmer girl, dragged in off patrol like some awkward souvenir. She had taken in one daughter-in-law, quite against custom, after all. Some hope there?

"Dag," she said suddenly, "where am I going to live?"

He looked over and raised his eyebrows at her. "With me."

"Yes, but when you're gone on patrol?"

Silence. It stretched rather too long.

"Dag?"He sighed. "We'll just have to see, Spark."

They were nearly back to his family tent-cabins when Dag paused at a path leading into the woods. If he was checking anything with his groundsense, Fawn could not tell, but he jerked his chin in a come-along gesture and led right. The high straight boles, mostly hickory, gave a pale green shade in the shadowless light, as though they were walking into some underwater domain. The scrub was scant and low on the flat terrain. Fawn eyed the poison ivy and stuck to the center of the well-trodden path, lined here and there with whitewashed rocks.

About a hundred paces in, they came to a clearing. In the center was a small cabin, a real one with four sides, and, to Fawn's surprise, glass windows. Even the patrol headquarters had only had parchment stretched on window frames. More disturbingly, human thighbones hung from the eaves, singly or in pairs, swaying gently in the air that soughed in the papery hickory leaves overhead. She tried not to imagine ghostly whispering voices in the branches.

Dag followed her wide gaze. "Those are curing."

"Those folks look well beyond cure to me," she muttered, which at least made his lips twitch.

"If Dar's busy with something, don't speak till he speaks to us," Dag warned in a quiet voice. "Actually, the same applies even if it looks like he's doing nothing."

Fawn nodded vigorously. Putting the picture together from Dag's oblique descriptions, she figured Dar was the closest thing to a real Lakewalker necromancer that existed. She could not picture being foolish enough to interrupt him in the midst of some sorcery.

A hickory husk, falling from above, made a clack and a clatter as it hit the shingle roof and rolled off, and Fawn jumped and grabbed Dag's left arm tightly. He smiled reassuringly and led her around the building. On the narrower south side was a porch shading a wedged-open door. But the man they sought was outside, at the edge of the clearing. Working a simple sapling lathe, so ordinary and un-sorcerous-looking as to make Fawn blink.

Dar was shorter and stockier than Dag, a solid middle-aged build, with a more rectangular face and broader jaw. He had his shirt off as he labored; his skin was coppery like Dag's but not so varied in its sun-burnishing. His dark hair was drawn back in a mourning knot, which made Fawn wonder who for, since his wife Omba's hadn't been. If there was gray in it, she wasn't close enough to see. One leg worked the lathe; the rope to the sapling turned a clamp holding a greenwood blank. Both hands held a curved knife and bore it inward, and pale yellow shavings peeled away to join a kicked-about pile below. Two finished bowls sat on a nearby stump. In the shavings pile lay discarded a partially carved, cracked blank, and another finished bowl that looked to Fawn perfectly fine.

His hands most drew her eye: strong and long-fingered like Dag's, quick and careful. And what a very odd thing it was that it should feel so odd to see them in a pair, working together that way.

He glanced up from his carving. His eyes were a clear bronze-brown. He looked back down, evidently trying to keep working, but after another spin muttered something short under his breath and straightened up with a scowl, allowing the blank to wind down, then unclamped it and dropped it into the shavings pile. He tossed the knife in the general direction of the stump and turned to Dag.

"Sorry to interrupt," said Dag, nodding to the half-bowl. "I was told you wanted to see me immediately."

"Yes! Dag, where have you been?"

"Been getting here. I had a few delays." He made the sling-gesture.

For once, it did not divert his interrogator's eye. Dar's voice sharpened as his gaze locked on his brother's left arm. "What fool thing have you gone and done? Or have you finally done something right?" He let his breath out in a hiss as his eyes raked over Fawn. "No. Too much to hope for." His brow wrinkled as he frowned at her left wrist. "How did you do that?"

"Very well," said Dag, earning an exasperated look.

Dar walked closer, staring down at Fawn in consternation. "So there really was a farmer-piglet."

"Actually"—Dag's voice suddenly went bone dry—"that would be my wife. Missus Fawn Bluefield. Fawn, meet Dar Redwing."

Fawn attempted a tremulous smile. Her knees felt too weak to dip.

Dar stepped half a pace back. "Ye gods, you're serious about this!"

Dag's voice dropped still further. "Deadly."

They locked eyes for a moment, and Fawn had the maddening sense that some exchange had passed or was passing that, once again, she hadn't caught, although it had seemed to spin off the rather insulting term piglet. Or, from the heated look in Dag's eye, very insulting term, although she couldn't see exactly why; chickie and filly and piglet and all such baby-animal terms being used interchangeably for little endearments, in Fawn's experience. Perhaps it was the tone of voice that made the difference. Whatever it was, it was Dar who backed down, not apologizing but changing tack: "Fairbolt will explode."

"I've seen Fairbolt. I left him in one piece. Mari, too."

"You can't tell me he's happy about this!"

"I don't. But neither was he stupid." Another hint of warning, that? Perhaps, for Dar ceased his protests, although with a frustrated gesture. Dag continued, "Omba says Mari spoke to you alone last night, after the others."

"Oh, and wasn't that an uproar. Mama always pictures you dead in a ditch, not that she hasn't been close to right now and then just by chance, but I don't expect that of Mari."

"Did she tell you what happened to my sharing knife?"

"Yes. I didn't believe half of it."

"Which half?"

"Well, that would be the problem to decide, now, wouldn't it?" Dar glanced up. "Did you bring it along?"

"That's why we came here."

To Dar's work shack? Or to Hickory Lake Camp generally? The meaning seemed open.

"You seen Mama yet?"

"That will be next."

"I suppose," Dar sighed, "I'd best see it here, then. Before the real din starts."

"That's what I was thinking, too."

Dar gestured them toward the cabin steps. Fawn sat beside Dag, scrunching up to him for solace, and Dar took a seat near the steps on a broad stump.

"Give Dar the knife," said Dag. At her troubled look, he dropped a reassuring kiss atop her head, which made Dar's face screw up as though he was smelling something rank. Fawn frowned, but fished the sheath out of her shirt once more. She would have preferred to give it to Dag to hand to his brother, but that wasn't possible. Reluctantly, she extended it across to Dar, who almost as reluctantly took it.

Dar did not unsheathe it immediately, but sat with it in his lap a moment. He took in a long breath, as though centering himself somehow; half the expression seemed to drop from his face. Since it was mostly the sour, disapproving half, Fawn didn't altogether mind. What was left seemed distant and emotionless.

Dar's examination seemed much like that of the other Lakewalkers: cradling the knife, holding it to his lips, but also cheek and forehead, eyes open and closed in turn. He took rather longer about it.

He looked up at last, and in a colorless voice asked Dag to explain, once again, the exact sequence of events in the malice's cave, with close guesses as to the time each movement had taken. He did not ask anything of Fawn. He sat a little more, then the distant expression went away, and he looked up again.

"So what do you make of it?" asked Dag. "What happened?"

"Dag, you can't expect me to discuss the inner workings of my craft in front of some farmer."

"No, I expect you to discuss them—fully—in front of that donor's mother."

Dar grimaced, but counter-attacked, unexpectedly speaking to Fawn directly for the very first time: "Yes, and how did you get pregnant?"

Did she have to confess the whole stupid episode with Stupid Sunny? She looked up beseechingly at Dag, who shook his head slightly. She gathered her courage and replied coolly, "In the usual way, I believe."

Dar growled, but did not pursue the matter. Instead he protested to Dag, "She won't understand."

"Then you won't actually be giving away any secrets, will you? Begin at the beginning. She knows what ground is, for starters."

"I doubt that," said Dar sourly.

Dag shifted his splinted hand to touch his marriage cord. "Dar, she made this. The other as well."

"She couldn't..." Dar went quiet for a time, brow furrowing. "All right. Flukes happen. But I still think she won't understand."

"Try. She might surprise you." Dag smiled faintly. "You might be a better teacher than you think."

"All right, all right! All right." Dar turned his glower on Fawn. "A knife... that is, a dying body that... agh. Go all the way back. Ground is in everything, you understand that?"

Fawn nodded anxiously.

"Living things build up ground and alter its essence. Concentrate it. They are always making, but they are making themselves. Man eats food, the food's ground doesn't vanish, it goes into the man and is transformed. When a man—or any living thing—dies, that ground is released. The ground associated with material parts dissipates slowly with the decaying body, but the non-material part, the most complex inner essence, it goes all at once. Are you following this?" he demanded abruptly.

Fawn nodded.

His look said, I don't think so, but he went on. "Anyway. That's how living things help a blight recover, by building up ground slowly around the edges and constantly releasing it again. That's how blight kills, by draining ground away too fast from anything caught away from the edge too long. A malice consumes ground directly, ripping it out of the living like a wolf disemboweling its prey."

Excerpted from Legacy by Lois McMaster Bujold, Lois McMaster Bujold, Lois M. Bujold
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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SHARING KNIFE V2 MM

9780061139062

0061139068

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