Lois Bujold: Passage

Dag was riding up the lane thinking only of the chances of a Bluefield farm lunch, and his likelihood of needing a nap afterwards, when the arrow hissed past his face.

Panic washing through him, he reached out his right arm and snatched his wife from her saddle. He fell left, dragging them both off and behind the shield of their horses, snapping his sputtering ground-sense open wide—range still barely a hundred paces, blight it—torn between thoughts of Fawn, of the knife at his belt, of the unstrung bow at his back, of how many, where? All of it was blotted out in the lightning flash of pain as he landed with both their weights on his healing left leg. His cry of “Spark, get behind me!” transmuted to “Agh! Blight it!” as his leg folded under him. Fawn’s mare bolted. His horse Copperhead shied and jerked at the reins still wrapped around the hook that served in place of Dag’s left hand; only that, and Fawn’s support under his arm as she found her feet, kept him upright.

“Dag!” Fawn yelped as his weight bent her.

Dag straightened, abandoning his twisting reach for his bow, as he at last identified the source of the attack—not with his groundsense, but with his eyes and ears. His brother-in-law Whit Bluefield came running across the yard below the old barn, waving a bow in the air and calling, “Oh, sorry! Sorry!”

Only then did Dag’s eye take in the rag target tacked to a red oak tree on the other side of the lane. Well…he assumed it was a target, though the only arrow nearby was stuck in the bark about two feet below it. Other spent arrows lay loose on the ground well beyond. The one that had nearly clipped off his nose had plowed into the soil a good twenty paces downslope. Dag let out his pent breath in exasperation, then inhaled deeply, willing his hammering heart to slow.

“Whit, you ham-fisted fool!” cried Fawn, rising on tiptoe to peer over her restive horse-fort. “You nearly shot my husband!”

Whit arrived breathless, repeating, “Sorry! I was so surprised to see you, my hand slipped.”

Fawn’s mare Grace, who had skittered only a few steps before getting over her alarm at this unusual dismount, put her head down and began tearing at the grass clumps. Whit, familiar with Copperhead’s unsociable character, made a wide circle around the horse to his sister’s side. Dag let the reins unwrap from his hook and allowed Copperhead to go join Grace, which the chestnut gelding did after a few desultory bucks and cow-kicks, just to register his opinion of the proceedings. Dag sympathized.

“I wasn’t aiming at you!” Whit declared anxiously.

“I’m right glad to hear that,” drawled Dag. “I know I annoyed a few people around here when I married your sister, but I didn’t think you were one of ’em.” His lips compressed in a grimmer line. Whit might well have hit Fawn.

Whit flushed. A head shorter than Dag, he was still a head taller than Fawn, whom, after an awkward hesitation, he now embraced. Fawn grimaced, but hugged him back. Both Bluefield heads were crowned with loosely curling black hair, both faces fair-skinned, but while Fawn was nicely rounded, with a captivating sometimes-dimple when she smirked, Whit was skinny and angular, his hands and feet a trifle too big for his body. Still growing into himself even past age twenty, as the length of wrist sticking from the sleeve of his homespun shirt testified. Or perhaps, with no younger brother to hand them down to, he was just condemned to wear out his older clothes.

Dag took a step forward, then hissed, hook-hand clapping to his buckling left thigh. He straightened again with an effort. “Maybe I want my stick after all, Spark.”

“Of course,” said Fawn, and darted across the lane to retrieve the hickory staff from under Copperhead’s saddle flap.

“Are you all right? I know I didn’t hit you,” Whit protested. His mouth bent down. “I don’t hit anything, much.”

Dag smiled tightly. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“He is not fine,” Fawn amended sternly, returning with the stick. “He got knocked around something fearsome last month when his company rode to put down that awful malice over in Raintree. He hasn’t nearly healed up yet.”

“Oh, was that your folks, Dag? Was it really a blight bogle—malice,” Whit corrected himself to the Lakewalker term, with a duck of his head at Dag. “We heard some pretty wild rumors about a ruckus up by Farmer’s Flats—”

Fawn overrode this in concern. “That scar didn’t break open when you landed so hard, did it, Dag?”

Dag glanced down at the tan fabric of his riding trousers. No blood leaked through, and the flashes of pain were fading out. “No.” He took the stick and leaned on it gratefully. “It’ll be fine,” he added to allay Whit’s wide-eyed look. He squinted in new curiosity at the bow still clutched in Whit’s left hand. “What’s this? I didn’t think you were an archer.”

Whit shrugged. “I’m not, yet. But you said you would teach me when—if—you came back. So I was getting ready, getting in some practice and all. Just in case.” He held out his bow as if in evidence.

Dag blinked. He had quite forgotten that casual comment from his first visit to West Blue, and was astonished that the boy had apparently taken it so to heart. Dag stared closely, but not a trace of Whit’s usual annoying foolery appeared in his face. Huh. Guess I made more of an impression on him than I’d thought.

Whit shook off his embarrassment over his straying shaft, and asked cheerfully, “So, why are you two back so soon? Is your patrol nearby? They could all come up too, you know. Papa wouldn’t mind. Or are you on a mission for your Lakewalkers, like that courier fellow who brought your letters and the horses and presents?”

“My bride-gifts made it? Oh, good,” said Dag.

“Yep, they sure did. Surprised us all. Mama wanted to write a letter back to you, but the courier had gone off already, and we didn’t know how to get in touch with your people to send it on.”

“Ah,” said Dag. There’s a problem. There was the problem, or one aspect of it: farmers and Lakewalkers who couldn’t talk to each other. Like now? For all his mental rehearsal, Dag found it suddenly difficult to spit out the tale of his exile, just off the cuff like this.

Fortunately, Fawn filled in. “We’re just visitin’. Dag’s sort of off-duty for a time, till his hurts heal up.”

True in a sense—well, no, not really. But there would be time to explain further—maybe when everyone was together, so he wouldn’t have to repeat it all over and over, a prospect that made him wince even more than the vision of explaining it to a crowd.

They strolled to recapture the horses, and Whit waved toward the old barn. “The stalls you used before are empty. You still got that man-eating red nag, I see.” He skirted Copperhead to gather up Grace’s reins; from the way the bay mare resisted his tugging to snatch a few last mouthfuls of grass, one would take her for starved—clearly not the case.

“Yep,” said Dag, stooping with a grunt to scoop up the gelding’s reins in turn. “I still haven’t met anyone I disliked enough to give him to.”

“And he’s been ridin’ Copperhead for eight straight years. It’s a wonder, that.” Fawn dimpled. “Admit it, Dag, you like that dreadful horse.” She went on to her brother, in a tone of bright diversion, “So, what’s been happening here at West Blue since I left?”