Legacy - Lois McMaster Bujold [107]
“Huh.” Hoharie scrubbed at her heat-flushed face, smearing road dirt in sweaty streaks, and stared around. “For the love of reason, Mari, what did you drag me here for? In one breath you beg me to break this unholy groundlock, and in the next you insist I don’t dare even open my ground to examine it. You can’t have it both ways.”
“If Dag went into that thing and couldn’t get himself out, I know I couldn’t. I don’t know about you. Hoped you’d have more tricks, Hoharie.” Mari’s voice fell quiet. “I’ve been picking at this knot for days, now, till I’m near cross-eyed crazy. I’m starting to wonder when it will be time to cut our losses. Except…all of those makers’ own bonded knives went missing during the time they were prisoners of the malice. Of the nine people down, only Bryn is carrying an unprimed knife right now. That’s not much to salvage, for the price. And I’m not real sure what would happen to someone locked up like that trying to share, or to her knife—or to the others. We had ill luck with those mud-puppies, that’s certain.”
Saun, now leaning against the barren ash tree with his arms folded, grimaced agreement.
Fawn’s belly shuddered as it finally dawned on her what Mari was talking about. The picture of Mari, or Saun, or Hoharie—likely Mari, it seemed her idea of a leader’s duty—taking those bone knives and methodically driving them through the hearts of her comrades, going down the rows of bedrolls one after another…No, not Dag! Fawn touched the knife beneath her shirt, suddenly fiercely glad that her accident with it back at Glassforge had at least blocked this ghastly possibility.
Hoharie was frowning, but it seemed to Fawn more in sorrow than dissent.
“I will say,” said Mari, “Dag falling into this lock seemed to give everyone in it new strength—for a little while. But the weaker ones are failing again. If we were to add a new patroller every three days, I don’t rightly know how long we could keep them alive—except, of course, the problem would just get bigger and bigger as we strung it out. I’m not volunteerin’, note. And I’m not volunteerin’ you either, Hoharie, so don’t go getting ideas.”
Hoharie rubbed the back of her neck. “I’m going to have to get ideas of some sort. But I’m not going to attempt anything at all tonight. Fatigue distorts judgment.”
Mari nodded approval, and described the camp off the blight to the east where everyone not tending the enspelled apparently retreated to sleep. When she paused, Fawn motioned at Dag and broke in, “Mari—is it really true I can’t touch him?”
Mari said, “It may be. The finding out could be costly.”
Or not, thought Fawn. “I rode all this way.”
Hoharie said, in a sort of weary sympathy, “We told you to stay home, child. There’s nothing for you to do here but grieve.”
“And get in the way,” muttered Othan, almost inaudibly.
“But I can feel Dag. Still!”
Hoharie did not look hopeful, but she rose to her knees, reached across Dag, and took up Fawn’s left arm anyway, probing along it. “Has it changed any lately?”
“The ache feels stronger for being closer, but no clearer,” Fawn admitted. “It’s funny. Dag gave me this for reassurance, but instead it’s made me frantic.”
“Is that you or him that’s frantic?”
“I can’t hardly tell the difference.”
“Huh.” Hoharie let her go and sat back. “This gets us no further that I can see. Yet.” With a pained grunt, she rose to her feet, and everyone else did too.
Fawn held out her hands, palms open, to Mari. “Surely there’s something I can do!”
Mari looked at her and sighed, but at least it was a sigh of understanding. “There’s bedding and catch-rags to be washed.”
Fawn’s hands clenched. “I can do that, sure.” Better: it was a task that would keep her here in the grove, and not exiled a mile away.
“Oh, that’s important. You rode a long way to do laundry, farmer girl,” said