Passage - Lois McMaster Bujold [0]
Volume Three
Passage
Lois McMaster Bujold
Contents
Map
Chapter 1
Dag was riding up the lane thinking only of the…
Chapter 2
In the pressure of a short-handed harvest and a run…
Chapter 3
While Sorrel and Tril might have been dubious about letting…
Chapter 4
Even in the late afternoon, the straight road approaching Glassforge…
Chapter 5
Back aboard Copperhead, Dag rode close to the second wagon…
Chapter 6
Fifty paces up the slope from the Pearl Bend wharf…
Chapter 7
The afternoon was waning when Dag at last caught up…
Chapter 8
Dag had the most unsettled look on his face, downright…
Chapter 9
Fawn kept an eye out, but Dag did not return…
Chapter 10
The oil lantern burning low on the kitchen table was…
Chapter 11
The Fetch made thirty river miles before the dank autumn…
Chapter 12
Despite the delay from Dag’s fruitless errand, the Fetch made…
Chapter 13
To the excitement of everyone aboard—although Fawn thought that Dag…
Chapter 14
To Fawn’s bemusement, Remo tagged along on the trip to…
Chapter 15
Dag was reassured early the next morning of the health…
Chapter 16
Fawn watched in alarm as Remo took up the lantern…
Chapter 17
Though the weather stayed cloudy and chilly, the Fetch made…
Chapter 18
During an easy stretch of river in the morning, Berry…
Chapter 19
Berry’s radiant joy seemed to light up the air around…
Chapter 20
Dag braced one knee on a fallen log, checked the…
Chapter 21
What Dag most wanted to do was question Crane: Fawn…
Chapter 22
Flanked by Remo, Dag exited the cave and dragged his…
Chapter 23
Her face carefully held stiff to hide how her stomach…
Chapter 24
The next day the Fetch floated through yet more of…
Author’s Note
About the Author
Other Books by Lois McMaster Bujold
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Map
1
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