Passage - Lois McMaster Bujold [168]
Dag headed not back to the Fetch, but downstream to the next creek and up its rock-strewn banks to the narrow meadow where the bandits had hobbled their horses. Some of the meadow grass was still green, especially along the creek, though most had turned from autumn gold to winter dun, a sort of standing hay. The dozen or so horses grazing there swiveled their ears at the newcomers, then put their heads down once more, except one big brown fellow who whuffled curiously as they passed near. Dag stopped to rub its poll, which made the beast droop its lip and flop its ears foolishly.
“I like horses,” murmured Dag. “They’re so big and bright and simple in their grounds. And best of all right now”—he sighed—“they’re not people. Over there, Spark.” He nodded to a lone cottonwood tree at the meadow’s edge, soaring up to scratch at the sky with its bare branches, and ambled over to sit and lean his head back against the ridged gray bark, closing his eyes. Fawn sat herself beside him. Unusually, he let his left arm lie in her lap, and she stroked it gently, which made his lips move not unlike the horse’s. The whuffling horse followed them in short hops of its hobbled front legs, then lowered its face to nudge him for more rubs, which he reached up and supplied without opening his eyes.
Fawn suspected that the animals—calm, warm, and nearby in his groundsense—maybe helped blot out what was going on beyond the tree-clad ridge that lay between them and the cave. If Dag had any groundsense range left after all that performance, he could furl it in, Fawn supposed, but that would leave him alone in silence. Silence was all right just now; the alone part, maybe not so good.
Whit wandered out amongst the horses, looking them over in expert evaluation. Berry, who had also stopped to stroke a quiet one, if more dubiously, turned her head at a faint cry. Out of sight of the cave they might be; apparently they weren’t quite as far out of earshot as could have been hoped. She stepped away from the horse and stood rigid, staring back up the slope at the woods, face set. Tall. Alone. And at the next cut-off cry, trembling. She looked, Fawn thought, like an aspen tree being gnawed down, slender and doomed.
Whit watched her anxiously, then held out his open hands toward Fawn in desperate question. Fawn cast him an encouraging nod. He gulped, walked over to Berry, and, still without a word, folded her into his embrace. It wasn’t a gesture of courtship, simply one of comfort offered in a bleak hour. Something warm to wrap herself around when the pain folds her over. Berry rested her head on Whit’s shoulder, eyes closing tight. The blond head was a little higher than the dark one—Whit was a sawed-off Bluefield, after all—but with her chin bent down, their hair mingled on a level that was close enough.
Whit held her for a long time, till she stopped shaking, then led her to a more comfortable seat on a fallen log near the stony creek side. He put his arm around her and snugged her in tight as they watched the horses graze.
“Do patrollers ever hobble their horses?” Fawn asked Dag. Because she didn’t think she could bear to talk about anything harder just yet.
“You do wonder how well those things work to keep ’em from running off.”
He fell in willingly with her lead, perhaps for similar reasons. “We use them sometimes. Because if a patroller’s horse gets out of his ground-sense range, he’s put to the same wheezing work of chasing it down as any farmer.” Dag’s lips turned up in some wry memory. He opened his eyes to stare out on the benign scene. “Hobbles don’t slow a horse down much if it’s seriously panicked. I imagine the habit of feeding them here does more to keep them close.”
“They don’t look as ill-cared-for as you’d think. I wonder how many