Ch. 1
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.
Ch. 2
“And there’s another thing,” she added severely, although her hand strayed to map his jaw. “Camping in the evening, have you thought how fast it would blight the mood to have him sitting there on the other side of the fire, leering and cracking jokes?”
Dag shrugged. “Camp privacy’s not a new problem for patrollers.”
“Collecting firewood, bathing in the river, scouting for squirrels? So you told me. There’s a whole code, but Whit doesn’t know it.”
“Then I’ll just have to teach him Lakewalker.”
“Yeah? Best bring your hickory stick, for rapping on his skull.”
“I’ve trained denser young patrollers.”
“There are denser young patrollers?” She leaned back, so her eyes would bring his face into focus, likely. “How do they walk upright?”
Ch. 3
“Well, you’re just a girl, after all.”
Fawn merely grimaced. In his own way, she supposed Whit was trying. Very trying.
--
Whit inhaled. “Folks don’t know this. They say Lakewalkers are cannibals. That you rob graves. Eat your dead to make magic.”
Dag said gently, “But now you know better.”
“Um. Yeah.” Whit brightened. “So, that’s one farmer boy who’s learned something, huh?”
“One down.” Dag sighed. “Thousands to go. It’s a start.”
Ch. 4
The valley of the Grace spread out below them in the gold-blue autumn light. The river seemed to have put on her party dress, her banks and bending hillsides a swirl of color: scarlet and purple-red, glowing yellow, bright brown. The water reflected the azure of the sky, save where it broke into a sparkling shoal, necklace to the dress. Brooches of boats slid upon the water—a distant keel, a broad, blunt ferry—with a girdle of flatboats pulled up along the farther shore. Fawn was dimly aware of Whit, trotting up panting to see whatever there was to see. She was more aware of Dag, watching her face. She wasn’t sure if he was seeing just the river valley reflected there, or something more, but his mouth softened in an ease that handed her joy back to her, to be passed back to him again, redoubled.
Ch. 6
Fawn sat up in anticipation as they topped a rise and the line of flatboats tied to the trees beyond Possum Landing came into view. They were as unlike the Lakewalkers’ graceful, sharp-prowed narrow boats as they could be, looking like shacks stuck on box crates, really. Ungainly. Some even had small fireplaces with stone chimneys, out of which smoke trickled. It was as if someone’s village had suddenly decided to run off to sea, and Fawn grinned at the vision of an escaped house waddling away from its astonished owners. People ran away from home all the time; why shouldn’t the reverse be true?
Ch. 9
He rolled over and stared at the tiny pricks of light coming through the holes in their blanket-tent, held up by the ragged roots. “You do have a way of stirring up the silt in my brain, Spark.”
“You saying I cloud your thinking?”
“Or that you get to the bottom of things that haven’t been disturbed in far too long.”
Fawn grinned. “Now, who’s going to be the first one to say something rude and silly about the bottom of things?”
“I was always a volunteerin’ sort of fellow,” Dag murmured, and kissed his way down her bare body. And then there was some very nice rudeness indeed, and giggling, and tickling, and another hour went away.
Ch. 12
He lowered his stubby bow and studied the results. Well, they had all ended up somewhere within the outer circle. Not a tidy heart-shot, but that straw bale sure wasn’t getting away. He rather regretted not being able to spell out D + F in quivering feather shafts. He could imagine them spelling a trailing sort of argh! maybe, if he squinted a lot, which was almost as good.
--
“You really got Remo going tonight. If only we could get him to quit confusing farmers with their livestock, I think he’d be a decent sort.”
“Is he that bad? He doesn’t mean ill.”
“I didn’t think he did. He’s just…full of Lakewalkerish habits.”
“Or he was, before he got tipped out of his cradle. I ’spect our river trip isn’t quite the rebellion he thought he was signing up for.”
She snickered, her breath warm in the hollow of his skin.
Dag said more slowly, “He was just an ordinary patroller, before his knife got broken. But if ordinary folks can’t fix the world, it’s not going to get fixed. There are no lords here. The gods are absent.”
“You know, it sounds real attractive at first, but I’m not sure I’d want lords and gods fixing the world. Because I think they’d fix it for them. Not necessarily for me.”
“There’s a point, Spark,” he whispered.
She nodded, and her eyes drifted shut. His stayed open for rather a long while.
Ch. 16
At breakfast, Fawn discovered that like most fine young animals, [Lakewalker patroller] Barr was cuter when he was dry and fluffy.
--
“There,” he said at last, straightening. “He’s got his paddle back.”
“Is that the end of him?” Fawn asked hopefully.
Dag smiled down at her. “Well, there’s this. He’s a Lakewalker boy away from home for the first time, all alone. He’s not going upstream by himself, that’s for sure. His only choice is to keep going down, like us. So we’ll see.”
She frowned at him in doubt. “Do you want him to come back?”
“I don’t like losing patrollers.”
“You kept Remo. That’s one.”
“I don’t like losing two patrollers ’bout twice as much as I don’t like losing one.”
Ch. 17
“M-a-a-a,” bleated the confused sheep, its hooves slipping and splashing in the mud and stones of the bank.
“You shut up, too,” Fawn whispered fiercely. “Now, lift!”
A grunt, a swing, and the last sheep was rocked over the thwart to join its two companions. Twelve cloven feet thumped and clattered, echoing on the planks of the boat’s bottom. Round yellow eyes rolled in long white faces. Fawn leaped to thrust back the front legs of one trying to struggle out again, soaking her shoes.
“We better get in and start rowing,” she said. “You don’t think they’ll try and jump out when we’re out on the water, do you?”
“They might. And probably get their fleece waterlogged and drown, to boot. Sheep are stupider than chickens.”
“Whit, nothing’s stupider than chickens.”
“Well, that’s true,” he conceded. “Almost as stupid as chickens, then.”
--
“Nice boat ride?”
“Uh-huh,” said Fawn, staring up in defiance.
“Whit, Barr…you look a mite sheepish, one could say.”
“No, we only smell it,” muttered Whit.
“It wasn’t my doing!” Barr blurted.
Dag’s lips twisted up. “This time, Barr, I believe you.”
He leaned down to give them each a hand up in turn, and oversee the skiff properly tied.
Whit said uneasily, “Are you going to turn us in?”
“Who to? They weren’t my sheep.” He added after a moment, “Or yours.”
Barr breathed stealthy relief, and Dag shepherded Fawn firmly to bed.
He actually kept his face straight until he had a pillow stuffed over it. The chortles that then leaked through had Fawn poking him. “Stop that!”
It took a while till he quieted down.
Ch. 18
"[...] The Wolf Ridge malice I didn’t see close-up, just heard about from the survivors of the actual attack on the lair. The Raintree malice I saw eye-to-eye. That malice opened up one of the best ground-veilers in my company as easy as you’d gut a trout.”
“How can you even take down a malice that strong?” asked Remo.
“Gang up on it. Go after it all at once with a lot of patrollers with a lot of knives, and hope one gets through. Worked at Wolf Ridge, worked the same at Raintree.” He added after moment, “Well-veiled patrollers. So let’s go around again.”
After a couple more circuits, Barr remarked, “So, are you saying if I stayed this lousy at my ground-veiling, I’d never be chosen for one of those suicide-rushes?”
“In Luthlia, we’d set you out for bait,” Dag said.
Remo sniggered. Barr grimaced at him.
--
A successful hunter like Chicory might well possess a rudimentary groundsense like Aunt Nattie’s, if some passing Lakewalker had climbed his family tree a few generations back.
Ch. 21
“I have to question Crane,” Dag repeated. He nodded to the patrollers. “You two had best sit in. A quorum of sorts.”
“I want to hear that tale, too,” said Fawn.
He shook his head. “It’s like to be nasty, Spark. I would spare you if I could.”
“But you can’t,” she pointed out, which made him wince. Feeling pressed by his dismay, she struggled to explain. “Dag…I’ll never be a fighter. I’m too little. My legs are too short to outrun most fellows. The only equal weapon I’ll ever have is my wits. But without knowing things, my wits are like a bow with no arrows. Don’t leave me disarmed.”
--
An even stranger look lingered in Crane’s face, as if it shocked him to find there was something still in the world for him to want—and it was in his enemy’s hand to give or withhold. Wonder grew in Fawn, winding with her horror. She’d expected Crane to say, Blight you all, and let the malices take the world. Not Yes, I beg for some last share in this.
As if testing his fortune in disbelief, Crane growled blackly, “We made better sport in the cave. Would it give you a thrill, big man, to kill me with your own hand?”
Dag’s gaze flicked down. “I already did. All we’re doing now is debating the funeral arrangements.”
Ch. 23
Dag’s ground had to be in the most awful mess just now, come to think. Like a house the day after some big shindig where all the neighbors and kinfolks came, and ate and danced and drank and fought till all hours and your least favorite cousin threw up on the floor. You couldn’t hardly expect to get any work done till you’d cleaned up the place again all tidy, and you couldn’t tackle that till the hangover passed off.
Upon reflection, Fawn was profoundly thankful that Dag showed no weakness for drink. Patrollers in their cups had to make the most morose drunks in the world.
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