Dag heard Fawn’s voice behind him, low and fierce: “He does that for hearts, too, you know.”
And she marched forthrightly after him.
Chapter 16
Fawn followed Dag onto the front porch and watched in worry as he sat heavily on the step, his left elbow on his knee and his head down. In the west behind the house, the sky was draining of sunset colors; to the east, above the river valley, the first stars were pricking through the darkening turquoise vault.
The air grew soft as the day’s heat eased. Fawn settled down to Dag’s right and raised her hand uncertainly to his face. His skin was icy, and she could feel the shudders coursing through his body.
“You’ve gone all cold.”
He shook his head, swallowing. “Give me a little…” In a few moments he straightened up, taking a deep breath. “Thought I was going to spew my nice dinner on my feet, but now I think not.”
“Is that usual? For after doing things like that?”
“No—I don’t know. I’m not a maker. We’d determined that by the time I was sixteen. Hadn’t the concentration for it. I needed to be moving all the time.
I am not a maker, but that…”
“Was?” she prompted when he stayed stopped.
“That was a making. Absent gods.” He raised his left arm and rubbed his forehead on his sleeve.
She tucked her arm around him, trying to share warmth; she wasn’t sure how much good it did, but he smiled shakily for the attempt. His body was chilled all down his side. “We should go into the kitchen by the hearth. I could fix you a hot drink.”
“When I can stand up.” He added, “Maybe go around the outside of the house.”
Where they would not have to hazard her family. She nodded understanding.
“Groundwork,” he began, and trailed off. “You have to understand. Lakewalker groundwork—magic, you might say—involves taking something and making it more so, more itself, through reinforcing its ground. There’s a woman at Hickory Lake who works with leather, makes it repel rain. She has a sister who can make leather that turns arrows. She can make maybe two coats a month. I had one once.”
“Did it work?”
“Never had occasion to find out while I had it. I saw another turn a mud-man’s spear, though. Iron tip left nothing but a scratch in the hide. Of the coat, not of the patroller,” he clarified.
“Had? What happened to it?”
“Lent it to my oldest nephew when he began patrolling. He handed it on to his sister when she started. Last I knew my brother’s youngest took it with him when he went out of the hinterland. I’m not sure the coats are all that useful, for they’re like to make you careless, and they don’t protect the face and legs.
But, you know… you worry for the youngsters.” His shudders were easing, but his expression remained strained and distant. “That bowl just now, though… I pushed its ground back to purest bowl-ness, and the glass just followed. I felt it so clear. Except that, except that…” He leaned his forehead down against hers, and whispered fearfully, “I pushed with the ground of my left hand, and I have no left hand and it has no ground. Whatever was there, for that minute, is gone again now. I’ve never heard of anything like that. But the best makers don’t speak of their craft much except to their own. So I don’t know. Don’t… know.”
The door swung open; Whit edged out into the shadows of the porch. “Um… Fawn…
?”
“What, Whit?” she said impatiently.
“Um. Aunt Nattie says. Um. Aunt Nattie says she’s had enough of this nonsense and she’ll see you and the patroller in her rooms and be having the end of it one way or another as soon as the patroller is up to it. Um. Sir.”
Behind the fringe of his hair, Dag’s lips twitched slightly. He raised his face.
“Thank you, Whit,” he said gravely. “Tell Aunt Nattie we’ll be along soon.”
Whit gulped, ducked his head, and fled back indoors.
They rose and went around the north side of the house to the kitchen, Dag resting his left arm heavily across Fawn’s shoulders. He stumbled twice. She made him sit by the hearth while she fixed him a cup of hot water with some peppermint leaves crushed in, holding it to his lips while he drank it down.
By then he’d stopped shivering, and his clammy skin had dried and warmed again.
She saw her parents and Fletch peeking timidly from the darkness of the hall, but they said nothing and did not venture in.
Aunt Nattie appeared at the door to her shadowed weaving room. “Well, patroller.
You were flyin’ there for a bit, I guess.”
“Yes, ma’am, I was,” Dag agreed wryly.
“Fawn, you fetch in the patroller and what lights you want.” She turned back into the dark, scuffing feet and cane over the floorboards, not wearily, but just for the company of the sound, as she sometimes did.
Fawn looked anxiously at Dag. The firelight she’d poked up glimmered red-orange over his skin, yellow on his coarse white shirt and the sling, and his eyes were dark and wide. He looked tired, and confused, and as if his arm was hurting, but he smiled reassuringly at her, and she smiled back. “You ready?” she asked.
“Not sure, but I’m too curious to care. Possibly not a trait helpful to longevity in a patroller, but there you go.”
She took down the candle lamp with the chipped glass sleeve from the mantel and lit it, grabbing the unlit iron holder with the three stubs while she was at it, and led off. With a muffled eh, he levered himself up out of his chair and paced after her.
Nattie called from their bedroom, “Close both doors, lovie. It will keep the noise out.”
And in, Fawn reflected. She pushed the door to the kitchen closed with her foot and picked her way around the loom and the piles of Dag’s gear. In the bedroom, Nattie seated herself on the side of her narrow bed and motioned to the one across from it. Fawn set the lamp and the iron ring on the table between and lit the other candles, and went back and closed the bedroom door. Dag glanced at her and sat down facing Nattie, the bed ropes creaking under his weight, and Fawn eased down at his left. “Here we are, Aunt Nattie,” she announced, to which Dag added, Ma’am.
Nattie stretched her back and grimaced, then leaned forward on her cane, her pearly eyes seeming to stare at them in a disturbingly penetrating fashion.
“Well, patroller. I’m going to tell you a story. And then I’m going to ask you a question. And then we’ll see where we’re goin’ on to.
“I’m at your disposal,” Dag said, with that studied courtesy Fawn had learned concealed caution.
“That’s to be seen.” She sniffed. “You know, you’re not the first Lakewalker I’ve met.”
“I sensed that.”
“I lead a dull life, mostly. Lived in this house since Tril married Sorrel nigh on thirty years ago. I hardly get off this farm ‘cept down to West Blue for the market day or a little sewing bee now and then.”
Actually, Nattie did both regularly, being a chief supplier of fine cloth and having a deep ear for village gossip, but Fawn forbore to intrude on the stream of… whatever this was going to be. Reminiscence?
Apparently so, for Nattie went on, “Now, the summer before Fawn was born was a tough time. Her mama was sick, and the boys were rambunctious, and her papa was overworked as usual. I wasn’t sleeping so good myself, so I did my gathering in the north woods at night after they’d all gone to bed. The boys being less help than more in the woods at that stage of their lives.”
Ages three to ten, roughly; Fawn could picture it, and shuddered.
“Roots and herbs and plants for remedies and dyes, you know. Night’s not only more peaceful, the scents are sharper. I especially wanted some wild ginger for Tril, thought I might make a tea to settle her poor stomach. Anyhow, I was sorry for the peaceful that night, because I fell and twisted my ankle something fierce. I tried callin’ for a bit, but I was too far from the house to be heard.”