Passage

  Acclaimed science fiction and fantasy writer Lois McMaster Bujold—five-time winner of the Hugo Award—brings us the third installment in her New York Times bestselling romantic fantasy.

  THE SHARING KNIFE

  VOLUME THREE: PASSAGE

  Young Fawn Bluefield and soldier-sorcerer Dag Redwing Hickory have survived magical dangers and found, in each other, love and loyalty. But even their strength and passion cannot overcome the bigotry of their own kin, and so, leaving behind all they have known, the couple sets off to find fresh solutions to the perilous split between their peoples.

  But they will not journey alone. Along the way they acquire comrades, starting with Fawn’s irrepressible brother Whit, whose future on the Bluefield family farm seems as hopeless as Fawn’s once did. Planning to seek passage on a riverboat heading to the sea, Dag and Fawn find themselves allied with a young flatboat captain searching for her father and fiancé, who mysteriously vanished on the river nearly a year earlier. They travel downstream, hoping to find word of the missing men, and inadvertently pick up more followers: a pair of novice Lakewalker patrollers running away from an honest mistake with catastrophic consequences; a shrewd backwoods hunter stranded in a wreck of boats and hopes; and a farmer boy Dag unintentionally beguiles, leaving Dag with more questions than answers about his growing magery.

  As the ill-assorted crew is tested and tempered on its journey to where great rivers join, Fawn and Dag will discover surprising new abilities both Lakewalker and farmer, a growing understanding of the bonds between themselves and their kinfolk, and a new world of hazards both human and uncanny.

  ALSO BY LOIS McMASTER BUJOLD

  The Spirit Ring

  Falling Free

  Shards of Honor

  Barrayar

  The Warrior’s Apprentice

  The Vor Game

  Cetaganda

  Ethan of Athos

  Borders of Infinity

  Brothers in Arms

  Mirror Dance

  Memory

  Komarr

  A Civil Campaign

  Diplomatic Immunity

  The Curse of Chalion

  Paladin of Souls

  The Hallowed Hunt

  The Sharing Knife: Beguilement

  The Sharing Knife: Legacy

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  THE SHARING KNIFE, VOLUME THREE: PASSAGE. Copyright © 2008 by Lois McMaster Bujold.

  All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address HarperCollins Publishers, 10 East 53rd Street, New York, NY 10022.

  HarperCollins books may be purchased for educational, business, or sales promotional use. For information please write: Special Markets Department, HarperCollins Publishers, 10 East 53rd Street, New York, NY 10022.

  FIRST EDITION

  Eos is a federally registered trademark of HarperCollins Publishers.

  Designed by Susan Walsh

  * * *

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Bujold, Lois McMaster.

  The sharing knife. Volume three, Passage / Lois McMaster Bujold. —1st ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-06-137533-0

  I. Title. II. Title: Passage.

  PS3552.U397S56 2008

  813'.54—dc22 2007044881

  * * *

  08 09 10 11 12 OV/RRD 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  CONTENTS

  Map

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  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’s unsociable character, made a wide circle around the horse to his sister’s side. Dag let the reins unwrap from his hook and allowed Copperhead to go join Grace, which the chestnut gelding did after a few desultory bucks and cow-kicks, just to register his opinion of the proceedings. Dag sympathized.

  “I wasn’t aiming at you!” Whit declared anxiously.

  “I’m right glad to hear that,” drawled Dag. “I know I annoyed a few people around here when I married your sister, but I didn’t think you were one of ’em.” His lips compressed in a grimmer line. Whit might well have hit Fawn.

  Whit flushed. A head shorter than Dag, he was still a head taller than Fawn, whom, after an awkward hesitation, he now embraced. Fawn grimaced, but hugged him back. Both Bluefield heads were crowned with loosely curling black hair, both faces fair-skinned, but while Fawn was nicely rounded, with a captivating sometimes-dimple when she smirked, 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 w
as just condemned to wear out his older clothes.

  Dag took a step forward, then hissed, hook-hand clapping to his buckling left thigh. He straightened again with an effort. “Maybe I want my stick after all, Spark.”

  “Of course,” said Fawn, and darted across the lane to retrieve the hickory staff from under Copperhead’s saddle flap.

  “Are you all right? I know I didn’t hit you,” Whit protested. His mouth bent down. “I don’t hit anything, much.”

  Dag smiled tightly. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”

  “He is not fine,” Fawn amended sternly, returning with the stick. “He got knocked around something fearsome last month when his company rode to put down that awful malice over in Raintree. He hasn’t nearly healed up yet.”

  “Oh, was that your folks, Dag? Was it really a blight bogle—malice,” Whit corrected himself to the Lakewalker term, with a duck of his head at Dag. “We heard some pretty wild rumors about a ruckus up by Farmer’s Flats—”

  Fawn overrode this in concern. “That scar didn’t break open when you landed so hard, did it, Dag?”

  Dag glanced down at the tan fabric of his riding trousers. No blood leaked through, and the flashes of pain were fading out. “No.” He took the stick and leaned on it gratefully. “It’ll be fine,” he added to allay Whit’s wide-eyed look. He squinted in new curiosity at the bow still clutched in Whit’s left hand. “What’s this? I didn’t think you were an archer.”

  Whit shrugged. “I’m not, yet. But you said you would teach me when—if—you came back. So I was getting ready, getting in some practice and all. Just in case.” He held out his bow as if in evidence.

  Dag blinked. He had quite forgotten that casual comment from his first visit to West Blue, and was astonished that the boy had apparently taken it so to heart. Dag stared closely, but not a trace of Whit’s usual annoying foolery appeared in his face. Huh. Guess I made more of an impression on him than I’d thought.

  Whit shook off his embarrassment over his straying shaft, and asked cheerfully, “So, why are you two back so soon? Is your patrol nearby? They could all come up too, you know. Papa wouldn’t mind. Or are you on a mission for your Lakewalkers, like that courier fellow who brought your letters and the horses and presents?”

  “My bride-gifts made it? Oh, good,” said Dag.

  “Yep, they sure did. Surprised us all. Mama wanted to write a letter back to you, but the courier had gone off already, and we didn’t know how to get in touch with your people to send it on.”

  “Ah,” said Dag. There’s a problem. There was the problem, or one aspect of it: farmers and Lakewalkers who couldn’t talk to each other. Like now? For all his mental rehearsal, Dag found it suddenly difficult to spit out the tale of his exile, just off the cuff like this.

  Fortunately, Fawn filled in. “We’re just visitin’. Dag’s sort of off-duty for a time, till his hurts heal up.”

  True in a sense—well, no, not really. But there would be time to explain further—maybe when everyone was together, so he wouldn’t have to repeat it all over and over, a prospect that made him wince even more than the vision of explaining it to a crowd.

  They strolled to recapture the horses, and Whit waved toward the old barn. “The stalls you used before are empty. You still got that man-eating red nag, I see.” He skirted Copperhead to gather up Grace’s reins; from the way the bay mare resisted his tugging to snatch a few last mouthfuls of grass, one would take her for starved—clearly not the case.

  “Yep,” said Dag, stooping with a grunt to scoop up the gelding’s reins in turn. “I still haven’t met anyone I disliked enough to give him to.”

  “And he’s been ridin’ Copperhead for eight straight years. It’s a wonder, that.” Fawn dimpled. “Admit it, Dag, you like that dreadful horse.” She went on to her brother, in a tone of bright diversion, “So, what’s been happening here at West Blue since I left?”

  “Well, Fletch and Clover was married a good six weeks ago. Mama was sorry you two couldn’t be here for the wedding.” Whit cast a nod at the solid stone farmhouse, sited on the ridge overlooking the wooded valley of the rocky river. The newlyweds’ addition of two rooms off the near end, still in progress when Dag had last seen it, seemed entirely complete, with glass windows, a wood-shingle roof, and even some early-autumn flowers planted around the foundation, softening the fresh scars in the soil. “Clover’s all moved in, now. Ha! It didn’t take her long to shift the twins. They lit out about twenty miles west to break land with a friend of theirs, only last week. You just missed ’em.”

  Dag couldn’t help reflecting that of all his Bluefield in-laws, the inimical twins Reed and Rush were probably the ones he’d miss the least; judging from the sudden smile on Fawn’s face, she shared the sentiment. He said affably, “I know they’d been talking about it for a long time.”

  “Yeah, Papa and Mama wasn’t too pleased that they picked just before harvest to finally take themselves off, but everyone was so glad of it they didn’t hardly complain. Fletch came in on Clover’s side whenever they clashed, naturally, which was pretty much every day, and they didn’t take any better to him telling them what to do than to her. So it’s a lot more peaceable in the house, now.” He added after a reflective moment, “Dull, really.”

  Whit continued an amiable account of the small doings of various cousins, uncles, and aunts as they unsaddled the horses and turned them into the box stalls in the cool old barn. With a glance at Dag’s stick, Whit actually helped them put up their gear without being asked and hoisted Dag’s saddlebags over his shoulder. Feeling that such an apologetic impulse should be encouraged, Dag let him take them. As they made their way back out to climb the hill to the house, Fawn refused to give up her own bags to Dag, telling him to mind himself, and thumped along under the weight with her usual air of determination. Despite their late difficulties, she seemed far less troubled than at her previous homecoming, judging from the smile she cast over her shoulder at him, and he couldn’t help smiling back. Yeah, we’ll get through this somehow, Spark. Together.

  The farmhouse kitchen was fragrant with cooking—ham and beans, cornbread, squash, biscuits, applesauce, pumpkin pie, and a dozen familiar go-withs—and the moist perfume of it all made Fawn weirdly homesick even though she was home. Mama and Clover, both be-aproned, were bustling around the kitchen as they stepped through the back door, and Mama, at least, fell on Fawn with shrieks of delighted surprise. Blind Aunt Nattie lumbered up from her spinning wheel just beyond the doorway to her weaving room, hugged Fawn hard, and spared an embrace for Dag as well. Her hand lingered a moment on the wedding cord circling Dag’s left arm, below his rolled-up shirt sleeve and above the arm harness for his hook, and her smile softened. “Glad to see this is still holdin’,” she murmured, and “Aye,” Dag murmured back, giving her in return a squeeze that lifted her off her feet and made her grin outright.

  Papa and Fletch clumped in from wherever they’d been working—with the sheep, from the smell—when the greetings were all still at the babbling stage. Plump Clover, announcing that the food wouldn’t wait, sent Fawn and Dag off to put down their bags and wash up. She hurried to set extra places, and wouldn’t let Fawn help serve—“Sit, sit! You two must be tired from all that ridin’. You’re a guest now, Fawn!” Aren’t you? her worried eyes added silently. Fletch looked as if he were wondering the same thing, though he greeted his sister and her unlikely husband affably enough.

  They sat eight around the long kitchen table, filled with the variety and abundance of farm fare that Fawn had always taken for granted but that still seemed to take Dag aback; having seen the austerity of life in a Lakewalker camp, Fawn now understood why. Dag certainly did not disapprove, praising the cooks and filling his plate in a way that demonstrated the ultimate compliment of a good appetite.

  Fawn was glad for his returning appetite, worn thin as he’d been by this past summer’s gruesome campaign. And he’d been pretty lean to start with. With his height, coppery skin,
striking bony face, tousled dark hair, and strange metallic-gold eyes, Dag looked as out of place at a table full of farmers as a heron chick set down in a hen’s nest, even without the faint air of menace and danger from his missing hand and the enigmatic fact of his being a Lakewalker sorcerer. Or Lakewalker necromancer as the bigoted—or frightened—would have it. Not without cause, she admitted to herself.

  Fletch, possibly in response to the penetrating looks he was getting from his bride, was the first to ask the question, “I’m surprised to see you two back so soon. You’re not, um…planning to stay, are you?”

  Fawn chose to ignore the wary tone. “Just a visit. We’re traveling through. Though I admit, it would be good to rest up for a few days.”

  “Oh, of course you can,” cried Clover, brightening with relief.

  “That’ll be a treat. I’d love to hear all about your new place.” She added in an arch voice, “So do you two have any good news yet?”

  “Beg pardon?” said Dag blankly.

  Fawn, who decoded this without effort as Aren’t you pregnant yet?, returned the correct response: “No, not yet. How about you and Fletch?”

  Clover smirked, touching her belly. “Well, it’s early days yet. But we’re sure tryin’. Our betrothal ran so long, what with one thing and another, there seemed no reason not to start a family right away.”

  Fletch gave his bride a fond, possessive smile, as a farmer might regard his prize broodmare, and Clover looked smug. Fawn didn’t always hit it off with Clover, but she had to admit that the girl was the perfect wife for stodgy Fletch, even without her dowry of a forty-acre field and large woodlot, linked to Bluefield land by a quite short footpath. Fletch put in, “We hope for news by winter, anyhow.”

  Fawn glanced at Dag. Despite the unhealed damage to his ground-sense, at this range he would surely know if Clover were pregnant already. He gave Fawn a wry smile and a short headshake. Fawn touched the malice scars on her neck, darkening now to carmine, and thought, Leave it be.